Reflections: Americanah

This is a strong and bold novel that primarily focuses on immigrant experience and the subtle and not-so-subtle kinds of racial discrimination faced by people of color in the West. 

Ifemulu is a bright and strong-willed girl in Nigeria, who seems to have her life in order. Her intelligent and doting boyfriend, Obinze  has planned out every detail of their future together. She is determined to make something of herself, but according to Obinze, that means getting out of Nigeria and securing an admission into a university in the U.S or the U.K. Although she is resistant to the idea, she eventually succumbs to the grand plan when her university remains closed due to protests and riots, leaving her rusty and restless. She leaves behind Obinze and embarks on her journey to the land that beckons many such eager students - the United States. Once in the U.S, she is stricken by the harsh reality of the ways of life. Slowly, she fumbles her way and negotiates the new social & cultural paradigms within her new country. She begins severing her ties and relationships back home as she gets mired in her own mistakes and growths. Soon, she becomes an educated scholar, and begins to dissect the social hierarchies inherent in the U.S from the perspective of racial and ethnic discrimination. Back home, Obinze travels to London and faces debilitating humiliations of his own, and realizes for the first time that he will always be regarded as an outsider in the West because of his skin color. Disillusioned and withered, he comes back to Nigeria and makes something of himself. One fine day, after several years and a U.S citizenship, Ifemulu decides to go back home. Visiting Nigeria for the first time since she left, she has many bittersweet experiences, but most importantly she needs to come to her own, to realize where she belongs, what she is meant to be doing, and how to resolve her ambiguous emotions towards Obinze - now a husband and a father. 

Adichie is a fearless and smart writer, much like Ifemulu herself. Through Ifemulu, she takes  another daring stand - of not creating a conventionally likeable, personable protagonist. Why should the protagonist be "nice" in every story?, she asks. I agree, well, mostly. I understand that likeable, ideal protagonists are boring. A multidimensional and quirky personality makes the character and the story much more interesting, deep, and honest. I'm all for it. However, I couldn't warm up to Ifemulu. She annoyed me to no end. Ifemulu is audaciously self-absorbed, self-entitled, opinionated, and ruthlessly critical and judgmental of everyone and everything around her. She is one of those individuals that complains and ridicules at everything from up her high-horse. Even if people are kind and nice, she finds excuses to ridicule them. She puts herself at the center of everything. For all her criticisms and judgments of people around her, she is completely and utterly insensitive and oblivious to how she treats others. She is quick to take offense and even quicker to offend others. So, though I could relate to her initial student experiences in the U.S, I couldn't ever (and I tried really hard) understand or sympathize with her selfish decisions. It is tricky when you struggle to sympathize with the protagonist, because you are no longer invested in her story. You don't root for her, and you want to constantly reach into the book and give her a piece of your mind. I have read many good books with a flawed protagonist, but they have all been shaped such that the reader understands why they are flawed, and finds sympathy and good will toward them - in some measure. In Ifemulu's case, her personality is just so brazen that even though you find her warm heart peeking through in glimmers,  she doesn't ingratiate herself with you. She is an honest and excellent embodiment of such real-life characters, no doubt, which is why she evoked so much emotion and anger in me. Kudos to Adichie for bringing to life such a character, but I think she overstepped the line a bit much in making her too difficult.

So, now that I have hammered my distaste for the protagonist, I'll move onto the story and the content. Adichie has vehemently lifted the rug under American/Western society to expose all the carefully neglected dirt and dust surrounding racism that still persists beneath politically-correct statements and notions. Through this novel, she has voiced, cried, attacked, approached, and analyzed racism with a zealous and confident flair. The reader can sense her own disappointments, frustrations and wounds. She brings up every kind of cultural and racial nuance that dictate interactions between Africans, African-Americans, and Whites. I applaud her discussions, all of which resonate with truth and insight. However, I did feel that some of it was getting a little too sour and bitter, and might I dare say, exaggerated. Being a colored immigrant myself, I understand much of what she talks about. But I also believe that anybody can get riled up over anything if they choose to always read between the lines, hunting for proof to confirm their assumptions, and assuming the worst. 

For example, I don't read between the lines when an American hears my name and compliments that it sounds beautiful. I don't wonder if they are overcompensating for being uncomfortable to pronounce an exotic sounding, weird name and the compliment is just to mask their feeling. Nor do I gloat with pride by taking their remark at face-value. I just move past it with nary a thought. But Adichie doesn't. If someone calls Ifemulu beautiful, she questions the authenticity of the remark and argues that it is a rehearsed statement to reaffirm to others how liberal, open-minded and politically correct one is,  to prove and to proclaim how greatly progressive, gracious and magnanimous they are to a colored immigrant in their superior country. To me, this type of dissection is stretching the discussion on racism a little too far. Maybe there is some truth to it, but it's mostly speculation and mostly harmless, even if someone does overcompensate a little. If I met Adichie and struggle to pronounce her middle name, but honestly tell her she is beautiful, would I be suspected of overcompensating too? If I am obviated from suspicion, is it because my skin color is similar to hers? If so, isn't this also a form of racism towards whites? Another example that most Indians can relate to: Do you take offense if a white person compliments on your English being good? I don't. Many of my friends do, and so does Adichie. I don't expect every person outside of India to know India's history, its current educational system, and its socioeconomic diversity. I can't tell them that every Indian knows English, and knows it well. That's not true. So, maybe their remark is in comparison to certain other Indians they had met. Besides, English is not our national language or native tongue. So, there's nothing offensive about someone remarking on the fluency with which you handle a non-native, non-national language, especially when the remark is from a mono-lingual American who finds it impressive that people can be fluent in multiple languages. I don't relate this comment to any form of underlying racial stereotyping. I just attribute it to simple lack of knowledge of world history. It's not a crime if you don't know enough history or geography. I don't know much world history myself, but nobody would accuse me if I said something naive or ignorant, because I am colored and from a developing country, right?

