Tales from a bygone era... Review on Fine Balance, A - Rohinton Mistry

Reading this book is like viewing one of the overtly oppressed and done a million times rehash of village thakurs, dowries and common man?s struggle against corruption, tragedies at every step of life in the movies of the late 70s and early 80s. Flimsy characters, almost out of those very movies, arise of this book and lead their lives in terrible tragedy, as if in effect themselves paying tribute to the script writers of those movies by mouthing inanely cliché done dialogues like ?Will you not hug your father?? or ?After all I did for you, you do this? and such.

The characters almost behave like the oppressed villager awaiting his messiah to free them, the bastiwalah fighting for their life or the low class oppression against gangsters, landowners and every single terrible efficacy there is to life. Almost panoramic in its view, the book in effect is a standing tribute to the cinematic scope of myriad stories of the bygone era.

However that would be looking at one view of the book. It is in those very characters that a tale breathes of tragedy, friendship, self discovery, and over all a sense of that obsessive looming failure about to strike that next road to them. In the characters you discover not only the pathos of the characters trying to strike that fine balance between finding solitude in chaos, friendship in lies, family in disoriented characters, or perhaps just striking to find the balance between their lives and their past.

As however cliché many pages over and over again may sound to you, as yet how many ever times you seem to almost predict whatever is going to happen, and perhaps as many times you may have almost gathered the next few lines of the book, yet, the book keeps coming back to haunt you, keep you engrossed, keep you traversing the characters lives, and perhaps in the same vein, try to bring about the fine balance within yourself, wondering whether you loved this book or loved to hate the book for progressing nothing but the banalities of life.

But perhaps, that is the strength and the weakness of this magnificent book ? a book that tries to draw a fine balance between story telling and flimsy characters, between characters in almost always tragic scenarios with the little gushes of happiness, or between the lurid details of emergency to the memories which refuse to give up long after they are gone. In essence, what remains then of this book once it ends are nothing but memories of a bygone era and the pathos of the characters. Its not the characters themselves who stay put in mind, but it is their underlying struggle to find their balance which keeps you haunting, and to a very shocking disturbing climax, which quite literally had me moist.

Perhaps, reviewing the story of this book itself is a meaningless exercise, for in reality there isn?t anything story worthy. Its not about a story trying to reach a goal, nor is it about docu-journey of life in the big city. Its just about a year, a certain year which changes the lives of four characters in the book ? bound together by dependence on each other, beginning with a doubts of trust to never ending love and bound by memories hard to relinquish. A six hundred page saga set in a single year, manages quite brilliantly to cover three backgrounds from three eras to a culminating pothole of life. Diverse in backgrounds, all and I mean all backgrounds neatly end up supporting the anguish of character?s life ? that the author wastes quite literally half a book is proof evident that the author never intended this story to be happy.

Saying that Rohinton Mistry, critically acclaimed author who manages a booker shortlist every time he pens, demonstrates amicably why he doesn?t make it. When compared to the likes of J.M. Coetzee, Mistry becomes simply a pale shadow of Dickens era. While his prose is superior and keeps you always engrossed, his prose never quite delves till the near end ? in effect, he nearly doesn?t affect his readers, until the final two chapters, when the saga takes a different turn ? quite particularly, Misty positions himself for a brilliantly written yet disturbing final chapters. However I couldn?t say that for most part of the book. Nonetheless, he is definitely a superlative author whom I am looking forward to reading more.

Despite the flimsy characters, I was most pretty much impressed by Maneck?s character, a character trying to find his balance in life by weighing his past ? at many parts in the book I could absolutely relate and feel myself in Maneck?s steps; particularly and not shockingly to my readers, but I almost had the same pattern of thought towards the end. His struggles in his mind at many places reflected a personal struggle within me too. His was the most prominent character I liked and probably more because of the proximity within me.

Saying that the characters do remain flimsy - and explaining the difficulties between how they are flimsy in themselves and then telling about how personally moving they are is like a contradiction itself. Forgive me; I cannot draw that fine balance between when the characters begin to look flimsy and when they start moving you to tears.

However yet despite all this, one question which reiterates my mind writing this review. Why are such books written? At one point, it was almost as if Mistry had a preconceived notion of presenting the gory details of every heinous society ill in Indian life ? to the point that at different websites, a few readers are proud to be American / Britons after reading this book and appreciate their life? Why do international Indian authors delve upon subjects of utopian era? Why can?t we have more people writing about better part of our lives? Is it so difficult for these authors to present ? or tragedy in itself is an easier topic to write on and our background only makes it easier? Where are the R.K.Narayan?s of today who knew the art of looking back at life in a much more hope than these authors? Maybe then I too finding that fine balance of finding that right author.

Overall

Excellent book ? worth reading once; I am sure you won?t pick it up again.