Fear and Lovely by Anjana Appachana

Fear and Lovely by Anjana Appachana
My rating: 1 of 5 stars

474 pages of puerile pap, inane, infantile verbosity, agonizingly repetitive, bewilderingly convoluted, with the same insignificant event presented endlessly from the viewpoints of protagonists who are unbelievable superachievers - studying in IIT, LSR, Stephen's, JNU, AFMC and all going on to do their PhD in the the USA. A distillation of all Mills and Boon books - brooding males and mysterious bewitching females...

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Chronicles From the Land of the Happiest People on Earth by Wole Soyinka

Chronicles from the Land of the Happiest People on Earth by Wole Soyinka
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

A macabre and savage satire about democracy; change the geography and names of the protagonists and it would read like India rather than Nigeria: venal corrupt politicians changing party loyalties for personal gain; self-edifying self-professed ‘god men’ – religious charlatans, and their mega-empires of blind followers donating their ill-gotten gains as tithes; two-bit political aspirants lobbying for gubernatorial posts or vying for sinecures in a dog-eat-dog fashion; divisions along tribal/caste lines, a North/South divide, a self-perpetuating self-laudatory bureaucracy; the all-pervasive ‘creative accounting’ – the euphemism for laundering of ‘black money.
Here are some examples: roads serving every purpose but what they were built for – transportation

It was an increasingly rutted dual carriageway of presumably two lanes on either side, sometimes three. Or four. Sometimes five – when last travelled, which was nearly a decade before, it had become impossible to count exactly how many lanes existed on either side. He could recall it only as serial death traps which progressively became home – on both sides – to competing spiritualities. It seemed as if a starting pistol was fixed on some day and a race commenced for the strangulation of traffic on days of religious feasts – Easter, Christmas, Ramadan, Id after Id, birthdays of prophets and avatars, or simply revivalist sessions on the whim or on days dedicated to a National Day of Prayers against droughts, floods, diseases, corruption, locust invasion, epidemics, collapsed buildings, fires, exploding tankers, kidnappers, paedophiles, traffic carnage, ritual killers, etc., etc…

His belongings had finally arrived by road haulage, having survived the elephant-trap potholes, unchecked expressway market takeovers, military-assisted police extortion checkpoints, siren-heralded in-your-face motorcades, cattle occupation, and kamikaze drivers drugged to the gills on all brands of affordable hallucinogens, local, smuggled, or traded in…

traffic stopped as readily by truculent drivers as by roadside markets, vendors of all world commodities who had taken over the streets, haggles, negotiated, delivered change and goods at their own pace. If the activities delayed movement over half a dozen changes from red to green and back again, it did not concern them in the least.

This is vintage Soyinka

The peacock cries pursued him into the waiting room, short, sharp shrieks that grated on his preferences in the musical mode, more like the abbreviated bray of donkeys in heat. He marvelled – not for the first time – how Nature could have been so cynical as to unleash on humanity such disparate creations as donkey and peacock in any associative vocal register, surprised that no one appeared to have considered inventing a modulator. Hung around the peacocks’ necks – of course it would have to be decorative or the vain creatures would reject it – it would at least muffle the horrendous emissions from their vocal cords…

The party had done its “arithmetic, cashrithmetic, and thuggerithmetic,”

Greedy realtors who knew how to grease the wheels of bureaucracy to fix the system, as it were, and their shenanigans and the cliched crony capitalism at its corrupt worst

…what they had to shell out informally. Then undergo formally, to secure the specific patch of real estate they badly sought for specific business – forget even as basic domicile. Other voices screamed last-minute deprivation of allocated land – certificate of occupation issued, stamped over government seal, only to have excuses and offers of alternative acreage, most notoriously lagoon-side land reclaimed with public funds but shared only among the anointed.