I think such relentless accusations of racism over every apparently harmless instance drives people into harboring more negative attitudes. It perpetuates the hate and umbrage nursed by those that continue to believe they are victimized, when in reality they just have to utilize the many opportunities staring at them and keep moving on. So, in that regard, I did feel some of the discussion was too much, especially when it came from Ifemulu, who is already highly critical and self-absorbed. Combined with the discussions and rants, I felt there was no end to pleasing her. In a sense, she fails to acknowledge how much this country had also offered to her and made her thrive.

Once she is back home in Nigeria, Ifemulu's experiences and thoughts ring true. Every immigrant can relate to or at least understand the rude jolt when back home -  the bittersweet experiences, the guilt, and the secret wish that we could magically have it all - our sense of identity, home, family, and everything that a developed country has to offer. Adichie sharply brings out the identity crisis of returned emigrants - when the "neither here nor there" phenomenon and the hangover hits. 

At this point, Adichie rushes through the story to bring closure to Ifemulu and Obinze's strained and complicated relationship, when there was so much to explore. The ending seemed asynchronous to the unbridled honesty and realism of the rest of the book.

Despite all my strong opinions, I have to say this book triggers a wealth of intelligent discussion and thought. There's so much more to write about and so much more to analyze about Ifemulu and racism. Given that I read this book last July, this post is a testament to how engaging and memorable it is. The writing is crisp and spiked with Ifemulu's colorful  thoughts and experiences. Everything about it is fearless, honest, and vibrant. Surely a book to read if you are interested in the topics it examines.

The Anti-Promotion Snobbery

I don't like self-promotion. Of anything, of any kind. I don't like the idea of having to sell myself, my ideas, my "creations", my thoughts,  my opinions... or whatever else, unless it has some tangible meaning or use to someone.

But I live a real life. I know I can't get by without ever trying to "sell" what I have to offer. I get it. I know the power of marketing and advertisement. And I understand they are necessary aspects of a commerical business.

But sometimes (okay, several times), I can't get past it. It climbs on my nerves and rides me batty. I can't get past constant, unabashed promotions of how great one is.... and by that count, everyone is doing something "ground breaking" every minute. I am old-fashioned enough in matters of this kind. Whatever happened to the idea that actions speak louder than words? Or that quality speaks louder than quantity?

If something is truly good, it shouldn't require campaigns and promotions and advertisements and hyped tactics. It should speak for itself. Right? Yes?

I can sense you shaking your head and mouthing "no". Why? Because there is so much useless, inane noise made by everybody that those with substance need to raise their voices and make some noise too. Just to be noticed.

Ok. But, shouldn't there be a line drawn on how ridiculously one promotes themselves? 

Why is it that anyone that can write a sentence and use a free hosting service to publish it, calls themselves a writer? That too, a talented writer? If so, could you please learn to spell "that" the right way... it is not spelled "dat". I have checked.

Anyone that can draw stick figures and splash colors on paper or canvas calls themselves an artist. And talks about creative urges. How? How can someone be so self-deluded to think that their "Art" is in any way better or superior to that of a 2-year old's? 2 year old's everywhere are offended that no one calls them artists.

If someone picks up a book every few months, they become "voracious" readers , "avid" readers, "lovers of literature". Please don't say you are a lover of literature when you proudly proclaim the greatness of "Fifty Shades of Grey". Please, it gives me chest pains. 

Ask them what kinds of books they like, and hear them say, "There's just toooooo many to list! I read them all!" Ah, such a voracious reader that you have sooo many favorite books, but can't tell us anything about any kind of book. Knowing true voracious readers in my life, I find it unacceptable that such people would just confer such generous titles onto them.  

And don't get me started on those who call themselves poets. Oh my... everyone is a poet these days. And chefs. And wine connoisseurs. And photographers. In this abounding age of point and shoot cameras and Instagram, all of us are photographers.

Shouldn't these terms be earned? How ridiculous is it to attach superlative terms to oneself? Is it time to remove the term "humility" from the dictionary?

Yeah, I know I sound bitter. But, every now and then, I need to vent. 

You see, I am an anti-promotion snob. So much so, that I request people to not share or advertise my blogs/posts in high-traffic public domains. I hate promoting my hobbies, because I indulge in them for myself. I hate keeping count of my followers and readers. My followers? Really, who am I? I hate inflicting  ramblings such as this onto others by means of a status update. People have better things to do.

I can't stand saying "read this!" "like me!" "RT me!" "Follow me!" "+1 me!" "Pin me!" for a mere recipe or my self-entitled opinions. Who cares what I think? Is it going to solve global poverty? Or help any pressing global issue?

But I do like to foster discussions. Which is the reason why this post is publicly available and not in my private journal. If it is good enough for discussion, it will be discussed. And it will be read by those that choose to read it, when they want to.

I follow the mantra that if something is really that good, it will be found and appreciated without the need for mindless, inflated promotions. The best kinds of products don't require advertisements to be popular. The best kinds of people don't talk about themselves and how great they are. Others talk about them. 

