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On Lending Books

So I have made a decision after weighing all the pros and cons, after giving it too much thought, after being aware that I might lose some friends and yet the decision has been made: I shall not lend books anymore. Why? Because people who borrow books must learn how to return them after reading, which sadly enough they don’t. I do not think I have it in me to lend my precious ones again to anyone.

I am done with people who borrow books and do not return them. I am done with the likes of those as well who borrow and return the book not in the condition that you lent it to begin with. Why do people do this? I will never know. I once had this friend (point to be noted that he is being referred to in the past tense) whose name is SaiVijay. I met him in Hyderabad and made the mistake of lending him my precious books one of which was a personally signed book by an author whose name I forget. The point being: He never bothered to return my books. I was livid. I cut all ties.

Another one of these in the line was an ex-trainee from IBM Daksh whose name I shall not mention here, who had the gall to borrow almost a dozen of my books and yes you are right. She did not return them. I hounded her. I chased her. Without avail. There are no two ways about this one: Books are not meant to be lent. I lent books at one time thinking that everyone had the right to read and may be it would be great if I was the catalyst. Yes everyone does have the right to read, however one should not forget to return books. That is fair and sqaure. I have learnt my lessons. Two friends (or rather acquaintances) were enough to make me realize. Never again.

Categories: Books, Memories Tags: , ,

Libraries – Haven for Books

The earliest memory: A small local place, lined wall-to-wall with books and the word used to describe it by my mother: Library. The word rolled effortlessly from my tongue. I was five and taken to a library for the first time. It was a different world. I was enthralled by it; however I thought I could keep the books with myself. Then I realized that at some point I had to return them, after reading, which was fine.

Awareness further kicked in – I could borrow more books without having to pay anything more and that was awesome information. It began with comics, and then novels – the trashy kinds – the Harold Robbins, the Jackie Collins (yes I have read them all), the Sidney Sheldons and the Perry Mason mysteries. The charm of a local roadside library is something else when you are growing up. The known uncle/aunty who lend books and do not demand a fine if you delay returning them because they know you. The comfort in that knowing however little, is still worth something.

The school library was another place where I found comfort and joy. Being harassed by bullies in school, books were the only means of escape and I always felt far superior to them knowing they could never invade this world. My school librarian at that time, introduced me to Agatha Christie, to Jane Austen and believe it or not, my very first copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, which was quite scandalous to be read by a thirteen year old but I did read it. The librarian passed on earlier this year, but left so many memories for so many bullied children in school and gave them comfort when none was found – through her words and through books.

The dusty corners of libraries, the high ceiling (sometimes), the knowing that a spot will always be reserved for you no matter what (no one really sits in libraries and reads, very few at the least) are spaces that I am most familiar with. Sometimes I wish they would serve alcohol in libraries, as it would be perfect with a book, not to forget food.

I remember becoming a British Library Member when I was in college as well. I opted for a family membership – 25 books and 4 DVDs at one time. I would go there once a month and it was enough. I was introduced to several British Writers at this time. From Iris Murdoch to Evelyn Waugh to David Mitchell to Virginia Woolf, I got to see the world differently. The plush seating and knowing that nothing could bother me here – the feeling of knowing that no one could call from home or get in touch with me was liberating. Libraries provide that as well – liberation from people and things and make you discover new ideas. All the time. The sanctuary of the written word so to say.

The American Library happened with a friend, who is very dear to me and she loves reading as well. At four hundred rupees a year, they allow you to borrow four books at any given time and two periodicals for a period of three weeks. Libraries make you feel comfortable. They are there for you and in them sometimes you find friends – who share the love of reading and passion for books.

For me, libraries will always hold a special place in my heart, despite the books I buy or what I receive from publishers. The process of finding of a book through the shelves and a smile that instantly appears on your face when you find it. No one else can derive that pleasure better than a library.

As Jorge Luis Borges, rightly said, “I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of a library”.