Here is a flavour of a typical city – be it in Nigeria or India – crowded slums, mephitic garbage dumps, loudspeakers blaring out cacophonous music 24x7, religious discourses or diatribes, raucous political tirades; perennial power-outages and the subsequent polluting smoke-spewing diesel gensets

Godsown was barely halfway through a narrative before the descent of the huge, gloved hand silenced him and blotted out the neighbourhood. Huge, coal black, it snuffed out all things visible from one end of the earth to the other. Another blackout! It was always like that, Godsown reflected; one could almost feel the imprint of the diabolical plan on the forehead…

For those caught outdoors, a thin streak of residual light lingered over the distant rim of rooftops, treetops, and hilltops, the last being sometimes camouflaged mounds of multi-textured garbage jutting out between the glove’s widespread fingers and unseen ooze. The space permitted to its affected populace was circumscribed by that impenetrable shroud pressed down to frustrate recognition of familiar, domestic, companion landmarks of human transactions. As for sounds, the high-decibel medley of fuji rap, juju survivals, Afro-reggae, revivalist harangues, relics of international Top Twenty and the latest presumed new-generation, musical breakthroughs, crossover beat and exotic genres – all were abruptly silenced. The silence was not prolonged, though. It was replaced by the progressive orchestration of generator spurts, gearing up for extended runs. They drowned out the agonized and resentful shrieks that presumably reassured frustrated citizenry of signs of life under the sudden eclipse.

There are two differences between India and Nigeria – the latter being globally notorious for ‘on-line scams (Nigerian Prince etc)’ and having echoes of Make Room! Make Room!, loosely based on which was the film:

There was one glaring mistake - the gold-prospector Mukerjee is not likely to hail from Kochi, Kerala.

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मृदुला गर्ग कृत कठगुलाब

 

Kathgulab by Mridula Garg
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

So what flower is a कठगुलाब exactly? It is Merremia tuberosa or Distimake tuberosus, also known as Spanish arborvine or wood rose from the family Convolvulaceae.

The plant is a perennial high-climbing vine that rankly overtops bushes below it, bearing yellow flowers, surprisingly large, teardrop-shaped fruiting capsules, and large, palmately lobed leaves.
Merremia tuberosa is native to Mexico and Central America but is grown as a garden ornamental throughout the world's tropics. It's escaped into the wild so often that it's considered a pantropical weed. Occurring so widely, it goes under many names. Some of the English ones are Woodrose, Spanish Arborvine, Hawaiian Wood-rose, Spanish Woodbine and Yellow Morning-glory.

Of course, the flowers aren't roses, in fact they aren't any kind of flower, but rather they're the vine's thin-walled, capsular fruits subtended by much enlarged, dried-out, stiff, irregularly incised sepals. Inside each egg-size capsule, four black, fuzzy seeds are suspended not touching the capsule's walls.

Why would a fruiting body evolve to look like a brown, woody rose? Its similarity to a wooden rose is incidental. Maybe the large, stiff sepals catch wind, causing the capsule to flap about on its slender stem, slinging seeds here and there.

Maybe the seeds' hairs simply expose more surface area to the wind, helping the seeds sail farther. The "wooden flowers" remain pretty for weeks.

Anyway, back to the book. It is an amazing voyage of self-discovery and an उत्कृष्ट example of Hindi feminist literature. These are interlinked stories of स्मिता, नमिता, नर्मदा, गंगा, असीमा, नीरजा, Marianne, Ruth, Elena, Susan, Roxanne – all exploited by the men in their lives – somewhat akin to Ada’s Realm. The lone man विपिन concludes the story. The author also takes up the issues of domestic violence/rape, intellectual exploitation and plagiarism, child abuse, the helpless agony of infertility in a very evocative manner.

Some extracts from the book

मिट्टी ही सर्वव्यापी, एकमात्र सच्चाई है। ईश्वर, धरणी, प्रकृति, सृष्टि, पार्थिव शरीर, मिट्टी, राख। जलाओ तो राख। दफनाओ तो मिट्टी। दोनों का विस्तार निस्सीम है, आगमन निर्बाध।

अमरीकनों के पास दो-चार जुमले होते हैं, वे उन्हें हर स्थिति में दोहरा देते हैं। इट इज अंबिलिवेबल। इट इज इन्क्रेडिबल। या, आई लव कोक, आई लव लो फैट बटर, आई लव यू। पर हम, किसी हाल में, शरबत या मख्खन से प्यार नहीं कर सकते। जिससे करते हैं, उससे कह नहीं सकते।