I believe it is a true measure of the innate quality of anything. And so,  my social experiments with this philosophy continue... as does my snobbery.

Happier - Then or Now?

If you are blessed to be in a content and happy marriage, read on...

Are you happier now than you were before marriage? (i.e., before you actually tied the knot, took the vows)

What would your answer be and why? I would love for you to share!

During a recent gathering amongst our close friends, one of our friends dropped this question on us just before the dawn of the new year. 

To my surprise, all the married men in the room immediately stated that they were much happier and more at peace after marriage. I thought they were joking or being sarcastic, but since the conversation moved into serious realms, I realized they were all giving their earnest, genuine responses. 

I was touched, of course.  I thought men silently resented the institution ;)

But, here lies the rub. All the women fell into a deathly silence (for once). Some of us didn't have a clear, definitive answer, and those who did answer felt they were more carefree, stress-free and much much more blissful before marriage.

Eventually all the women (except me) answered, and all their answers matched the consensus that life was way more happier and peaceful in terms of lesser stress, lesser responsibilities and obligations before marriage. Note that these answers come from couples in healthy, happy marriages.

What a contrast between the men and the women! I never expected the responses to be this similar within all the men and women. But, given that all of us at the gathering were Indians, there is obviously a cultural effect. No matter how progressive your spouse and family is, one thing still remains true - Indian women bear the brunt of family responsibilities after marriage. The number of people they need to appease and constantly oblige, the kinds of PR initiatives they need to take up to maintain relationships within and between the two sets of families, the pressure of balancing the load of expectations to always, effortlessly manage work and home, the number of questions they need to answer (and the number of people they are "answerable" to {one of them mentioned the frustration of having to always defend & justify her parenting techniques}), and the ease with which they get criticized for every misstep - everything doubles after marriage. In contrast, almost all Indian men have zero expectations from the woman's family (how common is it for a husband to remember the wife's parents' anniversary? But what a catastrophic scenario would ensue if the wife forgets the husband's parents' anniversary?), they are easily forgiven, their responsibilities with regards to relationship-maintenance between family members is again close to zero, and they don't have to go through the emotional and stressful experience of balancing two families whilst making oneself as likeable and uncontroversial as possible. They are a bit pampered compared to the women, aren't they?

All the women (and most of the men) came up with the above differences and agreed that the emotional and mental load is indeed disproportionally distributed between the man and the woman.

It is such a pity that chronic emotional resentments and stress can cause most women in happy marriages to still prefer that period of time in their lives when they were pampered and carefree. Our social attitudes towards women & marriage still need to reform - no surprises there.

If you are wondering what my answer is, I am not sure I have one. Happiness is a subjective measure - it's hard to encapsulate so many different aspects of life into one simple measure or term. And I don't want to view marriage as such a sharp delineating marker. My life can't be segmented like that. But I do realize this - despite the challenges that accompany any marriage, I have no regrets today. I wouldn't give up what I have today. I have grown as a person and have a companion to keep growing with, and that to me is invaluable. That said,  I don't think my happiness has increased necessarily, but it hasn't diminished either. Every phase of life comes with its own unique experiences, joys, and challenges - ups and downs, happiness and disappointments. So my emotions always get neutralized in every phase...there is no perfect phase or time period in my life that I am nostalgic for, because they are all imperfect. You gain some and you lose some, always. In that regard, my happiness quotient has been constant and satisfying... no spikes and no abysmal dips.... and I am blessed and grateful for that constancy.

Dare to be Original

In today's world of constant information clatter (and clutter) over the wide wide web, all we read, hear and see are echoes of others' words and thoughts and ideas. So many loud, cacophonous echoes of meaningless chatter, unnecessary opinions, tedious details and mindless gloating that everybody wants to compete with. All I ask and stress over is this - why can't you at least be original in what you say or do? Why choose to be an echo all the time?

Originality keeps diminishing in value.  Mediocrity flourishes thanks to the rampant, senseless use of Ctrl Cs and Ctrl Vs. It dampens my spirit. Don't you realize what a precious gem Authenticity is?

Why do you underestimate yourself? Why not step back from all the noise and reflect on who you truly are before seeking out to rob someone else's identity? Why don't you learn to express yourself in your own way without obsessively browsing through Pinterest or some other personal space for "inspiration"? Why are you letting your imagination rust by constantly wallowing in the strong currents of others' imagination? Isn't it a pity?

You are doing yourself a favor by being true to yourself.

Dare to have opinions that are not tweeted

Dare to wear clothes that are not in vogue, simply because you want to

Dare to read books that others don't talk about

Dare to not watch a movie that everybody insists you must watch

Dare to paint your walls in colors not recommended by the Internet

Dare to throw a party without a theme; and without relying on the collective consciousness of Pinterest.

Give your imagination a chance to work on its own

Dare to be original

Dare to be different and weird

Dare to think by yourself

Dare to express yourself the way you are

Dare to create something on your own, just your own, without plundering someone's ideas

Dare to write your own words and sentences to shape your own thoughts

Dare to admit not wanting to always be part of popular culture

Dare to step outside the box

But if you must seek inspiration and apply someone's original ideas, thoughts or words, please be gracious, generous and humble enough to acknowledge it. There is nothing more distasteful and disheartening than always lurking in someone's shadows and stealthily stealing that which is not yours. Be responsible with attributing credit. If it ain't yours, don't proclaim it to be.