Categories: Books, Memories Tags: , ,

The Bookstore

Book stores have always been an integral part of my life. Of childhood and while I was growing up. They always were my private sanctuaries. Someplace I could go to and not be judged at all. The first semblance to a bookstore in my life was a corner in Breach Candy called, “Reader’s Paradise” – I was five and would raid the picture books section. I remember as though it was yesterday – clean colourful mats for children to sit on and read. My mother would shop somewhere and leave me there with my brother and we would read. Read till she would be done and buy the books for us. That was the most exciting time of growing up (besides Hot Wheels and He-Man figurines).

Then there was Strand, which I discovered in college. My uncle introduced me to the owner, Mr. Shanbhag and he seemed to know everything about books. He would tell me what to read and what not to. I think after my mother, it was Mr. Shanbhag who introduced me to reading all over again. When I could not afford books, he would sell them to me on credit, and I would pay eventually. He never forced me to pay as soon as possible though. That was his love for books. He passed on recently and I stopped going to Strand. Too many memories of him with chai conversations on books lingered. I could not handle it anymore. Strand is not what it used to be. Thank you Mr. Shanbhag for all the book memories I hold dear even today.

My first job was at Crossword Book Store at Mahalaxmi. The time when it had just opened. There was only one Crossword then. Sriram and Anita knew their books and they knew the kind of people they wanted to hire. I was ecstatic. I was a part of Crossword and it was a ten-minute taxi ride from home. I discovered the joy of cataloging books. The pleasure of arranging them and helping customers with book queries. Nothing else mattered in those 6 months. The quaint coffee shop and my coffee breaks with Bini (senior manager), and discussing books and authors. I did not get my cheque for 6 months. I had used my credit against books. That was life. Sadly today Crossword isn’t what it used to be. It is just a mass producing manufacturing unit.

Lotus Book Store came long much later in life. Lotus was a non-descript book store located on the top of the petrol pump building opposite Bandra Masjid. That is where I met Virat. Virat knew his books and he knew the kind of books I liked and loved reading. That was enough. No matter what time of the year, LBS always had the temperature at 16 degrees in the shop. Cold as heck and warmth provided by books. I can never forget that I was introduced to Joyce Carol Oates at this bookstore. Lotus Book Store just down two years ago. The owners felt no need for it. My heart broke a little.

Landmark made its presence felt later in the city. It had its aura when it was just a book store. Yes I remember that time as well. Murali and Niyati once again became friends. Books joined us at the hip and continue to do so. They no longer work at Landmark though.

Danai is another store that I love. Veena and Piyali are now friends. They were once just women who helped me pick a few books. I love my connections with them. I hope this bookstore lives on till it does and does not shut abruptly.

Granth is too mechanical. They are more interested in what you buy or not and leave the shop without an interaction.
Bookstores have a charm of their own which should never die. Sadly people who work there sometimes do not understand this. Customers need to be interacted with. Spoken to about books. To know what I like and what I do not. Books need to be respected at bookstores and that doesn’t happen. Not at least where I live. Bookstores are on the decline. I have been told that and I see it almost every single day. The demand for the kind of books I read can only be fulfilled online.

Today, when I enter a bookstore, the owner or the manager does not take the effort to know me as they used to. As a reader, I do not feel like going back to the store. Crossword is not what it used to be. Landmark at Phoenix will probably never reopen. The Prithvi Bookstore is barely surviving. Bookstores also need customers and they do not know how to treat them. The vicious cycle, I suppose. It is easier to order from an online bookstore and yet there is no touch or feel factor before you buy it. It is a mechanical process. I wish that changes.

This is for the bookstore that lives on in my mind: “What I say is, a town isn’t a town without a bookstore. It may call itself a town, but unless it’s got a bookstore it knows it’s not fooling a soul.” – Neil Gaiman.

Categories: Books, Memories Tags: , ,

Reading – An Antidote

Reading cures everything. That’s what I think and strongly believe in. It can make you forget all pain, all sorrows and transport you to lands unheard of and some heard of. Ever since I have known, I was cured by reading. No matter how big or small the problem has been, books have seen me through everything.

