Reflections: The World We Found

Thrity Umrigar’s latest book surrounds the stories of four college friends who drifted away in the currents of life, but come together for one last poignant reunion. Laleh, Kavita, Nishta, and Armaiti were an inseparable, idealistic bunch in college. With fiery beliefs in socialism and secularism, the girls envisaged creating a New India, a new society, a new way of life. Now, after the passage of more than two decades, fate draws all the four women together as Armaiti battles a fatal illness. As they reconnect, they are forced to reflect on their own lives, confront their pasts, their regrets, their simple, touching idealism, and wonder how their worlds shaped in directions almost contrary to the beliefs and ideologies of their younger selves. Faced with this jolt of realization, the women deal with their inner conflicts as they decide what little steps should be taken to resurrect at least a portion of their dreams to build their own world - congruent to their terms. This is a reflective book that juxtaposes idealism with reality, individual forces against political and religious forces, specifically in the context of Indian society in the thriving city of Bombay.

I loved Thrity Umrigar’s Bombay Time for the wonderful, memorable characters that she weaved into a complex story that involves people, culture and society merging into one another and influencing each other. This book has a similar theme. The threads are similar, the colors are similar, but the patterns and textures are different. One major aspect that I appreciate in Umrigar’s writing is her beautiful, realistic depiction of how people change, and what causes them to harbor thoughts and execute actions that are socially appalling. The psychological characterization makes it easy for the reader to readily sympathize  and empathize with even those characters whom we resent in our lives. One such character in this story is Iqbal, Nishta’s austere muslim husband. Although I was unable to empathize with this character in the beginning, my heart went out for him by the end. And the most amazing part was I sympathized with both Iqbal and Nishta, felt their emotions as if they were my own, read their thoughts, and connected with their fears and frustrations. I couldn’t view one as the victim and the other as the perpetrator as we so often do while coming to know of real life stories. Both were victims in my eyes, and that was precisely the author’s aim. She convincingly crafted the story to show how forces and powers much much bigger than our idealism crush the essence of our ideals. Religious violence, communal violence, and the accompanying prejudices and discrimination, often turn people to seek comfort in the very arms that slashed them - religion and community. An idealistic, secural Iqbal who was daring enough to oppose his family and community by marrying a Hindu, was pushed to embrace his religion and community to protect himself. My favorite piece in this book is the story of Nishta and Iqbal. It has the most impact and significance to the book.

In addition to the strong thread on Hindu-Muslim rivalry and prejudices, Umrigar also focuses on the subtle but powerful influence of capitalism in our socialistic structure. Money, higher “caste”, and power are the reigning elements in India, despite the extents of good-will, idealism, and socialistic attitude that one tries to wear, and live by. These pieces are tightly strung into every chapter and every scene, making it thought-provoking for the reader to inspect into their own lives.

Another piece that touched me was Armaiti’s thoughts and her slow, gradual reconcilement to her illness and mortality. Umrigar’s writing on mortality was refined, deep, and moving.

These strong and relevant themes carry this book along. I was a bit disappointed with some of the main characters in the book - they seemed a bit cliched and didn’t seem to have distinct personalities that I could remember. I think this is because Umrigar tries to cover a gamut of social themes using more than five primary characters, that some characters don’t have enough room in the story to be entirely fleshed out. For instance, the social issue on lesbianism is part of the book, but it merely exists within a cliched, obvious character and setting.

Umrigar’s writing is beautiful and touchingly insightful in some sections, but some of the dialogues seemed a little unnatural and trite. And knowing the various little hoops one needs to jump through, and the lengthy, arduous rigmarole that Indians go through to obtain their US visa, I felt the visa interview process was not represented in its true light. But, that’s just a quibble in the overall framework of the story.

Except for these few quibbles, I quite liked reading the book. It was deeply relevant and meaningful. I could very easily identify with the young idealistic girls who were slowly pulled by life’s uncertain, inexplicable paths. I already cringe at the unnerving prospect of looking back and pondering how far removed life looks from the idealistic image painted by the younger me. I’m sure to remember this book and its themes for a very very long time. This is an interesting, contemplative read that I recommend. 

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I received an advance-review-copy of this book through a publisher-organized giveaway that was hosted here. Quite exciting! Thanks to the publisher (Harper) for sending me a review copy, and to S. Krishna for organizing this. 

A disclaimer that my thoughts on the book are honest and are not influenced by the free copy.

Reflections: Unveiling India

There are many books and movies that have tried to depict India, painting a picture of the land, the villages, the traditions, the superstitions, the colors, the spices, the festivals, along with the developing urban world of sky scrapers and modern thoughts juxtaposed with the still struggling and canopied rural world. The bare truths make some turn away with embarrassment, some wince with anger coated with shame, some ridicule and laugh to shield themselves, and others seeped in denial angrily retort, claiming a bias. However, this book has been one of the first of its kind to bring about an emotional connection far beyond mere empathy. Neither a documentary of facts, nor a fictional fantasy; neither a treatise of self-imposed thoughts, nor a play of drama. The book is the story of India's women - told by them, in their own simple words.