Please resist the temptation to masquerade by disguising yourself in somebody else's cloak of identity. You have your own. Never forget to wear it  and showcase it with confidence.

Reflections: How To Get Filthy Rich in Rising Asia

This is Mohsin Hamid's most recent book. Similar to his debut novel, this story is a sarcastic and honest commentary on what it takes to survive and make a good living in rapidly growing Asia, particularly Pakistan.

The novel has a different narrative style. The book begins like a manual, a witty and sarcastic one at that, with the author relating a hypothetical, prototypical story of a man that rises from rags to riches. He makes you, the reader, wear the shoes of the hypothetical young man born to a poor family, and he makes you walk every mile of the journey taken by the brave yet naive man in his desperate quest to make a decent living for himself in a corrupt society.

Perhaps because I'd read The White Tiger a few weeks before this book, I was reminded of the book while reading this; the themes are similar and the writing styles of both authors are quite similar too (according to me, at least). However, the protagonist and the characters are different. The protagonist (the "hypothetical" one) is far more naive and sympathetic than Balram Halwai. And his story is not nearly as shocking or brutal as The White Tiger's. In that sense, this story is far less harsh and a lot more realistic of how the average man survives and adapts when he finds himself in the unavoidable tangles of corruption in a rapidly developing society. He is forced to make choices that are devastatingly dangerous and unethical, but in the dog-eat-dog world of survival, he better go with the tide or be swallowed by it. There is nothing extraordinary in the protagonist's story and that's what makes this story all the more realistic and understandable.

The writing is good in this book as well. Mohsin Hamid can write engaging stories that combine social commentary with poignant emotions. There is actually a sentimental thread of old-fashioned romance that runs through the narrative. It balances the sourness of the themes and adds an additional dimension of how a woman, a poor one at that, survives in the same society. The man's journey and the woman's divergent journey provide an unsaid commentary on gender inequalities in a developing country. The contrast was subtly woven into the context of the story. I was impressed that the characters were so well developed despite the unique narration. 

Towards the end of the book, Hamid focuses on human relationships rather than the social themes that dominate the first half of the book. While I really liked his treatment of the topic and the nuances that dominate human relationships, it doesn't fit in with the title or theme of the book. In that regard, the story does drift into a whole new genre after a certain point, which some readers may not like. 

I really liked the book. I am always amazed at authors who write a short and crisp book that effortlessly pack a gamut of themes. This is a well-written book that is worth reading. 

Reflections: Moth Smoke

Mohsin Hamid is the author of The Reluctant Fundamentalist, a book that I really liked. So I checked out his other two books to read. This is his debut book.

Darashikoh Shezad is a disillusioned, frustrated banker living a dissatisfied middle-class life in Lahore, Pakistan. Family and social circumstances have restricted his opportunities in life and this embitters him, turning him into a sour, jaded young man. Frustration slowly mounts and one day he vents out on a sleazy client and ends up losing his job. Due to rampant nepotism and other corrupt practices, he struggles to find another job to support himself. At this time, he reconnects with his best friend from school - a man half as smart and capable as him and with less-than-stellar character - who now has a western education, and a luxurious life complete with a beautiful, intelligent wife, and an adorable son. The two friends have such divergent paths, thanks to one major difference in their lives - a wealthy father. His friend was privileged enough to have one, and he did not. When Darashikoh sees the contrast between their two lives, the unfairness of the situation hits him hard and he begins to have conflicting emotions of jealousy and guilt towards his friend’s life. With bills piling, he tries to escape reality by living a heedless life of drugs and adultery. He starts making questionable choices, and slowly, one thing leads to another, and his poor choices quickly escalate to small crimes. Mired in complications, he gradually loses control of his life and gets trampled by the brutal social system in which the upper class always has sway over the lives of those beneath them. This story is about the stifling social & political structures of a corrupt city that lead to the gradual spiraling descent of Darashikoh into hopeless, helpless, self-destruction.

As with his other book, I really liked the writing. Most of the characters, except for the only woman in the story were convincing and well developed. The woman read like a man… the way she thought and acted was unconvincing to me. As for the story, it really captures Darashikoh’s intense resentment towards the way his life has meandered. There were so many things he could have done with his life, but he gives up pursuing anything because of his intense repulsion and dissatisfaction with the corrupt ways of his society. Darashikoh’s resignation over life and his total loss of motivation to redeem his life was frustrating. I could sympathize with him for sure, but only to a certain extent. I didn’t agree or sympathize with him completely shrugging off responsibility for his life and making incrementally poor choices. He could have turned around his life if he was willing to take responsibility and work for it, but his inner spirit had wilted. However, I understand that his story is one of the many ways in which a young man’s life can veer off course due to the untamed consequences of social and economic disparity in a developing country. Obviously, Pakistan and India share almost the same socio-economic issues. One can easily substitute Lahore with any Indian city or town, and the story and characters would still fit in perfectly. In this regard, the book hits a familiar note.

Despite my few frustrations with the protagonist’s choices, I found the book engaging and well-written for an absorbing read. 

Reflections: The White Tiger

This popular novel has garnered strong opinions from readers on either sides of the love/hate fence. As always, I had no inclination to read this book when it was at its peak. Now that everyone has read, raved, ranted, and forgotten, I picked it up.