The author is mesmerized by the changing kalideoscopic colurs of ‘Fall’ – something she never experienced before

ये बासन्ती, नारंगी, सुर्ख, बैंजनी, जामुनी, केसरी, बादामी, सिन्दूरी जोड़े पहनने से पहले, वे मेरे केवल हरे पेड़ थे।

Further extracts

रोने में वक्त जाया नहीं होता था। यूँ वह अपने आँसू भी जाया नहीं जाने देती थी। वह उन्हें बेरोक आँखों से ओठों तक बह आने देती थी और जबान से चाट लेती थी। उसका मानना था कि उनका नमक, उसे स्कॉटलैंड से जोड़े रखता था। उसका अभ्यास इतना पुख्ता था कि ओठों तक पहुँचने से पहले, उसके आँसू कभी सूखते नहीं थे।

The changing immigration story

"में अठारहवीं सदी के इमिग्रेंट जहाज के कालकोठ में नहीं, बीसवीं सदी के बोइंग हवाई जहाज की इकॉनोमी क्लास में अमरीका आयी हूँ। पर हूँ में भी थकी-बीमार। पर कुछ है, जो मुझे जिलाये रखेगा, तमाम आधी-व्याधि के बावजूद ख़त्म नहीं होने देगा। काम के हवस, आंसुओं का नमक, कसीदेकारी का सौन्दर्यबोध, काफी की गंध या। .. मेरे लिए, यह कठगुलाब का फूल। देखो, जब इसकी पंखुड़ियाँ एक-एक करके झड़ जाएंगी, फूल नष्ट हो जायेगा, तब भी बीज बचा रहेंगे।

A superlative book!

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What flower is कठगुलाब?

The plant is a perennial high-climbing vine that rankly overtops bushes below it, bearing yellow flowers, surprisingly large, teardrop-shaped fruiting capsules, and large, palmately lobed leaves.

 One expects a vine like that to be one of the many species of the Morning-Glory Family coloring our landscape right now, and the flowers' basic structure confirm that it really is a morning-glory. However, those oversized fruits next to the smallish flowers (2-1/3 inches or 6 cm across), and the deeply lobed leaves don't seem right. And not many morning-glory blossoms are yellow. Most morning-glory-type vines are members of the genus Ipomoea, so the traits of that genus are associated with the whole Morning-Glory Family – the Convolvulaceae. But, this is not Ipomoea – it’s Merremia tuberosa, a whole other genus.

Merremia tuberosa is native to Mexico and Central America, but is grown as a garden ornamental throughout the world's tropics. It's escaped into the wild so often that it's considered a pantropical weed. Occurring so widely, it goes under many names. Some of the English ones are Woodrose, Spanish Arborvine, Hawaiian Wood-rose, Spanish Woodbine and Yellow Morning-glory. Of course those aren't roses, in fact they aren't any kind of flower, but rather they're a vine's thin-walled, capsular fruits subtended by much enlarged, dried-out, stiff, irregularly incised sepals.

Inside each egg-size capsule, four black, fuzzy seeds are suspended not touching the capsule's walls, as shown below: Three ¾-inch (18mm), black, fuzzy seeds are shown below: Why would a fruiting body evolve to look like a brown, woody rose? Its similarity to a wooden rose is incidental. Maybe the large, stiff sepals catch wind, causing the capsule to flap about on its slender stem, slinging seeds here and there. Maybe the seeds' hairs simply expose more surface area to the wind, helping the seeds sail farther. The "wooden flowers" remain pretty for weeks.

