Reflections: The Splendor of Silence

With this book, I can now say I have read all books written by Indu Sundaresan thus far. With most of her books, excepting her short-story collection, I’ve experienced a love-hate relationship. Hate is probably a harsh word... let’s call it frustration. But because of my adoration for her writing, I keep going back, and continue to alternate between two states of mind (and heart) as I read her book.

The Splendor of Silence had an enticing premise for me. In the pre-Independence times of India, when the Nationalist movements were simmering and bubbling, an intriguing and dashing American with a whole lot of secrets in his bag, enters Rudrakot and sweeps the heart of a well-educated, refined Indian woman. As he sets fire to a series of irrevocable events, hearts get shattered, peace gets violated, but romance lives on. Sorry for the cheesy introduction, but that’s how the book comes across - a little cheesy, but surely entertaining! I am a sucker for such romances no doubt, but there was a part of me that scoffed at the story, as much as another part of me got attached to the idealistic images. If I had written a novel when I was younger (and a romance novel at that), I would have likely written (or conceived) something exactly like this story. It has all the elements that point to the dreamy, naive, idealistic me. In that regard, I feel a special kinship with Indu! She thinks very similar to me, sets the stage and characters in a fashion almost identical to my imagination.... of a younger me.

But a few things didn’t come together to make this a cohesively compulsive and impressive book. The book contains plenty of rich history surrounding India’s independence struggle, the class discriminations of the snobbish British Raj compounded with the Indian caste system, and the acute identity crisis suffered by both Indians and British alike. Although this book is hence showcased as a historical fiction, it is basically a romantic story that is couched in a historical context. The background is historical, and some characters symbolize the different kinds of attitudes and mind-sets worn by people of that time. These aspects surely portray the political, social, and culture climate of India accurately, but they don’t weave into the story well. There are paragraphs and pages of narration and explantions on the history and social commentary, and they stand alone from the story and some of the characters. There are many “asides”, digressions, and tangents that delve into facts and history, while the character would have uttered just a sentence. So, it sort of became a frustrating mix of fiction and non-fiction. If there is one scene, one dialogue, it is then accompanied with two whole pages of factual writing, explaining the caste system, the characters’ history, past etc. In essence, most of the book was a narration, a commentary, and it kept switching from one character’s point of view to the next, most of which didn’t fit in line with how the story was delivered - as a letter from a character. So, while the main story did not leap to life until the last 75 pages of the book, the remainder of the book involved a very slow process of setting the stage and providing all the history. I would have preferred if the characters (and the story) related and portrayed the history, rather than it being delivered through detailed, explicit narration, which defeats the value of fiction.

Secondly, the characters, excepting one, were flat. I don’t have the faces of the two main characters in my head. I couldn’t imagine them all through the story - they were caricatures in my head, and did not bloom into personalities with a face and voice that I will remember for a while. Indu Sundaresan writes such gorgeous prose, but she somehow misses out on what details to give shape to, to bring her characters to life. A whole page of beautiful descriptions of the characters’ attire, or the chair in which they are seated does not help define the character. It makes the environment alive and vibrant, but not the core of the characters. Further, it was incongruous to hear all the characters speak the same, impeccable style of English as that of the narrator. How can all characters speak alike? That too speak in such good English all the time? True, people spoke much better elite English in the 1940s, but still! And like me, brevity is not Indu’s forte :). There are so many words, so many pages, tiny text crammed into 400 sheets of paper, but the volume does not indicate depth, unfortunately.

Digested Thoughts: Still, I enjoyed reading the book. I love reading about strong and refined women of the early times, especially one so strong as to break barriers and fall in love with an American. Although the protagonists’ courage seemed a notch too unrealistically scandalous and fickle at times, and the romance seemed amateurish, I still liked reading the book. The prejudices, insecurities, and confusions of the British and the Indians come at you strong. We still face the colonial hangover of those heady times. Although it has its flaws, I have to concede that this is not an easy subject to write about - India's history,  past, society, and culture is far too complex anyway. But more than anything, I loved savoring Indu Sundaresan’s writing and for mainly that reason, I give the book a high rating.

 

Reflections: Things Fall Apart

Okonkwo is a formidable warrior in Nigeria’s Igbo clan. He grooms himself to be tough and ruthless to erase his shame of a father who wasted his life in idleness and disgrace. Although deep down Okonkwo is a tender-hearted person, he forces himself to wear a prickly, hard facade. He is so fearful of being termed weak-hearted that he overcompensates it by externally portraying himself as a brutal, fearsome person. This characteristic of his leads to impulsive acts of violence and accidents, causing him to be temporarily banished from his village. When Okonkwo returns to his village after his exile, he grapples with the loss of his status. To add to his misery, Christian missionaries had started to slowly dissolve his village’s way of life in the name of civilization and spiritual evangelism. This is a story of the clash between two starkly different ways of living, causing us to question if the meaning of civilization is objective enough for one culture to bulldoze itself on another culture.

