Of Dilli Haat, Bunker and Green Tea...

The last two days have been busy in its own ways. I had taken a two day leave, so that I could be alone, enjoy some long neglected book-reading, sleep and laze around, sip my bitter green tea in the balcony and watch some fantastic movie. Looks like, did some of all the things, I could think of.

Also went to the famous Dilli haat, bought few tribal painting. Will be framing them and putting them up in the drawing room with my long delayed project of putting up Lennon. Let’s see, how it pans out.

Now here goes my book review of Bunker 13 by Aniruddha Bahal

Just a backgrounder: The book was taken by one of my friends for the fiction section/ Indian Author book review for the insti’s session. He put up a glowing review, mostly because he was impressed with the supposedly graphic and visual details of the narrator’s sexual escapades and his frank womanizing throughout the book. But then, the novel was seconded by another friend, who happens to be a great reader and who simply termed the book as path-breaking as far as Indian authors are concerned.

The book is written by this journo of Tehelka fame, who was able to bring the whole sting-journalism into India, and his investigation still goes down into the annals of sting-operations as one of the most clinching and true in its character. It is the authors first book and deals with the life of a double-agent, the infightings and neck-deep corruption in Indian armed forces, the exploits of drug and sex; all culminated in a racy thriller replete with sexual encounters and author’s philosophical mooring about these subjects. To add to it, the story is narrated in a distinctive second person style, wherein the narrator keeps on calling himself ‘you’

‘You have soldiering boots stuck between your teeth so you don’t maul your tongue…’

The book starts with his training as a paratrooper as part of some journo-stuff for army, his dangerous friendship with an army Major, his tryst with drugs and skydiving together. The plot keeps on giving tid-bits of the narrator’s personality and his past life. The story in first part, when the plot keeps on getting clearer is funny and satirical. The second part tells the tale of the narrator’s life in the army camp, his active participation in the cross-border skirmishes and still keeps on flashing back to his past, just to bring more coherence in the plot. The writer changes gear in third part; he ceases to be sardonic, pulls up the pace of the plot, uses his past explanations to rationalize sudden turns of events and then in a last battle between the major and the narrator, ends the plot on the borders of Kargil war. In the whole process, the focus on two character’s : that of MM, the protagonist and Major Rodriguez, his nemesis is in focus, both men of similar dispositions and tastes, yet on the opposite sides due to reasons out of their hands. The narrator is almost empathetic to his nemesis’ plight and understands the psyche very well.

Another point that the author tries to make out from the book, is some kind of psychoanalysis or rather say, his own ideas about the psyche of a long standing soldier on the border, who is bereft of most of the worldly comforts, always scared of his dear life, but still hanging around and fighting the Mossies (the term used for terrorists in the novel), not out of some long sustained patriotism but more of the fear and livelihood. The author has also tried to weave the story, albeit with some success and little failure, the story around his own life; that of a scandal-splashing journo, who uses his might and brains to sting the dirty game of politics.

Overall the book is an interesting and worthwhile read, an entirely fresh wave of English writing in Indian settings, brings out entirely new topics for an Indian author and tries to create the aura of Catch-22 in modern India. The book is well-researched, probably shows the author’s mastery over the intricacies of drug snuffing and its different kinds, his understanding of the war-conditions prevalent on the LOC and a lot more. His allusions to swastika in one of the love-making scenes probably bring out the narrator’s fascist attitudes into focus.

Now brace up for some criticism: I felt the story loses steam in last 40 pages, wherein the plot becomes more action packed with incidents, twists and turns; the whole focus on satire, on his philosophical reflections on war, women, and sex – everything loses and like some typical thriller, the ends become dearer to the author. The author should also have done justice to Shomali and to the major a bit more, because they are equally complex characters, which should have been given more space of their own. They bring entirely new perspective to the whole drama. Also, somehow more depth in all the women characters, even Karnam would have been welcome. I always feel that some complex lady makes these novels all the more interesting. J

For the read, I would strongly suggest, Guys if you are missing some genuine, well-researched Indian fiction written from an insider’s perspective, go for this book. As far as the sexual and graphic details are concerned, I googgled it and found that the novel won ‘Bad sex in fiction’ award by Literary Review magazine.

