Do Names Really Matter?

 “Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing.”

- H. W. Longfellow

She glanced at her watch, looked at the restive crowd and shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Her flight should have taken off six hours back- who knew when it would finally take off, if it took off. She longed to get up, stretch her legs and loosen the knots in her back. But she dare not even think about it; if she did, her seat would be taken. She sighed and opened candy crush- anything to keep her mind off this senseless delay.

The lady seated next to her looked up. They exchanged looks, then a tentative smile. “How long do you think we will be here?”, the lady asked. She shrugged, “I hope not forever.”

“I know, right! It is so frustrating, this not knowing. I am traveling to Kolkata for my cousin sister’s wedding. If my flight is cancelled, I will just go back home. But they keep rescheduling and I keep hoping I will make it.”

“When is the wedding?”

“The wedding is on Saturday, but I want to spend some time with Ma, and also go shopping. I don’t even have matching petticoats for all my sarees.”

The two women exchanged wry glances. “Matching petticoats! I stopped wearing matching petticoats after I moved out of Calcutta. Now I make do with a black and a white!”

Her eyes opened wide in surprise. “Really! I can’t even think of not wearing matching petticoats. But did you also live in Kolkatta.”

“Yes, for thirteen years.”

“You aren’t a Bengali, are you?”

“No, I am not. But I did my high school and undergrad in Calcutta, so consider myself an honorary Bong.”

“Where did you stay?”

“Near Gariahat. You?”

“Me too. I lived near Gariahat too.”

“I spent hours in Gariahat. The second-hand book shops. The books you got there!”

“Yes, and the puchka guy in the corner near the second hand book stalls. The way he customised the filling just for you and never made a mistake.”

“And the aloo dum vendor at Gol Park. Is he still there?”

“I preferred the luchi aloo dum from the misti dukan at Gol Park.”

“Yes, divine. And all those block printing stalls where you could get anything printed exactly like you wanted.”

“Seriously! When people talk so much about customisation, I want to tell them how we designed every part of our wardrobe.”

“And got matching earrings for every outfit.”

The two women sighed, united as only memories can unite.

“Remember the little shop near Dover Lane where you got Archies cards.”

“Yes. Yes. Yes. I spent so many hours there going through all the cards to pick the perfect one for my friends.”

Hours would pass. The tsunami of memories would show no sign of abating. When their flights were finally called, they would both go their separate ways. Before saying goodbye, they would exchange Instagram handles. Only after sinking into their seats would they look at the name of the person they had been chatting with for yours. Do names really matter when you have memories in common?

[This work of fiction is written for Reubenna Dutta as a part of the end of the year ‘Gift a Story’ activity initiated by Suchita Agarwal. The volunteers were paired up, and encouraged to get to know each other better with the objective of penning a ‘gift’ for them.]

Grief

 ~Grief~

You feel rather than see something dart into the ixora bush. You look closer and spot a munia. No, a pair of munias. What are two munias doing there? Are they planning to build a nest? Your father would love to know about them. You want to call and tell him. But he is no longer here; hasn’t been for nearly two decades. Grief overwhelms you. You can barely function for the next few hours.

They tell you that time heals. That grief goes away. They lie.

Grief never goes away. Time doesn’t heal. All that happens is that you grow around the grief. You learn to copy. You learn to tuck away your memories in that closed room you barely enter. But sometimes, when you are least expecting it, the winds blows the door open and the memories come tumbling out. You are overcome with grief. All over again.

You wish that someday grief would leave you. But do you really wish that? Because what is grief if not the other side of love? You can only grieve someone who you have loved fiercely, and that love is always worthwhile.

Keep those you have loved close to your heart. Remember them. Grieve them. Let yourself be engulfed in sadness. They are you, you are them.

And perhaps someday someone will grieve you too.

For I am grief, and grief is you.

[Modified from a letter that Grief wrote to me as a part of a eleven day letter writing challenge.]

“More than just a cross between a classic whodunnit and a Gothic novel”

 [A review of ‘The Scratch and Sniff Chronicles’ by Hemangini Dutt Majumder]

‘The Scratch and Sniff Chronicles’ set in Neelbari, a crumbling mansion in Chandannagar. Basanti Chattergé (better known as Fishy), a top lawyer in Kolkata, has just won a protracted battle over her stepmother for control of the ancestral property, and has decided to relocate with her adopted daughter Laura, her niece Ollie and their cat Habey. Neither of the younger Chattergé women particularly wants to move out of the city, yet when strange and seemingly supernatural things start happening in the mansion, they dismiss the idea that the mansion is haunted by the ghost of their grandmother and resolve to get to the bottom of it.

The book is marketed as a cross between a classic whodunnit and a Gothic novel, but it is more than just that. The book paints a portrait of an upper caste, cultured Bengali family, filled all their attendant eccentricities. Even the family surname would sound pretentious to an outsider- Chattergé is a nod to the close multi-generational ties which the family had to France. Daknams (or nicknames) are common among Bengalis of a certain class, but these women have interesting names too- Ollie for instance is Olympia, so named “on her aunt’s suggestion. The inspiration was Edouard Manet’s Olympia, the controversial painting of a nude woman painting to look directly into the viewer’s eyes instead of coyly averting her gaze (as was the practice at the time).” Fishy’s stepmother was named Latika, but chose to call herself ‘Labanga Latika’ after the famous Bengali mishti!