No matter where I am, I carry a book with me. In my head, a book represents the world, all of it – more lands, more lakes, more beauty and more thoughts are filled in a book. The fact that the mind can go anyplace – far from what it faces everyday and come back to it is something which I cannot find in any other medium but reading.

Personal memories are connected to books. Sometimes happy and sometimes sad, but books have always stood by me. I remember when my father died in May 2001. I was all of nineteen years old. The sense of loss was overwhelming. The mind was numb and there was nothing I could do but read. Nine days before he passed on, I had ordered Sputnik Sweetheart by Haruki Murakami (the first edition) off Amazon.com. I fell in love with the author and the book. I finished the book way before the incident and went back to it after. I have read it seventeen times now. Every time I find the void in the shape of my father, Sputnik Sweetheart heals me again and again, without demanding anything and may be that is why I recommend it – may be consciously or sub-consciously.

Heartbreaks always have found their way back to books. I remember the first heartbreak. I was sixteen. The book I started reading then was Wuthering Heights. Ironically enough, it was gifted to me by my father. The description of the melancholy moors; the ill-fated love story and the dark clouds were enough to get me started. Since then I have read this book every time the heart breaks.

There are books that have marked joyous occasions. My first adult book gifted to me by my aunt – Madame Bovary, when I was all of fourteen – of a woman and her affairs with men. I remember hiding it and reading it, in case Mom caught wind of it and took it away. Summer vacations were all about reading and playing games in the building compound. Nothing else mattered. The joy of vacations was that I could read late into the night and not be stopped. From devouring all Agatha Christies (my favourite one being And Then There Were None) to starting on the classics – the sensible coy girls of Austen’s imagination to Sherlock Holmes and Watson embarking on adventure after adventure.

When I was not comforted by any thought, it was books I turned to. Neruda and Plath worked their way through poetry. Tennessee Williams showed me what a play could do for the soul. Michael Ondaatje brought poetry to prose. Indian writers found their way when the mind was confused – when it wanted more. When I was done with the English writers (or so I thought at seventeen). Khushwant Singh came along with the darkness of Partition, leading me to question ideologies. Anita Desai brought with her the old-world charm and then Vikram Seth introduced me to big fat books that didn’t seem to end, but provided such joy and comfort.

Anna Karenina entered my life when I needed her the most and so did Saul Bellow and other American Greats. After reading Murakami, I began to explore world literature. Till then I only had Marquez for company and he worked just fine. I remember when I had no friends and it was these books that made everything possible – they were the best friends I could hope for and I got them without trying too hard to fit in.

Books were around when a quiet time was wanted (they continue to be around). When I knew I could be lost in one and not interact with anyone around me. When I knew that my family would understand, because they read. Books healed me in ways only I can imagine. They made me and continue to make me the person that I am. Thank you Books and reading. I owe you a lot.

Categories: Books, Memories Tags: , ,

Why Do I Read?

March 16, 2012 7 comments

Why I read? This is one question I have never had a problem answering. It is easy. As easy as breathing and sometimes easier than that. Books have changed my world and life from the time I could understand their importance in my life and that’s why I read. Reading takes me to places and makes me feel which maybe human beings don’t most of the time and that’s why I read. I read because there are times I feel that is the only thing I know how to do best and maybe that’s true, and so I don’t question. I read.

When I come home from work, that has taken my very last breath of the day, and managed to quite successfully make me not believe in the business of living, books give me new life. They assure me that all will be ok, no matter what and then the only thing left to do is read. I read because books do not judge. They do not question and they do not provide all answers of life, and that sometimes is ok, and that is why – I read.

There are authors who move me. There are authors who make me smile. There are authors who bend my mind and pull it in a thousand different directions, and that is reason enough to read. Books provide the much needed sanctuary. They are about people and their lives and yet I do not have to deal with people. I do not have to speak with anyone. I just have to find my corner in the house and read.

