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: In The Convent of Little Flowers

Indu Sundaresan’s book of short-stories is markedly different from her other books. She shows a whole new side to her ability and talent as a writer. Through nine short stories surrounding India and its varied forms of customs and traditions, she makes the reader confront some of the most difficult and controversial topics; topics we prefer to brush under the rug, fervently hoping they will dwindle with the following generations that promise to nurture progressive attitudes. In the author’s words, “they all deal with that intense moment in which people confront disturbing events in their lives...”

True to her style, Indu Sundaresan relates these stories with sensitivity, grace, and insight. But her writing style in this book took me by surprise for it was quite different from her other books (the ones on historical fiction). Her prose is clear and sharp, and has a quiet, mystical element to it. All her stories are crafted with an element of impending tragedy, and her writing style works really well with the themes.

Regarding the stories themselves, she discusses the pangs of adoption, the bottomless pit of poverty and struggle for survival, the rigidity and horror of ancient practices such as Sati, caste-system, and dowry, the clash of western ideals with the norm of tradition, the almost imperceptible (but very much existent) notions on the superiority of males, and the complex relationships and expectations between Indian parents and their children. The stories come at you strong, and almost cut your soul. Each one leaves you with an uneasy recollection of a similar story and of real-life characters. Your mind sighs and gasps, wondering and retreating in denial at the incredulity of it all. One story in particular is quite hard to believe and digest - it seemed one-dimensional and a little stretched. But the rest of them, sadly, are not as hard to believe.

The characters are beautifully and meticulously defined. Every character in each story has a personality of their own. The stories yet again demonstrate that people’s intentions are often good, but the numerous constraints and complexities put forth by rituals and customs, shackle their minds from discerning right from wrong. People are lost in their own bubble of self-imposed rules on right and wrong that their judgments are clouded, and their attitudes seem primitive, even barbaric sometimes. But despite so many rules and customs (which are practised in the name of maintaining a morally smooth-functioning society), basic morality and humanity seem to be lacking in many aspects of our social functioning. An irony indeed.

Digested Thoughts: I quite liked the book. I was pleasantly surprised by the writing and characterization. Hope the author explores her talents with more such books!

Reflections: Shadow Princess

To the uninitiated, Shadow Princess, is the third book in a series that fictionalizes some of the powerful, albeit, hidden personalities of the Mughal dynasty. The first two books - The Twentieth Wife, and The Feast of Roses, narrate the colorful life of one of the most influential and impressive women of the Mughal Empire - Jahangir’s twentieth, and most beloved wife - Nur Jahan (or Mehrunissa). In this third book, Shah-Jahan (Jahangir’s rebellious son) is the sovereign ruler of the Mughal lands, who is shattered at losing his dear wife, Mumtaz Mahal (Arjumand). He struggles to cope with his heartbreak, and diverts his sorrow to the construction of the most spectacular tomb for her - the Luminous Tomb (or the Taj Mahal). At his time of distress, he banks on his strong and clever daughter, Jahanara, an uncanny reminder of his wife. Shah Jahan’s dependence on Jahanara is so immense, that the pristine and loving bond between father and daughter gets besmirched due to treacherous rumors. Yet, the bond never wanes, and Jahanara resolutely stays by her father’s side, till his demise. Although Jahanara has receded into the shadows of history texts, this book pulls her out and spills out her story.

Although I read the first two books last year, I had no curiosity or interest in reading the third (and I think, final) book of the series. The deceit and greed of the Mughal time period tired me. I knew what to expect from this book - the repeat of events. Greedy Aurangazeb snatches the throne, imprisons his ill father and kills his brothers. History surely repeated in the Mughal dynasty. However, what re-piqued my interest was the last book I read - The Enchantress of Florence. Salman Rushdie’s descriptions of the Mughal era made me thirsty for more, and who else but Indu Sundaresan can deliver astounding descriptions of Mughal life.

And so, I grabbed this book. The writing quenched my thirst suitably - more than adequately. Almost beyond the point of satiation. I think Indu Sundaresan has mastered the art of writing about the Mughal era - her words are poetic, romantic, and extremely elegant and beautiful. Her florid writing seems to make any scene, even the most mundane, scintillating and interesting. This is partly due to the artistic and poetic touch she gives to every detail - be it a landscape, a person, a building, a tiny artifact. Particularly, her prose shines with the meticulous details she carefully and artfully uses to describe the Taj Mahal, and its construction. I am a person who usually never pays attention to details (well almost, never). I gather the big picture and then move on. But writers like her, kindle the romantic poet in the reader. The words make us skew our rigid (boring) perspectives just a little; to slant our eyes to see the cast of colors and shadows thrown by a plain oil-wicker lamp, or to squint at the afternoon sun lighting up a garden in a million different shades.