I listened to the audio-book, so here’s my brief comment on the audio version narrated by John Lee. It was really good. I was skeptical of how a story rooted in Indian society with Indian names and unique social references would sound through a non-Indian narrator, but on the whole, barring a few (and slight) understandable mispronunciations, the book is narrated really well. Since it’s a short book, the narration was tight paced and absorbing.

Balram Halwai hails from a small village that is tightly controlled by a family of wealthy and ruthless overlords. Survival and bread-winning being a dire necessity, he forgoes education and works as a chauffeur for one of the sons of the overlords in the city of New Delhi. As a chauffeur, or a driver, his place in the social ladder is even below that of the family dog. The pangs of survival and competition constantly gnaw at him as he is forced to accept sub-par treatment every day. Then one day, a tragic incident alters everything for him. Something in him snaps, and his rebellious, survival spirit rears itself menacingly. He commits a murder and escapes to Bangalore to reinvent himself as a successful entrepreneur.

The themes covering the book - caste and social inequality, poverty, corruption, oppression, displaced wealth and the effects of globalization in a developing country - are, for the most part, not eye-opening in anyway for an Indian like me. I know, I’ve seen, I am frustrated. To me, what stands out about this book is the characterization and writing. Despite this being a short book, the story is compelling, and no words are wasted in shaping the characters and setting the scene. The breadth of social themes mentioned are quite complicated to address through a short story, but Adiga’s strength lies in the simplicity and clarity through which he describes and states things as is - he doesn’t flinch, look around for metaphors, or build a sentimental wrap to cover the harsh glare of the themes. As difficult it is (especially for Indians) to face the bitter facts of our society, I have to agree that this story does capture the essence and extent of corruption as seen through the prism of caste and economic inequalities plaguing the nation.

Most Indian readers fret that this book shines the spotlight on unappealing aspects of India and worry that readers from the West would rashly add another stereotype to the several other stereotypes that Indians already face. I understand the concern, but I think in this age of information, if someone chooses to jump to conclusions and stereotypes a country based on a novel, you cannot help them in any which way. It’s not the books fault. The book tells an honest story, albeit a single story.  Do I think some parts/incidents are exaggerated? Not really. I have seen drivers and maids and guards and other sundry men and women being treated with disdain and total disregard. Not all the time, and not by everyone, of course, and this should be kept in mind before rashly generalizing. I have also seen and know of touching relationships between drivers and employers, maids and women of the household etc. And Adiga does bring this out (albeit subtly) through his characters. Ashok (the “master”) and his wife begrudge the unfair treatment and begin to form a good relationship with Balram. However, they do little when circumstances change and they slowly settle into the ways of things by choosing to ignore and not dwell on certain aspects. Eventually, no matter where you are on the social ladder, one’s instinct to survive always overrules every other moral or ethical belief. That is the crux of this book. Those privileged to be at the higher rungs of the socioeconomic ladder wouldn’t mind trampling on the those on the lower rungs to save themselves - this is universally true regardless of a developing or developed society, especially in corporate and political environments. That an underdog managed to survive and climb the social ladder by overthrowing some on the top is a rare occurrence, as rare as spotting a white tiger.

The only thing that didn’t line up against the bristling honesty and reality of the book is the premise for the narration. Balram writes about his life-story and India’s socio-economic state to the visiting Chinese Premier, Wen Jiabao. Why would he want to confess his deeds to anybody, let alone the Chinese Premier? When he’s fought so hard to get to where he is, why would he want to sabotage that through a written admission of his crimes? Does he think he has reached such a powerful state that he believes he can blatantly confess with impunity? Perhaps, but I didn’t find it convincing.

This is an interesting read, especially from the standpoint of the characters and writing. This is a short, but crisp and powerful read. 

Reflections: Bossypants

American Television's widely adored funny woman, Tina Fey, writes about her professional ascent in a male-dominated world while maintaining a fulfilling and meaningful personal life.

I began reading this book on a whim. After my steep descent into depression upon reading this book, I needed something light and witty to lift my spirits. This book caught my eye in the library and I picked it up.
 

Many people call this book hilarious and ROTFL-funny. It was not. But it was witty, sarcastic, and yes, funny. You will chuckle now and then, too.

What I liked about this collection of essays is Tina Fey's prudence to not share everything, especially details of her personal life. Whatever she does share, she is honest and open. I really liked this approach to writing a memoir. When authors share a lot of intimate details about their private life, I think it mainly serves as fodder for the readers' general (and sometimes perverse) curiosity and nothing else. I commend them for their open-mindedness to share, but I am not sure what I, the reader, a stranger, gets out of reading all that. In that sense, Tina Fey's memoir has my respect and appreciation. She shares what needs to be, in the right doses, so that women (in specific) can get something out of it.

The book mostly encourages women (of all professions) to doggedly pursue and shape their career, no matter how impossible the prospects seem. Fey pushes women to not give up, and she does so by giving instances of her own escapades - ups and downs. She is self-effacing and self-deprecating in her stories, and through this approach, she conveys the message that she is not a super-woman and anyone can break through in a male dominated world if they worked hard, grabbed every opportunity, and made the best of everything that came their way.

While her self-deprecating humor is witty and even endearing, it becomes too much after a while. For if Tina Fey repeatedly alludes to herself as a wide-hipped, ugly troll with "shark" eyes and bad skin, I run out of adjectives for myself... not a "feel good" path you want to go down. She tries hard to set a realistic balance between the media's portrayal and expectation of beauty and real beauty, and I appreciate it, but when she tries hard to not be vain, she begins sounding all the more vain and insecure. Yet, women can relate to this contradiction and insecurity.