Thanks to: Jim Conrad's Naturalist Newsletter 

Red Earth and Pouring Rain by Vikram Chandra

Red Earth and Pouring Rain by Vikram Chandra
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

A potpourri of Hindu myths, Indian history during the British and Mughal times, mysticism, magic-realism, horror, the 1857 uprising for Independence, iconic battles on the plains and ravines of central India, cricket and politics. There is a melange of characters – Hanuman, Ganesha, Yamraj, Kaal , a Methuselah-like poet, European buccaneers, Rajput Queens, tormented American teenagers, a macabre encounter with Jack the Ripper. There is an interlude about the Shakespeare-Bacon controversy and the angst of Anglo-Indians.
Here is a hilarious extract from Alexander’s encounter with a mystic sadhu, high on hashish – an example of the sublime to the ridiculous

Alexander through a translator:…you should tell him exactly what mystic path you followed to reach this sublime state of indifference
Sadhu: Mystic path?
Translator: Mystic path. Literal translation.
Sadhu: When I feel like shitting, I shit; when I feel like eating, I eat.
Translator: … He says that shitting when you feel like shitting is irresponsible, you should have some discipline in your life, instead of lounging about naked under a big tree. He says people who shit when they feel like shitting never do anything with their lives.
Sadhu: Ask him how often he shits.
T: You want to ask Sikander of Macedon how often he shits, in public? … I think he’s speechless, I think he’s upset.
Sadhu: Oho. I thought he looked constipated the moment I saw him. … Tell him that’s why he’s impelled to invade other nations and massacre tribes and all of that – any student of yoga will tell you that mistreating the body leads to mental disorder. Yogic science has shown that people who hold it in are inescapably driven to behaviour like running about slashing at people, besieging town, and frivolous acts of bravery. … He’ll be better off if he shat more often. I wonder what his per week rate is. … Get this fellow shitting right and he’ll probably do home, quiet as a lamb. … History will remember you as the originator of the world’s only all-comprehensive theory of imperial conquest: the constipation hypothesis, or the shit-glory affinity. … You’d save the world from a lot of tight-assed murderers. … And so the world dies, from a surfeit of surly sphincters.

At times allegorical, at times realistic – this is an interesting book, narrated in the fashion of The Mahabharata - stories within stories within stories... ad infintum.

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शिवानी कृत सुरंगमा

सुरंगमा by Shivani
My rating: 2 of 5 stars

An implausible plot, with typical Shivani tropes – a brilliant, beautiful Brahmin girl from the Kumaon Hills struggling against patriarchy – particularly alcoholic, debauched, lecherous men; coincidences galore; Nainital, Almora, Kumaon villages and the sylvan hills. Not one of her better stories - just occasional flashes of lyrical prose

प्रशस्त लॉन की हरीतिमा पर सतरंगी आभा बिखेरती धुप की बृहत रंगीन छतरी हवा में नाव के पाल-सी झूम रही थी, सामने धरी मेज़ पर दो-तीन फाइलों के पन्ने हवा में फड़फड़ा रहे थे।

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Anxious People by Fredrik Backman

Anxious People by Fredrik Backman
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

This books begins well with a lot of flippancy and humour

This story is about a lot of things, but mostly about idiots.

This passage reminded me of the song about the dipsomaniac Lily The Pink

It should be noted that when she died, the bank robber’s mum consisted of so much gin and tonic that they didn’t dare cremate her because of the risk of explosion, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t have good advice to offer.

A lot of the context depends on present day gadgetry the language of IT

The policeman tries to be patient. He presses his thumbs hard against his eyebrows, as if he hopes they’re two buttons and if he keeps them pressed at the same time for ten seconds he’ll be able to restore life to its factory settings.
In truth, we know as much about sex as we do about USB leads, and it always takes us four tries to get those little buggers in. (Wrong way around, wrong way round, wrong way round, there! In!)

A lot of clever play with words – the credit goes to the translator

‘Will this be psychiatry or psychology?’
The psychologist asked: ‘What do you think the difference is?’
Zara replied: ‘You need psychology if you think you’re a dolphin. You need psychiatry if you’ve killed all the dolphins.’
The psychologist looked uncomfortable. The next time they met she wasn’t wearing her dolphin brooch.

‘He’s more sensitive than people think. He’s a bit wedded to his principles.’
‘Sensitive and principled, you hear that a lot.’ Julia nodded, thinking that it was a good description of all the old men who’ve started wars throughout human history.

The psychologist remained seated at her desk, bemused at how bemused she felt.

Her idea of hell was never-ending buffet with her stuck in the queue behind someone who had a cold.

The plot begins to unravel and gets confoundingly obtuse towards the end. The TV series may shed more light…

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