Walking In My Shoes

Review -The Storyteller of Marrakesh by Joydeep Roy Bhattacharya.

Cacophoenix — Fri, 07 Oct 2011 18:14:19 +0000

“A philosopher realized,” as Hassan, the protagonist narrates “the truth is precisely that which is transformed the instant it is revealed, becoming thereby the only one of many possible opinions, open to debate, disagreement controversy, but also, inevitable, to mystification” Truth especially in the hands of a master story teller Hassan who displays his skill with words at the famed Jemaa el Fna acquirs many forms weaving an intriguing tale of fraternal love, imagination, intrigue, suspense, philosophy, and an extended debate on truth and its existence.
Hassan is a storyteller based in Marrakesh who gather a crowd every year at the famed Jemaa el Fna to narrate the same story over and again, the love story and the mysterious disappearance of one or both the lovers or maybe neither. The story is woven through the narration of multiple audience members ranging from acrobats to musicians, fortunetellers who were all witness to the arrival of the strangers. In a multiple strand narrative that threads together events of the night of the disappearance no detail, no observation is considered to be of little value. From the unusual forked lightning to the ring around the moon to the various signs around the marketplace, every narrator’s version of the events that happened that day are combined with a heady mix of romance, intrigue and truth in its various clothes. As the moon rises higher, so does the passion of the eclectic mix of Moroccan society weaving more and more threads of truth into the turn of events leading to a story that is left to the reader to untangle or maybe not.
Bhattacharya has incredible skills as a storyteller and it is evident in the rich narrative of the book. Efficiently combining the dying art of the “Storytellers of Marrakesh” into a philosophical fable on truth is not for the lesser talented. The richness of the land, combined with the myths and fables it carries in its heart is expertly exploited by the author. Hassan’s story is more about his own survival and the survival of his art which relies heavily on the listeners to contribute by way of imagination, and suspension of reality, while making sure the storyteller is in touch with real life enough to weave his tale. There are parts when the thread becomes too entangled to read the truth clearly, but perhaps that was the idea. Storytelling is as much about creating mythologies from reality as it is about making the listener think and feel that the stories are innocent fiction. “Storytelling is an art that supersedes morality; it is an act of will.”
With the skill of a miniaturist painter, Bhattacharya manages to evoke both the rich tapestry of imagination of the storytellers rooted in the rich, varied and colorful surroundings of Marrakesh. The place plays as big a role to root the varied versions of truth as it plays in anchoring the characters that weave into it their stories and their imaginative word plays.

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Bombay Duck is a Fish – Review

Cacophoenix — Fri, 26 Aug 2011 09:32:11 +0000

Bombay Duck is a fish by Kanika Dhillon starts on a promising note with the protagonist Neki Brar contemplating suicide. Before making the leap and while waiting for the playback of her life in highspeed, Neki decides to go through her diary “Nano” to see how she a small town girl who ditched her MNC job and possible Indian-American husband to become a Movie director in Bollywood ended up on the terrace of the five storey Rose Mahal building in Mumbai

Written in first person and as a retrospective narrative, Bombay Duck is the story of Neki who arrives in Mumbai to pursue her dreams of making movies, transforming herself, working towards her goals and holding on to her greatest dream of meeting Shah Rukh Khan. Does she stand up to the pressure of her work, fulfill her dreams or self-extinguish in the process of climbing the ladder of success forms the crux of the story. Hired as the Sixth Assistant Director for Fiza Kareem, Neki is thrown at the deep end of the quagmire from which dreams in Technicolor are spun. Constantly shifting from real world Pali Hill to the make believe world of Film City, the story takes us through Neki’s star struck eyes, her shock at seeing an underwear model from a hoarding, boarding with her room-mate, small time actors on set and falling head over heels for Ranvir Khanna, the second hero of the movie. Through Nano, she takes us through the trials, politics, betrayal, ecstasy, inflated ego’s of stars small and big and how she picks herself up every time, until she finds herself drunk and on the terrace thinking of suicide.