The simplicity that a book and several cups of tea provide is only known to someone who reads. I am glad to have found this comfort and I continue finding it almost every single day. So I read. I read because words speak and they speak in different emotions. They listen as well if you get them to. I read not because it makes me think (mostly it does) but because it makes me feel.

Books lead you in, they tempt you, they seduce you, they make you lust for them and then they fall in love with you, as much as you fall in love with them, and when you are in love, you read. You read because it saves you and doesn’t promise salvation, because sometimes as a first-time reader, you just don’t get it. I read because reading continues to save me. I read because it is the only comfort. I read because in life there are few things I cherish and reading is one of them. I read because there is no other way to be. None whatsoever.

Categories: Books, Memories

Book Review: The Man Who Would Be Queen: Autobiographical Fictions by Hoshang Merchant

December 15, 2011 2 comments

Title: The Man Who Would Be Queen: Autobiographical Fictions
Author: Hoshang Merchant
Publisher: Penguin India
ISBN: 9780143064862
Genre: Non-Fiction
Pages: 200
Source: Publisher
Rating: 5/5

The Man Who Would Be Queen by Hoshang Merchant struck a chord. I mean it had to, after all I am as gay as him and what was chronicled in this book, made me also look back on my life till now. The book is a collection of lyrical essays on the self that flaunts itself as being autobiographical in nature. The good thing is that the book doesn’t speak only about being gay. It also covers the poetic ground, after all Mr. Merchant is a poet first and that is quite evident in the pieces collected here.

Hoshang Merchant is not trying to rev things up or trying to create a storm in a teacup. These essays are just his way of acknowledging the life he has led and the years that are about to be lived. He speaks of topics that are varied – the moon, The Taj Mahal, infidelity, love, passion, broken hearts, his homosexual room-mate, and his poetry. He speaks of his friendships with women whose husbands were homo-phobic and chauvinistic – I mean all gay men have gone that road – in some form or the other and this book just states it. Finally he also speaks of why he writes and what it means to him in, “Garden of Bliss” which according to me every young writer needs to read.

I did not have any questions while reading this book. It is crystal clear in its writing and the ethos is felt because it comes out to be an honest book and written from the heart. Hoshang merges prose with poetry beautifully and that is the highlight of the book.

The resilience needed in the face of tragedy and the need to go on living, no matter what, is what I have personally gathered from this book. Read the book without biases and it can make you think – a lot and also feel.

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Book Review: Built of Books: How Reading Defined the Life of Oscar Wilde by Thomas Wright

June 8, 2011 1 comment

Title: Built of Books: How Reading Defined the Life of Oscar Wilde
Author: Thomas Wright
Publisher: St. Martin’s Griffin
ISBN: 978-0-8050-9246-2
Genre: Non-Fiction, Reading
PP: 384 pages
Price: $18.00
Source: Publisher
Rating: 4/5

Back when I was studying Wilde, I remember coming across a statistic: that estimates point to over 2,000,000 books/articles having been written about Wilde. So is there anything left to say?

Wright’s book really does shed a new light on the author, though it is not only a case of presenting new facts; it is a seemingly new way of looking at writers from this period. In particular, I think it is fair to say that Wright has a very ‘imaginative’ way of using vague bibliographical or historical facts to illuminate the life of Wilde.

For example, Wright offers the speculation that ‘on Wilde’s shelves you probably would have found a book by Thomas Carlyle within speaking distance of a mawkish Victorian novel, and a dainty edition of Pater shaking with fear next to Melmoth the Wanderer’. At first, I became mildly annoyed when reading these sorts of statements from Wright as they appear to be based on no facts whatsoever. But as you work your way through this book, you see how Wright is doing something academically unconventional yet highly effective.

Of course there is a wealth of material which Wright looks at which has its provenance in contemporary sources (especially the auctioneer’s catalogue of Wilde’s books when all his possessions were sold as he headed off to jail in 1895). But almost every commentator of this period, in my experience, has stopped their socio-bibliographical analysis as soon as they run out of concrete material on which to base their research. By offering a constant flow of suggestive images of how Wilde lived as an author, it really does put Oscar in a novel light.