Along those lines, she also shares her vulnerabilities as a woman, her anxiety regarding her biological clock, her fumbles and challenges with motherhood, and the ultimate challenge of juggling her professional and personal life without letting either of them suffer. Most women can relate to her, empathize with her, and find comfort in the knowledge that they are not alone.. they also learn interesting strategies to manage family and work. Tina Fey's stress levels seem really really high, though. So, one can also find comfort in the knowledge that one rarely gets to do the things she has to do, and that our lives are in many ways manageable.
 

This is a feminist's perspective of having it all, and Tina Fey delivers with wit and intelligence. This is a light and easy read for some quick inspiration.

Reflections: The Book Thief

The Book Thief is a poignant story of a German girl coping with the loss of her family as she gradually grows to love her foster family during the bitter and terrible times of World War II. Even before she blossoms into a woman, Liesel witnesses far too much brutality and pain. One of her first coping instincts is to pick up a book, a memorabilia of sorts, to remind her of her family. Never mind that she doesn’t know how to read, she still carries the book with her like a treasured and comforting teddy bear. Her kind foster father realizes this and he teaches her to read. Reading is her blessing, her ultimate coping mechanism to make sense of the world around her and to lose herself in other beautiful worlds. The power of words is her savior - to express, to understand, to create, and to hold onto thoughts far away from her crushing reality. And so, she begins collecting, and then “stealing” books, as meticulously and cautiously as a bird gathers twigs to build its nest. As Liesel wades through the muddled waters of her adolescence, she builds relationships with her foster family and neighbors, particularly a young boy her age, and most notably, a battered Jew hiding in her foster family’s basement. Books and a handful of people are all she has left, but the war threatens to take it all from yet another innocent soul.

One of the most memorable aspects of this book is the narrator. The narrator is Death himself. But this version of Death has a soul, a penchant for colors, wit, humor, and even compassion. An irony. Death’s perspectives on war, and his “duty” and attachment towards mortals feel good to read, but he’s personified like a “guardian angel” without wings; he seems like an angel in disguise recruited for the wrong job. Despite the fairy tale nature of how Death is portrayed, the irony is not lost and he is a great narrator. After the initial few chapters you forget who the narrator is because the ominousness that initially gripped you fades away.

The writing is the best part of this story. It is beautiful, poetic and touching. The characters begin to have a life of their own and their pain and anguish become palpable. Every character is memorable and distinct. This is also the first book I have read that recounts the sufferings undergone by non-Jewish Germans. I thought the author was sensitive and insightful about the ways in which war spreads its tentacles (sorry for the horrible metaphor).

This is a book that is well worth reading for the beautiful writing and interesting characters.

Reflections: Behind the Beautiful Forevers

This is a documentation of the poverty ridden lives of real Bombay slum dwellers who were residing near the Bombay Airport that was undergoing a beautiful and glamorous renovation a couple of years ago.  

Another book on Bombay slum dwellers, because there are so very few books and movies on them, right? That must have been my first warning. But, I truly expected something different. The title and the image on the cover gave me an irrational instinct that the book would be different, that it would somehow portray some aspects that have never been touched before - perhaps something uplifting about the human spirit, it’s tenacity and optimism even in the face of hopelessness. In hindsight, it was foolish of me to expect such things. And rightfully, all my expectations were brutally murdered and put to rest.

Remember the debate that photojournalists face on whether or not to interfere with nature and circumstances while reporting a story or an event? Which side are you on? In support of not interfering or interfering? Or perhaps like many, you sit on the fence and argue that it depends on the circumstances. For the most part, I understand that it’s not wise to interfere with nature’s course and to observe and record events for the benefit of awareness, education, and science. But when I see videos of upturned baby turtles struggling to right themselves up to swim away before a predator snares them, something in me just does not agree. I think it’s cruel to exploit the tragic plight of the turtle, and it’s even more inhumane of the photographer to not help it. It’s okay, every creature deserves to get a few random lucky chances… that’s also part of how Nature works… your small act of kindness is not going to disrupt the ecosystem. Isn’t it part of your innate humanity to want to rescue something that’s in pain and struggling in front of you? That too when all it takes is just a flick of your finger? You can report the truth, but why not stop the camera at some point to help instead of choosing to film the slow agonizing death of the animal? However, when a documentary captures how a predator hunts a prey, it’s disturbing, but as my husband reminds me, the lion also needs to survive, and it’s tricky to take sides, because no matter what, one of the two animals suffers in the end… so I sort of understand that interfering isn’t wise in such situations.  So, I do understand both sides of this debate and I often switch sides based on the footage and the circumstances.

That said, reading this book made me feel like watching a dozen writhing baby turtles struggling to right themselves up, but never do. And I got to read a few hundred pages of their slow torturous misery. Needless to say, this is the most depressing, excruciatingly painful book I have ever read, and will possibly ever read. I made the dumb mistake of reading this book on a vacation, and it ruined my mood. I was sleepless, guilt-ridden for everything I was blessed with, shocked, and terribly upset for days. It’s taken me quite a bit of will to revisit this book to write about it.