Achebe takes his time to introduce the culture of the Igbo tribe - their ways of living, their superstitions and Gods, and their sense of justice and morality. As barbaric and crass as some customs may sound to us, Achebe shows that underneath it all lies the same fundamental elements of human nature - feelings of camaraderie, love, affection, fear, insecurity, jealousy, anger etc. Yet, it is unequivocally apparent to us that the tribe’s ignorance is perpetuating mindless cruelty and misery among its own members. But those like Okonkwo, who are threatened by change, resist coming out of their rigid perspectives. However, the point that Achebe makes is, how much authority do we have to force a change? To us, the tribe’s culture is rudimentary and barbaric, and to them, our culture and views on morality are foolish and incomprehensibly weird. Can there be an objective ruling that one culture is more “civilized” than the other?

Since we are armed with Science and rationality, it’s easier for us to make a solid argument of being on the “right” side. Major civilizations have already traveled the path of medieval barbarism, the renaissance and revolutions to get to this point. It indeed is hard for us to sympathize with a culture teeming with inane superstitions that result in heinous crimes. But the story gives a humane face to such a culture, so that we can look beyond the surface barbarism to connect with a common thread. They too deserve some respect and dignified treatment. And in the end, the choice lies with the individual. It is contradictory if the evangelists themselves resort to aggressive and disruptive means to bring about betterment.

The story vividly captures the essence of African villages. It is a tragic, yet honest depiction of the hypocrisies of colonialism.

Reflections: The Inheritance Of Loss

In the quaint town of Kalimpong, overlooking the magnificent Kanchenjunga mountains, lives a retired misanthropic judge, his precious dog, his teenage, lonely, grand-daughter Sai, and a garrulous cook in hopes of a better life. The cook’s hopes rest on his son Biju’s shoulders, to be the valiant US employed NRI, who would amass dollars and pack suitcases full of  panaceas to rid his family’s penury. The cook shared the same naive and ignorant dream that most of the world’s poverty driven sections dream. Little do they realize the implications of immigration, and the pitiable states in which their kins live in the developed lands of wealth, only to bury their dignity and identity to scrape a few dollars and earn the esteemed status of living abroad.

Each character in this book has a story of their own, which unearths their inner conflicts of who they were, and who they were striving to be in the eyes of the world. The judge, his grand-daughter and other friends in the neighborhood are still in the clutches of the colonial hang-over. They have been molded to deride everything that is crudely Indian - culture, habits, thoughts, and way of life. But deep down their identities are muddled - they are Indians, but not really Indians. They are foreigners in their own land, yet treated like stray dogs in the western world, whose elite culture they thought they imbibed and were part of. This identity crisis is faced by most Indians, living abroad and within India. Biju’s life in New York, as a lowly illegal immigrant paints the stereotype of the confused immigrant, fumbling to fit in, frustrated by the shoddy treatment, yet reluctant to head back home. All these characters are strangers to themselves, foreigners everywhere, until they sort out their conflicts and priorities.

Since culture is so tightly coupled with identity and acceptance, there is an eternal dilemma of what exactly constitutes as culture, and how to attain that optimal balance of both adapting to and being accepted by a new country, while staying true to one’s core principles and ways of life. As globalization opens the world market wide and invites people of different cultures to work together and coexist, this problem affects almost every family in developing nations that reach out for a brighter future with illusions on “better standards of living.”

The common misconception is that one’s own culture has to be forsaken at the altar of the Immigration counter, burying one’s identity and turning into a chameleon with no sense of self, meaninglessly camouflaging with the western ideals, just to be accepted and granted a stint at their luxury, without being shunned. On the other extreme are those who feel terrified and lost without their cultural anchors, that they crudely assert their misguided ideas about culture, only to attract negative attention and revulsion. Both sets of people lose their dignity in the process, yet they cling onto the dream of a better life, even if they are assured of an equally better life back home. No, it is unpardonable to let go of the opportunity to reside in a better country, a more refined society, and a sophisticated community.

In the midst of all these issues, Desai inserts the violent revolutions of the GNLF (Gorkha National Liberation Front) tearing Kalimpong. Nepali-Indians demand their rightful place in India, when every family in Kalimpong dreams of immigrating to the West, of casting away their threads of connections to India, and feels slighted at being treated like a nuisance when badgered for a green-card. However, in their own country, they are prejudiced against the Nepalis who have served them for generations. The hypocrisy towards the dichotomous views on immigration is nicely brought out.

The effects of insurgency on young minds, and the corruption it brings forth in confusing patriotism and heroism with terrorism, are deftly brought out through Sai’s Nepali tutor, Gyan. As always, the real cause blends into the background, and the violence marks the external manifestation of  troubled and confused minds.

Desai’s writing was a little aloof for me, yet I connected with the story, for I’m far too familiar with the issues. It made me strangely guilty, and left me assessing my motivations and the reasons for my decisions. I felt her writing was exceptionally acrid towards the legal, comfortably established immigrants. Some parts of her writing were beautiful, but they fizzled away soon, only to be replaced by the aloof and cold tone.

On the whole, while the issues of immigration and globalization have been honestly and expertly addressed, the writing failed to pack in the full punch. The story is a mirror image of lives that immigrants are only too familiar with, and leaves us vaguely disturbed.