Through this ingenious method of analysis, the reader not only begins to understand Wilde’s writing, but also his personality (though of course the two are intertwined). Looking at his upbringing, from his father’s library to his school syllabus; his time spent at Oxford, both in the lecture theatre and on field trips with professors; and all the way up to his downfall, so to speak, Wright’s book does not leave a stone unturned. Finally, this book will be useful to those studying the period, but is also a remarkably easy-going read, even if you’re completely unfamiliar with Wilde.

Book Review: Flashback: My Life and Times in Bollywood and Beyond by Bob Christo

Title: Flashback: My Life and Times in Bollywood and Beyond
Author: Bob Christo
Publisher: Penguin India
ISBN: 978-0-143-41462-9
Genre: Memoirs, Non-Fiction
PP: 263 pages
Price: Rs. 399
Source: Publisher
Rating: 4/5

I was a child smitten by Bollywood. I would love how the curtains rose and the projector made me see images I wanted to. The Hero, who no one could defeat, The Heroine, who everyone wanted to woo and The Villain, who no one ever wanted to be. Amidst the traditional Bollywood villains in those times, I grew up also watching and cherishing this one villain who was white and I wondered: Is he Indian? What is he doing in Indian films and how does he manage to speak such good Hindi? That but obviously was Bob Christo and as I was reading his autobiography, all my memories of his films came rushing by. From Coolie to Mard to Mr. India (who can ever forget the Jai Bajrang Bali scene) to close to 200 movies he acted in – I haven’t seen most of them, however Bob Christo is not a name people don’t remember.

And as Tom Alter mentions in the preface, no one could write a book on Bob Christo, but the man himself. Bob Christo’s life is nothing short of an adventure – from being a civil engineer in Australia to playing the baddie in Bollywood – one must wonder, how come? How did this man get to this stage in his life? He was also singing in rock concerts and modelled for African beer – while reading the book there were so many laugh-out-loud moments (shooting experiences and more specifically with stalwarths like Raj Kapoor and Mr. Bachchan) and so many moments when I felt this lump in my throat and didn’t realize why, till the emotion overcame me.

Flashback reads like a roller-coaster, you never know when the next turn will come and how high or low it will take you. It is about how the industry changed Bob Christo and his sensibilities to some extent – what he learnt and what he chose not to, and how being a part of the industry, he was also most of the time an outsider.  

I loved how Bob Christo wrote the book – from the anecdotes to how he felt to missed opportunities and the opportunities he did get. Flashback is a delight for all Bollywood lovers coming from a least expected source – a villain who I will always love and admire.

Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother by Amy Chua

I bought this book on a lark. Under normal circumstances, I would have probably not read this type of a book. Parenting and I do not come close – sometimes I feel like being a parent and then there are times I think that I may not make a good parent. There is always this doubt that creeps in and stays there. It is not easy being a parent. The balance between authority and leniency is needed and only a parent would know how to work around it or so it seems.


The book is more of a memoir than a handbook on Chinese vs. American Parenting styles, though that was the intent of the author. It is about the author’s way of parenting – The Chinese Style and how it impacts her two daughters – Sophia and Lulu. Amy Chua is a Chinese American, born in the USA to middle-class Chinese parents who had immigrated to the US from China via the Philippines.  A very attractive, intellectually bright, hard working young woman she studied at Harvard Law School. She broke with her family’s expectations when she married a Jewish American who was also a lawyer (Jed Rubenfield, author of the run-away best seller ‘The Interpretation of Murder).  Both she and her husband are Professors of Law at Yale.  They have two daughters, Sophia and Lulu (Louisa), and this book is about her views on parenting and how she has brought them up.

She opens by declaring herself a ‘Chinese’ mother, and by that she means someone who is extremely strict with her children, who demands academic success from them and will make them work for hours on end to achieve it. Second place is never an option, getting an A- is not good enough, straight As are the only thing that counts.  Western parents, she says, even when they think they are strict, never come close and as a result their children never achieve their full potential and become super-successful.