The plot is extremely fast paced and the author taps into the reader’s curiosity in seeing how ugly and miserable people who make Bollywood dreams really are. The blurring of real world and cine world and how easy it is to get trapped in the webs that are spun on set is interesting to read. It is not easy to figure out if the difficulty that Neki faces is because of the puncturing of her ideas of how Mumbai will be or the crashing of her Bollywood dreams. The harsh, back stabbing, deceptive, canny ways in which people are manipulated both in life and in the celluloid one makes her feel like a fish out of water.

The downside to the book was the characterization of Neki. The sad, easy to manipulate, naive, easily led, doormat like character makes it difficult to believe that she has the guts and gusto to make it as a director. The superficial Freudian insights and Siddhartha insights become annoying after a while. Also difficult to believe is her entry into Bollywood. There is very little growth in the character and the makes the reader wish that the tiny glimmers of self-confidence and raring to go attitude could have been developed. The fringe characters are very one-dimensional and at least a few could have been completed well or maybe that is how people becoming while attempting to create four-dimensional characters on 70mm screens.

All in all, a racy, plot with drama, comedy and tragedy. As Neki closes her nano, a new chapter begins for her. Worth a read.

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Chanakya’s Chant

Cacophoenix — Tue, 09 Aug 2011 17:32:12 +0000

Politics is a cliched field..nothing new ever happens. The new too, is not necessarily an improvement of the past. “Chanakya’s Chant” by Ashwin Sanghi is a parallel reading of the original and the cliche. The book takes us in a rocking time travel machine to roughly 2300 yrs ago where kingdoms that squabbled in what will be “Bharat” to present day India where the squabbling continues. Greatness as Malvolio puts it in the “Twelfth Night” is not something to be afraid of “some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon ‘em.” That seems to be the running theme in the book as it focuses on people on whom greatness is thrust upon, on the ones who were born so and more importantly on the two people who achieve it. Chanakya’s chant traverses the life of Chanakya whose mission is to install Chandragupta Maurya on the throne of Magadha, defeat Alexander and unite the various warring kingdoms to create a strong, self sufficient Bharat. His greatness is achieved through a series of events in his life, which shapes his philosophical as well as his political views. With the Takshila University forming the background, the setting is laid for the master strategist to craft a worthy revenge against the King of Magadha for murdering his family, while plotting the downfall of Alexander who comes to India seeking fame and new lands to conquer. His biggest coup-d’etat however will be seeing his protege Chandragupta Maurya become the king of Magadha and usher in the Age of Empires through the Mauryan empire.

Roughly two and half thousand years later, Pandit Gangasagar Mishra in Kanpur with providence and divine luck on his side, uses similar strategies to bring his protegee Chandini Gupta to power by making her the Prime Minister of a united India. Every means, be it lying, fudging the truth, murder, concealment, inciting violence, threat or plain cunning strategy is used to justify the end. Both Kautilya and consequently Gangasagar believe in the principles of Saam, Daam, Dand, Behd – Equality, Enticement, Punishment, Dissension. They use it strategically to extract the maximum benifit resulting in book that is fast paced, gripping and riveting to read.

The research and the fictionalized history blend beautifully and makes the tale of the two Chanakyas enchanting. The part I found interesting was how both Chanakya and Gangasagar keep chanting the Shakthi Mantra as a means of strength and in Gangasagar’s case wisdom, and yet have no qualms in using religion itself as a means to achieve the end.

Two things that disturbed about the novel was the lack of a higer goal for Gangasagar mishra. Chanakya’s every move and every strategy was planned with two things in mind, to usurp the hedonistic King of Magadha and install Maurya, therby creating Bharat and putting a break on the Alexander war machine that threated the subcontinent. Mishra’s goal however revolves entirely around making Chandini the PM on India. Chandini’s character could have also been etched better. Maurya’s character worked with Chanakya because of the teacher student relationship they shared all their life. Chandini and Mishra on the other hand seem more forced together because of the lack of background on Chandini. The historical part was more tightly woven and well written, the present becomes tedious due to a few exagerrated events and conversations and the juvenile humour in places.