The author Anees Jung, is a Muslim woman from Hyderabad blessed with a liberal father. She was fortunate to break out of the mold and establish herself with education and a career. She stands as the face of the Indian urban woman - fiercely independent, financially stable, progressive in her thoughts, and brave in facing life alone... although she constantly struggles with the inner conflict between the traditional culture that seems to root her to the land and inexplicably enough, also seems to form a part of who she is, and with her rational thoughts that torment and contradict the very same culture. A tug of war that is familiar to all urban Indian women, who are often lost in defining their identities. Yet, despite coming from a world so very different from the rural women, along with Jung every Indian woman (or perhaps every woman) who reads the book can instantly associate with the stories of women taken from the hearts and depths of India's villages. I could easily associate with the helplessness of young girls being pushed into a life they are not ready for, despite me being so much more blessed in my life. It is as vivid as listening to my domestic maid recount the story of her life. The book characterizes the diversity of the land by bringing stories from villages and previously unheard of tribes from the east, west, north, and south of India.

For an Indian, the stories have been heard, the superstitions and crimes based on them are all too familiar. I could see my great grandmother, my grandmother, my great aunt, my domestic maid, the sales girl in Spencers and many more women from my life through the stories. A bit sad that even after a hundred years, there are girls who are still subjected to the same brutal treatment as my great grandmother. But the book explores the collective strength of women when they bravely unite to demand respect for themselves and to establish meaning in their lives, and that to me was most inspiring. The stories highlight not just the heart wrenching state of affairs, but also assert the immense potential for change that lie within women.

Anees Jung's writing flows limpidly. I love how she effortlessly strings beautiful and profound insights into sentences without making them seem heavy and weighed down with emotions. She reaches a middle ground between apathy (of stating facts), and heavy drama, which is quite popular while dealing with subjects like these. Her writing has a quiet sense of resignation while she encounters beliefs and superstitions, a dignified sense of acceptance and respect to those women who choose to have faith in them and an optimistic view point while thinking of their future. As a feminist, she doesn't go overboard with any strong opinions lashing against men, culture and superstition. She doesn't fuel the reader with rage but guides them to think in terms of workable solutions.

A touching book that makes the modern feminist who fights and asserts her right to not cook breakfast everyday, rethink the priorities of her battle, to appreciate her life and to probably fight and spend her energy on more worthier battles.

Are there 'Female-Friendly' Jars?

The kitchen is supposed to be one place where females should normally have no difficulty surviving by themselves, or is it true? We all come to this phase when we start pondering on how independent we really are. Is it true that I can live by myself with no dependency on anyone?? And of course, the mid-20 crisis looms in front of me, haunting me day and night with the question, "Do I really need a man?"

With mood swings becoming part of my core trait, I was near to tears with anger, frustration and a bruised ego that I couldn't even open a blasted jar of pasta sauce, with the spaghetti almost done and my stomach having the sensation of a little dragon roaring and fuming inside. Why not make your own sauce.... I was out of tomatoes. Why not get some tomatoes... the store is 15 minutes away. Why not use another sauce.... the other jar is impossible to open as well. Why not eat something else like bread.... the jar of marionberry spread has been sitting on the counter painfully reminding me that I have been trying to open it for a month now... the jar of jalapeño spread cries the same woe. Why are jars so damn female unfriendly?!!!

As an engineer and as a normal being, I've tried alllll possible methods. Twist and turn, run under hot water for ages and tilt upside down, then twist and turn, bang the head against the counter, twist the lid with a knife to release the air.... but no!! None would work. My able and efficient room mate who has always been my aid in such times, failed too... crying that her palms were bruised.

Knowing nobody in our apartment complex , we cradled the three jars in our arms and walked across the street, in search of three Indian men to aid us. On the way, we were contemplating on a back up plan... what if they aren't home? May be ask those men BBQing for help, in return for a kiss from my hot roommate?? Randomly knock on somebody's doors, two poor Indian girls with jars in their arms? But thank heavens, one of them was home and we dumped the jars on him.

He tried twisting and turning.... his face puffing and his arms trembling with the pressure, but no it wouldn't budge. He ran it under hot hot water and banged with all his might on the counter, but no it wouldn't come. I felt sorry for him... I don't understand much about men. But I do know their egos get bruised easily... especially with two girls watching them as they struggle with opening a jar. I interjected, feeling very bad and asked him to give up... "you know we should return this... this is sealed far too tight. I even tried twisting the lid with a knife to release the air, but it's so tightly jammed". At this, a bulb seemed to glow above his head, "It's air sealed! Of course!" Saying so, he took a knife and with all his fury jammed it on top of the lid, punching a triumphant hole that hissed out air and popped the lid.

You see, the 'brain' is always mightier... he was a true PhD candidate :). I also feel much better. Of course I can punch holes to open jars... that's within my capacity, and for now I can surely call myself independent... that is till the time I find a spider in the bath tub. Hmm.... it gets tricky to define 'independent'.