Ollie has an uncanny sense of smell (which serves her well in her profession as a sommelier and beverage consultant because she can sniff out and create complex flavour profiles), and the narrative is punctuated by her olfactory observations. “Tiger Balm. Hibiscus hair oil. Shalimar perfume. Cigar.”, for instance, announces the presence of Fishy. These smell profiles not only add an unusual depth to the characterisations, they often also serve as a detective tool.

The book may be a cosy mystery set in a quaint household, but it tackles a topic that most authors shy away from. Ollie suffers from POCS, and she is subject to the same indifference and lack of empathy from the medical community as almost all other women with a similar condition are. Ollie, like thousands of other young women, had been repeatedly told by doctors that her menstrual problems will eventually right themselves and that in the meantime she should lose weight and adopt a different diet. While talking about this in a book may not itself lead to a change of attitude, it will at least give women who go through this every month feel seen.

The book is also unusual in the choice of narrator. For the first couple of chapters, you are left guessing the identity of the almost omnipresent narrator, but once you know who it is, you start to appreciate the tone of concern and sarcasm she employs. The pace of the book is slow, and it could potentially get exasperating if you are expecting a whodunnit. But if, you allow yourself to read it as a comedy of manners, the book will grow on you.

If you are looking for the gentle humour of a PG Wodehouse, set in modern day West Bengal, with a cast of quirky and formidable women and detailed descriptions of scrumptious meals, look no further than this. You will not be disappointed.

[I received a review copy of the book, and the views are my own.]

A Tender Love Story for Mature Adults

 For the Love of Apricots, by Madhulika Liddle

When did you last love a character so much that you wanted to race through the book because I couldn’t have enough of her, and yet, you consciously slowed down because you knew you didn’t want the book to end? Nandini Mathur, the 40 year old protagonist of “For the Love of Apricots” is exactly that character. She is clumsy, accident prone and impulsive. Yet, she is also efficient, hard working and resourceful. She can be brusque, but she will do anything for the people she cares about. She pads about in a shapeless jacket and well worn trousers, but finds time for the moments of beauty that take your breath away.

Nandini’s father chose to move to the hills post retirement, but it is not clear why a young woman who clearly grew up in the city would choose to bury herself in a hill station where she doesn’t even have anyone to talk to. Yes, she has set up a women’s cooperative that manufactures pickles. Yes, she goes for long walks in the hills and has a beautiful garden. But one would normally picture someone like her living in a city apartment with a balcony garden, dreaming of the hills while she goes about her daily chores.

When Vikas Joshi, Negi Sahib’s distant relative, purchases his apricot orchard, he and Nandini keep running into each other. Far from being love at first sight, in fact, their relationship got off on a bad note and they maintained what could at best be called an uneasy truce. But they gradually grew to understand and respect each other, and from that grew a tentative affection.

This book is a refreshing change from most romances- it is a love story between two mature adults who have seen enough of life to be skeptical of romantic love. Sparks do not fly when they their hands accidentally brush against each other (in fact, their hands do not brush against each other at all), but they each see the other for what they truly are, and that is more precious than sparks flying.

I also loved the way the author describes the relationship between Nandini and her father- they live in the same house, but lead their own lives. Would her father even notice if she goes away, Nandini often wonders, or will life go on just the same for him.

The book is rich in sensory detail- you can taste the various jams, chutneys and pickles, you smell the pine needles and the flowers dripping with nectar, you can be dazzled by the variety of flowers, you can even be stung by the bicchu grass. Reading this book literally transports you to the hills and makes you forget everything else.

Fictionalised Account of the youngest member of the Azad Hind Fauj

 Laxmi Panda: The Story of Netaji’s Youngest Spy, Savie Karnal

I first heard about Netaji’s Youngest Spy in P. Sainath’s book “The Lost Heros” on the forgotten foot-soldiers of the Independence Movement. He described the zesty old lady and her struggle to have herself acknowledged as a freedom fighter, but one remained curious about what led a young girl to join the Resistance. Savie Karnel’s book addresses just that.

Laxmi was born in Burma to Odiya parents who moved there in search of a livelihood. When both parents died during the air raids, Laxmi had to take on the responsibility of keeping herself and her younger brother alive.

This is fascinating account of how a precocious young lady convinces the Azad Hind Fauj to let her join the women’s battalion. Her extraordinary power of observation, her integrity and her ability to connect the dots is responsible for her being chosen to get trained as a spy. While based on a true story, the author has presented it in a fictionalised form, which lends itself perfect to the topic. It was fascinating reading about the women in the Azad Hind Fauj, and I particularly loved the way Laxmi’s character was developed.

I am quite sure the book will appeal to a younger reader as much as it did for me. It will certainly be a great book tp present to the young women in your life.