The author researches on the strategies that people in low-income communities employ in order to survive and rise above poverty. So this is her unbiased, honest, methodical research document. She states how rigorously research protocols were followed, how each “subject” was thoroughly interviewed more than 120 times in relation to some events, and how she left no stone unturned in her quest to report the truth of the stories. Commendable from a purely research standpoint, but there’s something unethical and inhumane when a researcher decides to objectively write about the rat bites that babies routinely endure than intervene in some little way. I understand that it’s beyond the capability of the researcher to help everyone in the slum or go out of her way to change their lives - that’s not her line of work, but some of the incidents in this book are clearly too much for anyone to just observe and record. These people are not subjects behind some one-way mirror… their lives are not open to research scrutiny and analysis. To me, it is an exploitation of tragic lives. What do the participants get in return for sharing their life stories? Advertisement and awareness? Forgive my ignorance, aren’t people already aware of tragic lives that slum dwellers lead? Especially those in Bombay? Do the graphic details and individual stories matter? I can understand if certain specific themes or social topics hitherto unknown are brought to light. But,  that's not the case. It doesn’t help much to regurgitate on the same themes concerning poverty and corruption in a developing country - it’s one more document stacked against thousands.  It’s one thing if reporting these stories would help the individuals in any way to get justice, charitable aid, or guidance, but I don’t think any of their lives have changed, or changed much. Maybe some of the readers have decided to help the individuals, or perhaps the politicians and policy makers in India will take notice, if at all. And if these benefits outweigh my irrational emotional outburst, I am sincerely relieved and happy.

This book is “insightful” and “fascinating” and “beautiful” mostly to readers in the West, or if you support photojournalists taping footage of helpless, dying animals. If you are from India, please do not inflict misery onto yourself by reading this book… you do not learn anything new.

Many will argue against my contention and harsh review of this award-winning book, and I can understand their points of view, but not agree with them, for this is how I feel - as emotional, irrational and silly as it might be. I may not have been able to eloquently articulate and put my finger on exactly what bothers me so much about this research document, but my instincts strongly rebel against it. 

Reflections: A Personal Matter

Oe Kenzaburo is the 1994 recipient of the Nobel Prize for Literature. I’m not sure if it’s just me, but I find most books of well acclaimed authors a mystery. Perhaps I’m just a philistine, but I go into these books with expectations and trepidations, and I either come out of the experience extremely intimidated and feeling inadequate or just wanting for more. A Personal Matter made me want for more.

The central plot of the novel is both simple and complex. It is the story of a man coming to terms with the birth of his first son, born with a rare medical complication. The protagonist, referred simply as the “Bird” (due to his fragile physical and mental frame), is firstly unprepared to become a dad. He’s in complete denial and is vexed with anxiety. He hates his work, is unhappy in his marriage, dreads the prospect of being a dad, and generally hates everything about himself and his life. Pretty bleak. His self worth is little to none and his anxiety and fear towards facing anything in life is crippling. It is precisely in the midst of this troublesome period that he gets a call from the hospital saying that there is something terribly wrong with his son. His mother-in-law hints at getting rid of the “monster” child and the doctors try to hint at something similar. His wife desperately banks on him to save their child. What is fragile Bird to do when all he wants to really do is flee away from everything and turn back time?

Reading the “synopsis” of the story, you would appreciate why the novel is both simple and complex. There is only one simple, honorable answer to the question plaguing Bird - He needs to try and save his child. But given Bird’s frame of mind, it isn’t so simple. The short and taut novel is about Bird’s journey towards accepting the realities of what is happening around him and trying to face his responsibilities. There is never a boring, dragging moment in the story. Bird is caught in a whirlpool of time and emotions, and events unfold fast. The anxiety that Bird throbs with is so palpable. He goes to the very extreme of cowardice and irresponsibility and then as if he is incapable of anymore denial, takes a sharp turn. This is where I found myself wanting for more. There are so many interesting themes to this novel but Kenzaburo focuses all his attention on Bird’s plagued inner journey and tunes out the rest. Even Bird’s journey seems to be preemptive and rushed, although I appreciate how Bird connected with his conscience and changed himself.

I was expecting more on the role of Choice in a man’s life when he would rather do without choice or responsibility. I wanted Kenzaburo to take the reader through a realistic journey of acceptance - one that takes time, internal angst, and even mistakes and realizations along the way. Bird goes through angst, makes mistakes and fumbles, but the “realization” part was lacking. I guess Bird’s rapid journey makes sense, given the time pressure involving a sick infant. But,  there was more time dedicated to how Bird tries to run away from the problem itself and very little focus on how he actually comes around - which is the meaty piece, according to me. Perhaps that is the elusive mystery… maybe people do come around in a flash in such emotionally draining and time sensitive situations.

The social thread in this story - of how not just society, but even doctors and grandparents look at an ill child as being unwanted and “abnormal” had a lot of potential waiting to be developed. I can imagine so many unwritten pages dealing with the intersection of Japanese culture, society, and consequently, the moral as well as social implications that go with one’s choice.

All that said, this is a well written novella with a starkly drawn protagonist. I read this book in May of this year, but I still vividly remember Bird and all the emotions he goes through. It explains why Kenzaburo is so revered in the literary world. 

Reflections: Never Let Me Go

Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go is a difficult novel to write about. It is a dystopian science-fiction story involving a subject matter that is grave and disturbing. It is a good thought experiment on the ethics of scientific practices that affect humanity - in both positive and negative ways. Ishiguro builds the story in a nonchalantly reserved manner, and you don’t realize when things hit you. It doesn’t hit you all at once, and it isn’t dramatic in any way, but the story washes over you only after you have read it, and it haunts you. This is a powerful novel that unequivocally makes the case that humans are humans, no matter how they come into being, and they should be treated with equal rights to freedom of will, respect, and dignity.