So yes, having dedicated a whole effusive paragraph to the writing, let me get to my quibbles. I hate that I’m starting to sound like a pompous, pretentious, know-it-all book critic, but I have to say that while the writing was impressive, it didn’t capture the characters or the story well. Jahanara was described almost identical to how Mehrunissa was. I find no difference between the characterizations of the two women - both were smart, strong-willed, beautiful, influential, and bold enough to go against tradition and create scandals. If at all someone clipped a section from one of the books and asked me to identify the woman being described, I would be at a loss. Almost all the characters had the same “voice” of the narrator - all their dialogues were erudite and poetic, and it was unrealistic to me. There was no distinct characterization, except probably for Aurangazeb; even Shah Jahan started resembling Jahangir.  This might partly be due to the domination of third-person narration in the book. This may have still not been problematic had the narration not focused excessively on the romantic details. The story itself was like a small fruit, sitting inside layers and layers of flowery, extravagant husk. For instance, the description of Jahanara walking down a corridor in the palace easily ran up to (and sometimes more) than two whole pages, while Aurangazeb’s final coup and displacement of Shah Jahan and his brothers, also comes to around two pages. Since there was so much narration and little dialogue or interactions in comparison, parts of the book sounded like a history text - a lyrical one, though.

Despite my quibbles, I surely appreciated reading about Aurangazeb and Jahanara. Until now, I hadn’t paid attention to the fact that Aurangazeb was a staunch Muslim, who went against the principles of tolerance and secularism that his predecessors had embraced. In stark contrast, Jahanara was ahead of her times, well read and balanced in her views. However, it is ironical that Aurangzeb, a man who was so steeped in social and religious propriety, committed categorically callous and amoral deeds by killing his own brothers and snatching the Empire from his ailing father.

Digested Thoughts: It was interesting to read about Princess Jahanara, and the construction of the Taj Mahal. Indu Sundaresan’s writing is always a treat, but I wish the lovely writing was wielded to give more depth and flair to her characters and the historical events. 

 

Reflections: The Feast of Roses

The Feast of Roses is a sequel to The Twentieth Wife. Both books bring to life Empress Nur Jahan and the trials and tribulations of the Mughal dynasty. The Twentieth Wife told the story of the rise of Jahangir after Akbar's demise, of Mehrunissa (Nur Jahan), her long romance with Jahangir, and the culmination of her marriage to him as his twentieth wife. Its sequel narrates Empress Nur Jahan's swift rise to power against envy and hatred in a man's world, and her eventual fall from her pinnacle after Jahangir's death. History leaps off the pages and comes alive, entrapping the reader in a bygone era, where power and wealth blinded people, when a Mughal woman ruled a vast empire with an iron fist, where life everyday was a calculated game of revenge, manipulation and diplomacy, so much so, that even kinship was brutally disregarded for kingship. Despite the beautiful prose embellishing and romanticizing the events and the characters, the bitter taste of a callous dynasty lingers.

Indu Sundaresan has to be commended for her efforts at dusting the pages of History and polishing the multiple facets of Nur Jahan. Jahangir was enamored by her, loved her so much that he, a Mughal Emporer, trusted his Empire in her hands. Veiled and hidden behind a lattice screen, she intelligently ruled the Empire, squashing all her adversaries in shrewd battles of manipulation. So much manipulation startles me, and the meager exercise of reading about them fatigues me. But these are the men and women who have left their marks on history, immortal for centuries to come. It's a sad fact that Nur Jahan abused many of her powers, her pride and temper interfered and resulted in impulsive and bad decisions, that towards the end, it feels fit that she was brought down from her seat of arrogance. On the other hand, one can't completely blame her, for she was in the heart of a jungle, surrounded by treacherous people, all intent on somehow clambering towards the throne. She could trust no one, not even her own brother. The game of survival had to be played with equal measures of cruelty and tyranny. And it's impressive that Nur Jahan could play such an aggressive game, that too having not been trained in any way.

With Nur Jahan's fall came the ascent of Shah Jahan, as the Mughal Emperor to take over Jahangir's place. It's aggravating that history repeated itself over and over again in the Mughal dynasty. Every son hatching a plot to secure the throne at the expense of his brothers, cousins and own father, is appalling. Indu Sundaresan burnished the character of Prince Khurram (Shah Jahan) and made him valiant, compassionate and like-able in the beginning of the book, but no matter how craftily she weaved the story, he invariably soiled as a despicable Prince who mercilessly instigated so many murders within the family, to capture the crown. And I know that his son Aurangzeb, administered on his father and brothers, equally horrible treatments to grab the throne. Some karmic cycle, with each son trying to overthrow his father and murder and imprison his brothers to amass power. Despite the strict adherence to religion, where was the spiritual/moral grounding on all these princes?

The whole era was burgeoning with so much wealth and greed, attracting the British and Portuguese who acted like ants scrambling towards mounds of sugar. Jahangir managed to deflect the British requests for treaties, but we all know how things turned out later. It's frustrating that so much wealth was squandered and lost under profligate monarchs. Although it was a treat to read about the extravagance of that era, the cloying materialism gets to the reader; that even the Taj Mahal fails to impress me as a monument dedicated to love. Shah Jahan wanted to be immortal, to be known and be praised as an Emperor who built an exquisite and opulent tomb for his wife. If Shah Jahan really were such a sensitive person to recognize and appreciate love, he wouldn't have committed such heinous crimes against his own family. An Emperor needs to assert his mark in more than one way, and Shah Jahan did so.