“The Perfect Cup of Chai”: small acts of gender empowerment

 

“The Perfect Cup of Chai” is necessarily subjective, but I am convinced that it is my son who makes the perfect cup of chai. Just the right balance of water and milk, brewed to the right strength and served in my favourite mug. When he returns home from for the holidays, I give him a day or two to recover before asking him to brew me evening tea!
I didn’t actively set out to teach him to brew tea, though. It was something he picked up on his own, when he realised that I liked to relax with a mug tea right after getting home from work. It started with him rescuing the water I had put onto boil and forgotten about, and before long, I got into the habit of giving him a call when I was almost home so the tea would be ready by the time I finished cuddling the dog after getting home!
It was, however, just sometime he did for me, till I started noticing a trend whenever I had an interaction with mothers’ groups. All of them were bursting with dreams for their daughters. They were willing to make sacrifices to ensure the girls went to college. They were determined to defy society if it demanded that the girls be married off before they were ready to get married. It was easy to get caught up in their excitement- wasn’t that exactly the women’s empowerment that we all hoped for?
But was this really empowerment? By focussing only on empowering the girls, weren’t we actually making it harder for them? Were we pushing them towards a life where they were expected to have a full-time job and also manage the household? While empowering the girls, shouldn’t we also be looking at enabling boys to support the empowered women?
I started telling the women about how my son made chai for me every evening. “Allow your daughters to dream”, I would say, “but also teach your sons to do their share of the work at home.” Because it is only when men and boys learn to do their share of the chores at home that we can move towards a gender equitable society.
[I wrote this as a part of the #BlogchatterFoodFest]

A Crumbling Mansion, A Dysfunctional Family: ‘The Magnificent Ruins’ — Review

 A crumbling mansion which houses a family which is both victim and perpetrator of intergenerational trauma. First published in Youth Ki Awaaz

Summary

After spending her childhood in her divorced mother’s ancestral home, at 16, Lila De moved to the United States to live with her father and stepmother. On her 29th birthday, at a point where her career in a New York based publishing house is poised to take off, she comes to hear of her grandfather’s death and that he has bequeathed the family home to her. Lila takes eight weeks leave to return to the city she grew up in, hoping that would be sufficient time to sort out any issues arising due to the inheritance.

A crumbling mansion, a dysfunctional family

The five story crumbling mansion in Calcutta is home to her extended family. Her newly widowed grandmother, two uncles and their wives, one cousin and her mother all live together in the house- notionally on different floors, but in reality with open doors which anyone can walk through at any time. Her relatives all treat her as a young and immature child- they love her, but do not take her seriously. They try desperately to smother her in their love, yet, are secretly plotting to disinherit her. They vie with each other for her attention, yet each of them keeps secrets from her. Each of them in different ways conveys to her that even though they are legally challenging her right to inherit the property, it is not personal and that they still love her as much as they always did!

At the advice of her lawyer and because she herself wants to, Lila attempts to restore the neglected mansion to its former glory. However, while it is easy to change the wiring and install an elevator, it is much harder to confront her past and to untangle the complex relationships with her relatives. Lila’s mother had been emotionally and physically abusive and as a child she had sought comfort from her grandmother. She now finds that the two women still use her to score points against each other. As she digs deeper, she realises that everything is not as it seems- that the people who abused Lila had themselves been victims of abuse.

The author is at her best when she describes the generational trauma that defines almost every relationship within the family. Many of the characters display multiple behaviours, and you are alternately angry with them for their behaviour and sympathetic towards them because of what they faced. While some of the younger members try to escape the toxicity of the family, you see them falling into the same patterns that plagued older members of the family.

The side plots

While the main strand of the novel Lila trying to make sense of the entanglements within the family residing in the crumbling mansion, her complicated romantic life is also a major plot element. She was in a casual relationship with a one of her writers, but once back in Calcutta she runs into her first boyfriend who though married shows that he is still available. When her writer friend makes a “grand gesture” and follows her to Calcutta, she is torn between the two men. Though not central to the book, this strand sums up much of what makes up modern dating.

The book is set in Calcutta 2015, and the city comes alive through Lila’s gaze. The crumbling mansions, the new apartment blocks, the markets and the nosy neighbours. The book is set against an upcoming election where the ruling Left front is challenged by the rising Right wing, which threatens to disrupt the social order. There are also growing protests against Section 377, and rising fear among the Muslims. While there is an attempt to talk about classism, especially with how the old families treat the household help, not enough was done here, and the book itself might have benefited if it had been left out completely.

I particularly enjoyed how food is recurring motif throughout the book. Whether it is Lila’s American step mother who shows her affection through food, to how Lila’s mother and grandmother compete with each other to server her favourite dishes, food remains the love language through which most people seem to express themselves. Whether it is haggling for fish at the market or guarding recipes, the book evokes memories in anyone who cares about food.

Conclusion

It is tempting to compare the book to the masterpiece of intergenerational trauma- Arundhati Roy’s God of Small Things. While both books deal with inherited trauma and of how young people attempt to cope with it, The Magnificent Ruins is told through the perspective of someone who has now escaped the family home, and who therefore is able to confront her family history through the distance of time and space.

Overall, this is a powerful debut from the author and one certainly looks forward to reading her next.

AN: I thank Hachette India for sending me a review copy of the book. The views are my own.