From the start of the novel, the reader realizes that something is eerie with the setting and the characters. And as the mystery thickens and the pieces slowly fall into place, the anticipation grips the reader with a hollow dread. Eventually, when the reader realizes what is happening, it is a sickening feeling. The feeling is even more so, because you have started to invest in the characters. The parallel story of the characters’ lives and their coming of age and maturing is simple and relatable. The more simple, realistic and relatable it is, the more difficult it becomes when the revelation of what is happening to them hits us.

I found this novel interesting from the standpoint of morality. Often times, brutal decisions are made for the common good of humanity. Historians and philosophers have grudgingly admitted that some unfortunate sacrifices are inevitable on the path to achieving something significantly beneficial to a vast majority. It’s a bleary line to determine when the sacrifices are too much and unacceptable, and if the “sacrifices” are incidental versus planned. The fact that the “intentions” are theoretically logical and not “evil”, and the benefits are theoretically as high as the sacrifices, doesn’t matter much in the “equation”. When a system puts together a meticulous plan to sacrifice a set of people to help another set of people, it is much more abhorrent than if the sacrifices were inevitable and random. Besides, the important variable that matters is the victim/s of the sacrifice. If the sacrificial victims were animals and not humans, it shades the issue differently. But with humans as victims, it is an ironical case where one (the system/the person) loses some of their essential humaneness/humanity in their quest to help humanity! 

So, there are many levels of questions on morality, life, survival, and what is acceptable in the light of scientific/medical progress, but Ishiguro leaves all this discussion to the reader. In no place does he bring his opinions to the fore or delve into the two sides of the argument or force them on the story or the characters. The story is related through the perspectives of the characters, and he lets the characters make sense of the situation simply from where they stand. 

Also, if someone like me were to write this story, it would be an emotional-fest, but there is none of that either. It is a really restrained writing style - full of insight and elegance -  that’s difficult for a writer to manage, given the nature of the subject matter. Nothing seems heavy when you are reading the book. You feel the weight only after you have finished reading. But through the simple story and understated yet lucid writing, Ishiguro delivers a strong book.

This is a haunting story that’s worth the read.

Reflections: Corelli's Mandolin

I have not watched the movie adaptation of this book, so I don’t have any reference points.

Stories of War that deal with both human suffering and enduring love strike that perfect formula to churn a human heart. Love and tragedy go so well together in stories.

This is the story surrounding the wars that erupted between Greece and Italy during the time of the second world war. This is the story of Pelagia, a Greek woman who lives through the many wars amidst love and loss. The harsh realities of war teach her to value the most essential elements of life and understand the meaning and depth of love. There are several interesting and strong characters in the book. Captain Corelli is one of them. The Italian Captain takes over Pelagia’s island, but has a rare mix of personality traits - kindness and compassion coupled with wit and bravery. He hates war, but is attached to his duty. So he does his best to minimize harm and create friendship and well-being between the Italians and Greek (at least those on the island). Pelagia and the Captain fall in love and patiently hope for the war to end while nurturing ideas of their future together. And then the Germans invade, and everything is washed away.

This is a simple story. But a powerful one. It’s mostly about the ravages of war, and the coming of age of an innocent and intelligent woman. Pelagia is molded and hardened by the horrors around her, and her immense strength provides a beacon of hope to the men in her life. During times of excruciating difficulties and atrocities, the human psyche changes in one of three ways - 1) it is deeply, irrevocably wounded and scarred, withdrawing into a reclusive shell, 2) it manages to rise to a positive place of strength, compassion, and constructive action despite the scars or 3) it sinks into an abyss of self-destructive cruelty and negativity due to the festering wounds. The author explores all of these changes in the human psyche through his extremely well developed characters. He fleshes them out as sympathetic characters, each driven to their ways due to the circumstances of war and survival.

In parallel to the above themes, the story explores the nature of different types of love: the one that is dominated by lust, the one that endures after the fire of lust has burned out, the one that is born from loyalty and admiration, the one that is shared between a parent and child, the one that slowly develops between wounded souls that heal each other, the one that is at the heart of friendships etc. At the end of all the destruction and tragedy, the one essential tonic that keeps us humans going is love. It sounds corny when I write it, but the book beautifully brings this out.

There is also a lot of history in this book. It is primarily a historical document. The characters are just used to color the history more vividly. So, the story moves slow. However, the excellent writing makes the reading experience worthwhile. Despite the heavy theme on war, I appreciated the intelligent humour and wit that laces through the story and the characters. I laughed out loud at scenes, smiled through many passages, and loved Pelagia’s dad and the Captain. In many ways, Pelagia’s dad reminded me of my own, and that made it all the more endearing. I was emotionally invested in the characters and lived through their terrors and hopes. I felt Pelagia’s pain and was moved to tears.

With such great things to gush, I did find one thing unsatisfactory - it was the way the story ended. The last hundred pages seemed rushed, and the ending was inconsistent with the raw realism of the rest of the story. With so much beauty and insight that accompanied the rest of the story, I don’t understand why the author ended the story in an over-the-top romantic manner and with the Captain behaving in the most infuriating manner possible. The ending felt flat and deflated. I guess I am too old for romance of this kind.

That aside, this is a book heavy with thoughtful and intelligent commentary on war, survival, and love. The writing reminded me of a serious version of Wodehouse, which has biased me, no doubt.