From the moment her daughters were born, she had mapped out a parenting style from which she did not waiver until the girls had reached the targets she had set for them.  She had determined that both girls would play musical instruments, Sophia the piano and Lulu the violin, and what is more, they would be the best at it, and would win awards and accolades.  Simultaneously they had to be top in all academic subjects, no excuses would be tolerated.  This meant a punishingly hard schedule, not just for Sophia and Lulu, but for Amy herself, as she juggled her career as a full time lawyer holding seminars, flying all over the USA, writing legal books, then as an academic, whilst driving the girls for hours from teacher to teacher and then standing over them as they practiced late into the night. Any of the normal aspects of modern childhood in an affluent western society were ruthlessly jettisoned. No sleepovers, no play dates, no TV, no video-games, no joining after-school clubs, Girl Scouts, ballet or drama classes. No participation in the school play or in sports of any kind – all these were considered rubbish by Amy.

Chua doesn’t mince words as a mother. Reading her honest confession, it sometimes comes across as harsh in the ways she addresses her kids. She justifies some of the more painful interactions with proof of the success of her children. Both musiclally gifted, they achieve high honors early in their careers. Chua wouldn’t accept anything less.

It was also clear to Chua to distinguish between “Western” style parenting and Chinese parenting. Here is probably the harshest part of the book, and ultimately why I reduced my rating down a star. Clearly, Chua’s disdain over Western style parenting techniques shows up on many of the pages. She needed to do so to justify her choices as a Chinese parent. However, it runs the risk of alienating some of the audience that would have reacted more kindly to the book. However, Chua is merely being honest. Still, it doesn’t always make for a comfortable read.

One other thing that many “reviewers” miss is the parts of the book outside the realm of parenting. Chua writes lovingly of her decision to allows dogs in the family, which is funny and surprising. Also, the painful recounting of her sister’s fight with leukemia is harrowing and real. I appreciated her putting some of these elements in her story to round it out.

Chua’s voice is hilarious, intelligent, human, aggressive, and insanely blunt. This combination makes her offensive to many people but the way she mocks herself endears her to me. She’s self aware enough to know that she can be wrong and that she can be overly obsessive. I liked the book mainly because it was an entertaining, touching, well written memoir. It also contains insights into Asian culture and values, and into human nature in general. I don’t think it’s intended to be instructional or preachy- she’s not trying to use her memoir as an “Autobiography of Malcolm X”-like call to action. Although I do think Chua thinks she’s right about almost everything and her daughters are amazing, I don’t think she thinks everyone else should strive to be like her, nor do I think her “we must be the best / we are the best” attitude is the message of the book- it’s just her personality. The sheer amount of time and energy she put into the upbringing of her kids and into every project she approaches is staggering (even for an Asian person!), and I think she acknowledges that she’s atypically obsessive and anal, for example when she relates funny anecdotes about how she tried applying her Chinese parenting methods to her fluffy, clueless dog.

As a memoir, Chua’s book is great. Because of her writing, she makes me interested in her life even though she’s not an important historical figure or anything. Her use of language really pushes the humor into the laugh out loud zone for me (for instance she describes the discovery that her dog ranks low in intelligence as “nauseating”). In addition, I relate to a lot of what she’s saying as a Chinese person. For example she proudly asserts for the record that she is the only Asian her husband has ever dated, and she has funny anecdotes about how first generation asians are so frugal they worry about using too much dish detergent. I think her bluntness will offend a lot of people because they take it to mean she is cruel or rude- she’ll use words like “fatty,” “lazy,” and “loser,” words that white people do not use casually in the presence of their children. In contrast many Asians are very ready to use those words and it isn’t meant to just insult for the sake of hurting someone’s feelings. It’s a cultural difference that Chinese people are less tactful and more blunt in their language, particularly when they are talking to family.