A word for Anirudh S Pulipaka and Sindhu B, who went out for some clonial-time Tea Tasting tour  in some tea planter’s club in Darjeeling today, in the course of their Bharat Darshan Tour.

Sip your greens, in the field so green;

Gaze the stars, feel the eternal sheen.

Watch out North-east, for my friends are there;

Give them the scenes, behold they lifetime stare.

--
GKT

And thus, I spake again.

It has been a while since I put up something on this wretched blog. With time, comes an acute sense of postmortem of everything we had thought earlier, specially those which are still preserved in some form of writing. We heave them up, read, trying to recount the state of mind we were in when we had written it and thus begins the twin process of aahs and oohs. At the same time, we are reminded of the sheer immaturity or rather say, shortsightedness in our writeup, the kind of dreams we had built in those bygone times and at the same time we feel happy about how much we have progressed, as if the sands of times stuck together by the efforts of our actions have made the presently castle, we are presently living in.
A lot of water has flown, since the last time I blogged. Those were the heady college days; I was in fourth semester and had no clue as to what I wanted to do in future; may be get a sound job; enjoy somewhere, the newly found financial independence, may be splurge on whatever I might have found fascinating in those days. Now, when I look back, the mixture of regret and achievement fails to recede. Those were the good ol' times, when we were young, we were poor (on shoestring budgets would be more appropriate to say) and we had all the times in world to ourselves. We were naive, we were kids and we had not much to regret for the past. We used to hum the 'Nowehere man' song, and think of the lead voice singing as ourselves, with much the same emotions, with all our friends gathering around on one or the other instrument. In the hindsight, whenever I try to recapture that imagery, I find the oddity in it; The band, when they sang the song were well on their way to super stardom and yet claimed to be nowhere men walking in the nowhere land. Four years down the line, when I have proved my worth( to a certain extent), have chosen an exciting career path to follow, gained some insight into the working of real world; can it be that same sense of rudderlessness, which still drives people like us, even when they are well entrenched in their career paths and have a lot to loose if they are disenchanted. I am saying this, not because I have any qualms as to my current position; I am saying this because I feel that the sense of nothingness, at times, overpowers me. I relentlessly try hard to break my head above water, and still the sour taste of dissatisfaction lingers. May be that sense of nothingness, which the song discusses is the feeling of discontent, which has, since time immemorial, driven human needs to greater heights. It might me a repressed zeal of ambition, to try things anew, which might give better results in future. Again, this thinking of mine, might be the result of a positive mentality, on which we always try to end our notes. Or may be the whole thoughtfulness in dissecting the various meaning out of this song has been the nastiness of an under-worked brain, trying to build some mental jugglery, so as to keep it active...
On this note, I end this post. may be the rust on the language will dissolve with time, for the last four years have been spent mastering the 60 markers in optionals and guessing what might be asked from the current political scenario of the world. May be, now when I start writing more and more; as well as read more and more; the thoughts will start sprouting out, with fruits afresh and varied in design.

(A small try at some pretty low grade impromptu poetry)


The hue was red, with the sprinkled dust;
The path lay barren; all haze and mud.
Chic-chi chi-chi; the wheels squeaked,
Alone trudged the cart, the bullocks heaved.

In lay the traveller, all alone and sad.
Had her picture in his eyes, he was going mad.
Her eyes were limpid, all clear and bright,
The smile on her face, In his dreams alight.

How do I tell her, that my love is no farce;
The fact that she loves, a man with grace and art.
How will she know, that I love her no less;
And I can be the love, she must possess.

Alas! the sun sets in, the sparrows fly,
In comes the shadows, the wind is dry.
The traveller rues; thinks of his love and plight.
The sleep comes over, she'll linger in dreams tonight.

--

GKT