The novel as a whole is excellent and the reader does not tire of the constant move between past and present. In a lot of places, the conversation bear a heavey resemblance to Jeffrey Archer novels like “Kane and Abel and “The Prodigal Daughter”. A tight, fast paced reading of fictionalized history that fits beautifully into the present.

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Dreams and some more.

Cacophoenix — Thu, 02 Jun 2011 10:37:10 +0000

Indie Challenge Time. The very talented Christina challenged me this week..so here goes. As usual prompt follows post.

Asking a Piscean about a single dream, is like asking a fish to choose its favorite drop of water. I live in reality only to make my dreams that much more treasured and real. There has been one dream however. It has been my comfort blanket when all I wanted to do was gnash my teeth and go fight with the planktons, my little shell of happiness.

It is probably 15-20 yrs from now, I am camping in a tent, the rain is lashing outside and I am all curled up answering questions via email to yet another reporter about the Man Booker that I just won for my latest book. My husband is sorting photos, while my son is filling out applications for his university education. We are backpacking across somewhere and need to catch up on our sleep for an early start tomorrow..so no more talking. Have to go and dream a bit..Good Night

Your biggest dream just came true. What was it?

I challenged Mare to write about a perfect day in a perfect life and she has given a Purrfectly F’el’ine reply..Check it out and mew about it…

Hello darkness, my old friend.

Cacophoenix — Wed, 25 May 2011 16:51:44 +0000

Inky Ink Time. The very Higgins Clark inspired JHughes challenges me to indulge in my morbid side..so here goes. As usual prompt follows post.

“Stupid, Stupid Bird!” I throw the pillow at the music-box I use as an alarm..the pillow bumped the side of the box, pushing it down..the lady in the ballet dress was shocked and expressed it by spinning faster..faster..louder…louder

The loud boom rattled the glasses and the little glass of wine whimpered as a scarlet shade of lightning tore another heavy cloud apart. The lights flickered. Groaning, I got up to look for my candles and matches. I wans’t especially eager to spend this evening alone, espeically after that wierd, diastrous date. I hadn’t even got out of my evening dress, and the crumpled maroon skirt kept catching my foot as I tried to reach for the lights.

I had always taken refuge in my closet, it seemed comforting, and familiar. I stifled a scream as a furry sensation passed up my leg. The shadow outside the door and the gentle humming seemed to be coming closer. I grabbed a spare pillow for defence and on second thought removed my inch and a half spiky shoes from its prime position. The humming came closer as I stepped deeper into the closet.

“Oh! Crap!! There they go” talking to myself I lit the candles and placed them around the room. It looked as if I was going to get proposed to or was going to hail spirits using an ouija board. I moved a few candles to the window, when I first felt the cold, damp draft and saw the shadow sprinting. “The candles must be playing with my mind” I went around to arrange a few more and grab my glass of wine, when I heard the door slam upstairs. I dropped the glass, spilling the wine as my mind started shutting down and my voice caught in my throat. Grabbing the torch, I started up, when the skirt caught in my foot again, tripping me. My hands clammy, my throat parched and my temple throbbing, I make my way upstairs and into my bedroom. I see the shadow again and hear the slow humming of a Simon Garfunkel song..I shut the closet door gently from inside and hold my breath.

It was a bright and sunny day after a dark and stormy night, and the scent of murder was in the air…The heels lay on the carpeted stairs, the bloody stains from the spikes had seeped through the carpet and dried matting the fiber. The humming of the song in a different pitch was carried by the zephyr through the open window as the maroon skirt swished and sashayed over the delicate ankle. The music box still singing its tilting melody was shut, as I tripped yet again as I stepped over and walked down the stairs

The prompt was “It was a bright and sunny day after a dark and stormy night, and the scent of murder was in the air…” I kind of used Jhughes last post about the Caged Bird Sings and flipped it around.