One of the best passages in the book is when the author describes her view of where TRUE confidence comes from. She believes that TRUE confidence cannot just be externally given(through repeated praise etc) instead it comes from working hard and persevering at something until you not only pass it, but MASTER it. This is exemplefied in the most controversial part of the book where she forces her daughter to practise the piano for hours without a break until she masters a musical piece. She did go too far here; however the point was that her daughter truly believed she was INCAPABLE of playing the piece. So her confidence grew mountains when she not only made a breakthrough and played it correctly, she mastered it and played it with ease and came to love it. She learned through experience as opposed to the ‘mantra method’ of you can do/be anything you want to be with perseverance and hard effort.

I finished the book in a day and loved the insights. I for once wished that my mother had raised me that way – to be an over-achiever. I somehow and totally agree to Ms. Chua’s style of parenting. It is much needed in the times we live in. Parenting is not easy. The choices we think we make sometimes may or may not always be right, however one has to make them, even if they change or tilt the balance. But then again it is each one to his own. All in all this is a book you should not be missing out on.

The Collaborator by Mirza Waheed

The Collaborator makes you listen. Isn’t that a book’s purpose? To make you stand up and listen to what the book has to say. A lot of writers have written about the Kashmir conflict and what it has come down to since India’s Partition period. A lot of it might also go unnoticed since there are so many voices out there, however this is not a book that can be or should be ignored.

I strongly believe and think that one cannot know or claim to understand another’s pain or any kind of emotion for that matter, if one has not been through it or experienced it. It is but just another false understanding mask that we sometimes wear, because there is nothing else we can do. The situation demands that from us, which quite conveniently leads to opinions which should not have been there in the first place. That is what the case with the Kashmir situation is right now. We all have an opinion and maybe we should stop at some point and let the people who are going through what they are speak for themselves.

The Collaborator is but obviously set in Kashmir in the early 1990’s. The war has now reached the isolated village of Nowgam close to the Pakistan Border. Indian soldiers, appear from nowhere to hunt for militants on the run (This is the eye-opener in the entire book. About how we claim to fight for what is ours and yet we do not respect its people and their sentiments. Everyone is branded a militant and shoot-on-sight is but a common affair).

Four teenage boys who used to spend their time playing cricket by the stream, singing Bollywood Songs and joke amongst themselves have now disappeared, one after the other to cross into Pakistan and join the movement against the Indian army. Only one of their friends, the son of the headman of the village, is left behind. The families in the village think it is time to leave, to flee so to say in search of greater safety; however the headman will not leave the village. His son is now working for Captain Kadian, the head of the Indian army, and is forced to collaborate with him to go down in the valley and count corpses, with the fear of recognizing one of his friends amongst them.

At an age at which he should be preparing for adulthood, he is trapped in scenes from a horror film, rooting through corpses for documentation. Every day, he fears he will find his friends among the bodies. Yet his oppression has a human face: Captain Kadian. Like the narrator’s vanished friend Hussain, Kadian favors the singer Mohammed Rafi; he is lonely away from home and overindulges in whisky, hectoring the boy when drunk.

War is real and so are the repercussions. It is as raw as the fresh wound and no one is safe from it once it hits you, up, close and personal. The atmosphere in the book is menacing, all the while, interlacing an elegiac description. His writing is excellent for sure. The Collaborator is heavy, weighty and does not provide lighter moments. At the core of the story is the narrator’s agonizingly protracted dilemma over whether to cross the border to join his friends in the training camps or to stay put with his parents. My heart went out to the book, and let me also make it clear that the book is not sentimental. This book as it rightly touts makes you understand why boys grow up so soon and leave their families and join a war that is often meaningless.

Kashmir is heartbreaking as of today. There is brutal uprooting of life and what used to remain. The book is painted in Manichean black and white tones, the past and the present juxtaposed with great talent. There is no solution for anything in the book. The book is left open to the audience to reflect and ponder upon the misfortune of Kashmiris. Read the book and be moved. Read the book and think.

Collaborator, The; Waheed, Mirza; Penguin India; Rs. 499

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