Well, enough of me and my idealism. One cannot change history, but the book vividly plays out the events and gives dimensions to the important characters, while nurturing awe and bitterness.

Reflections: The Twentieth Wife

I belong to the fraternity that shirks History. If you were part of the generation of textbook-burdened-school-goers from India, you will (probably) share my sentiments of dreading a Social Science/History exam. The most stressful periods of my school life were rampantly dominated by such exams and quizzes. With an examination system that encouraged rote memorization of the book from cover to cover, I was left palpitating at the mere sight of a History textbook. I toiled to remember all the ridiculously long and confusing names of Kings, Queens, Princes, and Princess, the plethora of conquests, wars and revolutions, the huge arrays of dates associated with numerous occasions etc, while unfortunately I missed the big picture of the fascinating tales and their repercussions on our present generation. After a few days of cramming information, my memory would typically burst and ooze with facts, all of which I would furiously dump on my exam paper, and leave the hall with a light head. Needless to say, I am therefore pathetic with History, probably to an embarrassing extent. Until last week, if you had (cruelly) decided to wake me up in the middle of the night and ask me, "Name one son of Akbar's", I would have likely blinked at you a couple of times, tried to ascertain that you are no phantom and then mumbled, "Birbal?" Seriously.

So, when I was approached with a book based on Nur-Jahan, a historical-fiction revolving around the Mughal dynasty, all my bitter memories from school came flooding back and I steadfastly refused to give the book a try. But, after a lo-ot of reassurance and high praises for the book and the author, I was babied into eventually reading it, and even appreciating it. I now look forward to reading its sequel and if you shuffle me out of bed with the question, "How is Ali Quli and Ghias Beg related?", I would confidently prattle on. That should suffice to give one an idea about the book if it can cause such drastic changes in someone who only had a vague memory of who Jahangir was.

The Twentieth Wife is an engaging read on the life of Mehrunisa (Nur-Jahan), her long, intermittent, torrid yet unfulfilled romance with Salim (Jahangir), her inexplicable bewitchment over his passions for her, and her eventual rise to power as Jahangir's most favorite and powerful wife. Through Mehrunisa's story, Indu Sundaresan weaves in the revolutions that hacked the Mughal Empire, with sons callously clamoring for the throne, unmindful of battling their own father and brothers, of all the treachery and hankering for power, the politics, and the insidious ploys manipulating women as pawns in a merciless game. All the major events chronicled in the book are facts recorded by historians. The only fictional elements are the imaginative interpretations of the characters' day-to-day life, and the fabrication of how the romance between Mehrunisa and Jahangir bloomed and came into fruition.

The book transports us to the era of monarchy and opulence. The culture of the Mughals, their traditions, and practices adds a crucial dimension in understanding the various power-ploys. In a culture that granted immeasurable power to the Emperor and only to the Emperor, where everyone around him had no choice but to bend and dance to his whims, on some level we can empathize with all the characters' constant struggle to establish some freedom and identity. I could especially sympathize with the hundreds of women in the Royal harem, whose only goal in life was to please the Emperor, and secure a son through him to firmly establish themselves as someone to be respected. A woman hardly had any respect if she was not lucky enough to be the Emperor's favorite wife or concubine. In such a hostile place, where every woman carefully guarded her youth and beauty, where fathers shamefully displayed their daughters, vying for them to be a royal concubine to somehow enter the palace, and where the women hatched ploys and cunning tricks to keep themselves above the rest, Mehrunisa almost effortlessly grabbed the coveted position amidst all the numerous oppositions. The materialism, shallowness and the ruses of the jungles of the harem, are sickening, yet make for an absorbing read. Within this context, it is all the more fascinating to read about the life of this powerful woman, who practically ruled the heavily patriarchal dynasty. I am yet again thankful to be born in this era,  and living in a democratic society that supports female empowerment.

I had always seen Jahangir cast in a reproachable light. All I remembered from school was the cruelty he meted out to his own son and his father, all in greed for the throne. But Sundaresan presents the story from the perspectives of the characters, employing some literary license to soften the jagged edges of the unpalatable truth. Jahangir emerges as a valiant hero, who, despite his misgivings, is a kind-hearted virtuous man, pushed to perform cruel acts because of the confluence of ill-advisers and his passion to rule the Empire. Indu Sundaresan brings out the conflict of emotions that Akbar and Jahangir go through in the throes of the revolts - the mixture of love and frustration tainted with anger and wrath of betrayal; crushingly disappointing, and unbelievably infuriating. It raises interesting questions on whether it is unrealistic to expect a bond between fathers and sons when there was hardly any interaction between the two for a bond to form. In that era, Princes were raised by servants and queens, many times not even by their own mother.

Indu Sundaresan's writing serves as the most alluring component of the story. Her lyrical prose sets a captivating story flowing. I would highly recommend such books to young students who have a distaste for History. It has definitely piqued my interest to learn (or re-learn) Mughal history, this time being enthralled with the whole experience.