Buy one, get many free!

Through twenty five years of writing on and off, I've only written a handful of book reviews. I don't usually enjoy writing reviews, except when the book itself is a study in thought. I remember that writing about 'Zen and the art...' so long ago taught me a lot about myself, and gave me a glimpse at the things that would engage my mind in the future. But for most part, I have the cheeky notion that reviews are written by those who either see themselves never writing a book, or writing a book and being reviewed ruthlessly. I belong among those who see themselves as prolific writers of a multitude of books, most of which are never reviewed, infrequently read, and for most part relegated to nondescript shelves in unused rooms. That is the best way, isn't it?

My grandfather would disagree - he believes that one should write with the clear and noble intention of being read. That the purpose of writing was nothing more or less than communicating one's ideas to a definite, flesh-and-blood audience, in the best and clearest way possible. By dint of sheer persistence, he swayed me from disdainful dissent to reluctant agreement with an opinion that he had. I say opinion and not suggestion because my grandfather is a man of conviction - his suggestions are almost always opinions of unflinching clarity. His opinion was that all the poems/sonnets that I have written since I was about eight - from the words penciled into a schoolbook to remember my pet kitten Charlie who was stolen by an evil worker to kill the rats in his hovel (that's what I believe to this day, don't anyone dare say otherwise) and rhymes that I wrote to show off my ability to string words together, through the convoluted and intense verse in the years that roiled in teenage angst, to more recent times when the sediment started to settle - must be subjected to the criticism of the erudite of Kerala.

I was rebellious at first, because I felt that the poems were little pieces of me through my growing-up years and consequently, it would be wrong to evaluate them by an academic measure. More so, if that academic measure was not one that I held in very high regard. After all, how could the critic know the chronological order of experiences that fed those poems through the years? He would, no doubt, compare one written by a 14 year-old reveling in the easy flow of lofty ideas from her mind and grandiose words from her pen, with one written by a 22 year-old who was discovering the dignity in brevity, and the pride in frugality with words (and imagining herself to be another Emily Dickinson in the making, no doubt). He would then, based on the results of his flawed measuring stick, comment on how much better the latter poems were. The turbulent and fulfilling progression from child to adult would never find a place in that narrow envelope of literary criticism. I wasn't disappointed. Besides a few grudging admissions of 'You have a good way with words. Keep writing', the critics lived down to my expectations, almost to the word. The erudite of Kerala (an unfortunate generalization, I admit) were little more than grammarians, and they would little more than read the words, and note the metaphor. They would indicate a lack of feeling in the poems that had been written through tears with clenched, staccato words, remind me of mistakes in language that I had noted but held myself back from correcting, to preserve the sanctity of what was written in that moment. They would apply the rules without knowing what to judge. Some comments would be helpful, but then it would be irksome when a stranger called a thought that was discovered at fifteen unoriginal and immature, and then when revisited at twenty-one, repetitive. I would not be able to muster much respect for critics whose criticism, positive or negative, failed to engage me or taught me something. This little exercise was undertaken despite my initial misgivings, because fortunately I foresaw a glimpse of the joy it would bring my grandfather to have his peers read his granddaughter's poems and hear their praise some of them, to do something to show that he was proud of me and encouraged me to keep writing, to debate the p's and q's of poetry and literature and to give voice to his own thoughts on various subjects that the exercise might throw up.

So, to sum up, reviewing is not my favourite mode of writing or of thinking. Even so, I can say one thing about the first book I'm reviewing here - 'Ex Libris' is a lovely piece of heart. Favourite moments of a life spent in love with books, put together with love. A book clearly written by someone doing what they love doing and do best - reading, and then writing about it. It was a gift from my husband - he had read it years ago when we were both studying for our engineering degree in Hyderabad, and had been hunting for it ever since to give to me. He finally found it online and ordered it. He did what he always does when he buys a new book, or gifts one to someone - wrote something on the flyleaf that made it my favourite page in the book.

Some books make me think, and some, if I take the trouble of overcoming my bigoted opinions of them, inform. Some inspire me, some open my eyes to realities or situations that expand my mind - and then some, like this one, unassumingly remind me of who I am, and open a small window through which I can peer at a me I've always wanted to be. An ode to reading and writing - Ex Libris.

Before I review the book I'm currently reading, I want to capture some of my thoughts while reading a few other books I've read recently, not necessarily in the order in which they were read.


'Kafka on the Shore': I think that with this book, I made the mistake of reading too many reviews by other readers. Understandably, I wanted an idea of the author whose words I hoped would keep me interested for a little while. What I should have done is stick to the Wikipedia page about Murakami, and perhaps stop at whatever I'd gathered about post-modern literature. This book followed my struggle with its predecessor from another generation - Kerouac's 'On the Road' - a book that I'd thought would draw me in, hook, line and sinker. It didn't. I couldn't relate, though in parts I was sure that an earlier me might have. There was a part of me, however, that resented Kerouac for having been there, bang in the middle of the beat movement. All the more reason why I should have loved the book, as I had previously supposed I would. All I felt was alienated - from the girl who would've enjoyed the book, been able to transport herself to that time and place, been able to take away something from the intensity and clarity of the beat consciousness. The feeling of empathy with pure thought has long deserted me, I realized with that book.

