Jan 31, 2007 04:10 PM
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What do I feel? fulfilled.....Why fulfilled, you may ask (what filled me to the full *;-))? Having read a novel after a long long long time ( *did I say long?), the last one being Da Vinci Code which was read after suffering the torturous sight of Mr. Husband reading it day in and day out , shifting from one corner of the house to another, clutching steadfastedly a book he borrowed(stole) from me before my having
triumphed it.........Now back to fulfilling part, which, mind you refers only to the fulfillment of the desire of having read something.Not to to be confused with the contentment from reading something brilliant.
The book is set in contemporary times in oscitant Kalimpongnear Kanchenjunga, where Saian orphan girl lives with her maternal grandfather, a retired judge and in
company of Lola, Noni, Father Booty and Uncle Potty who pride in keeping a veryBritish lifestyle in the remote place where Gorkha discontent is growing.
The eccentric judge, cut off from the present , flits from one memory to another; of his days spent in Britain where he appeared for the ICS immensely conscious of his brown identity and his hypocritically condescending, livid attitude towards his father and wife for their Indian uncouthness. He is little company to young Sai, who has just returned from the convent and makes cobwebs of the small world of
experiences she is exposed to and, her books. There is also the cook; selling
Cchang on the sly and living to see his son, the cynosure of his eyes, return a successful man from the U.S., where he waits tables.
The stories of the past and the present are well woven in a place that is so still that even the present seems to be of an old forgotten era and where, there is no glimpse of the future. The story has rhythm too, even then, at best , it can be judged as readable and may have something new to offer to someone who has not read The God of Small Things(Arundhati Roy).* The
similarities between the books ( apart from the Booker) are one too many- the awkward descriptions that form the beginning to the vague ending, the slowness, the most murderous and unbeautiful account of romance and the needless use of Hindi expletives which( may be) add to the exotic
flavour of the story ( and thus to its prizewinning chances), but leave a bad taste in the mouth to the reader. Wonder if that which is said about the Nobels given to specific predecided continents is true in case of Bookers too, because one is generally used to more intelligent pieces of writing, and this is in comparison, mediocre.