I happened upon Haruki Murakami while reading about authors who had been influenced by Kerouac, and was naturally drawn towards what seemed like his tendencies towards the dream-like, the fantastic and the surreal. His writing seemed more likely to flash a telling image on the subconscious (which he was successful in doing, I might add), than inform. It was like an instant connection with his Wikipedia page - I don't feel that kind of connection with most people. I was intrigued. I thought that perhaps he, being a generation ahead, would be able to say to me what Kerouac couldn't. Needless to say, he was successful in doing this as well, otherwise I wouldn't be writing about him, would I?

'Kafka' is probably his most known novel - I wanted to play safe. I also wanted to know what other people thought about his writing, just in case I hadn't read his vibe correctly on Wiki. I ended up reading too many people's opinions, some of them too informative of his style, and some too pedestrian in their analysis. This in some way adulterated my reading of the book. I would've liked to experience first-hand the magic that this man's imagination is, with no warning or preparation. I found it - pure and undiluted thought.

Besides young protagonists with big minds and cats that talk, what really engaged me was how beautifully Murakami hems in fantasy on the fabric of reality. It is anything but kitschy - it is a piece of a remarkable writer's mind. I didn't remember much a little after I'd finished reading it, but oh, I took away so much! I felt its vibrations in my dreams for days afterward, not all of them pleasant, but indubitably new. It was the reason for a strange morning when I woke from a nightmare, only to smile a conspiratorial and rather victorious smile at nothing in particular.

I'm now reading a collection of his short stories - 'Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman'. Some engage me more than others, but each one of them encases a brilliant gem of an idea. All I can say is that I'm glad I found him.


'Beatrice and Virgil': After 'Life of Pi', I should have been prepared for this man's knack for saying big things through gentle stories. Surprisingly, this too, was an exercise in faith, because for no fault its own except perhaps its saga-like nature, Yann Martel's previous didn't manage to penetrate the surface of my mind as much as I had thought it would. I enjoyed it, of course. There is brightness in his writing that lifts the spirit. He has a way of unshackling the imagination, and turning the reader's premise over on its head. I loved Pi's mental duels with the tiger, and of course, was beside myself at being able to read serious musings on my favourite fantasy - being stranded on a boat with a veritable menagerie!

His third was the first book I read to completion in many months, and it made me cry. It had been a confused time for me, for no apparent reason, and there was emptiness, a vague, choked-up anxiety. This book helped me let it out, and ironically enough, given its contents, gave me a measure of peace.

Another book that I had been trying to finish for a while before starting on 'Beatrice', Orhan Pamuk's 'A New Life', did quite the opposite - it frustrated me to no end. I had naively expected it to open up my eyes to new things, but try as I might, it just couldn't convince me that it held anything for me, let alone secrets for a new life.

Then I had felt fearful - maybe my eyes have forgotten how to open up to new things. Maybe my eyes only want now to see known things, they have no use for forgotten things, no interest in new things. Maybe they, as a window to the universe, see it all, but choose to shut most of it out, show to the mind only what is necessary.

So when I started on this book, I was beginning to feel that those windows were all fogged up, that my mind was irretrievably losing its ability to absorb the very diet that was its subsistence, and was starving itself. What this book did, in fact, was bring out the latent sadness at this loss. As cavalier as it sounds in the light of what the book is about, I identified with that pillage of the core of a human soul which is its emotional spine. It also gave me great insight into how the soul is rebuilt, but at the time, I wasn't ready to start rebuilding what I had inadvertently let crumble.

It all sounds so dramatic now, but for a moment, I want to think back and try to understand what I was inwardly mourning. Innocence, in a tangential way? Identity and imagination, in a more direct way. The unshakable conviction that there is passion, a quiet peace and happiness that belongs in the most unique, unshakable way to me. Grounded by society's preferred anchors, when I should have been feeling the most stable and composed, I felt intensely then what I feel faintly at all times - rudderless.

The two characters in Martel's book, Beatrice and Virgil, and to some measure the narrator, are constantly coping, physically and mentally. It wasn't hard to relate to 'dealing' with something all the time, moving from one crisis to another, one excuse to another, one argument to another... always grappling, never staying still.

By the end of the book, with all the intensity of emotion pent up for the better part of the three hours that I’d spent hunched up over it, I'd uttered a strangled cry that sounded like a desperate attempt to evict something from inside me. There were few tears, only an incredible sense of grief, equally for the characters in the book (which, unhappily enough, were animals), and for me. This book awoke something in me, something that may be good and bad for me in equal measure in the long run, but that is an integral part of who I am. Oh, it was a breathtaking, heart-breaking, gut-wrenching book. In that moment, all I needed was that lump in my throat to remind me of how much I love to read, and why.

I think I may have gone overboard in my attempt to deliver on my promise. Forgive me the onslaught!