Our culture and child abuse

I was deeply moved by the significance and beauty of Nathdwara Pichwai paintings (See post and link to complete article in previous post below). What touched me most was how devotees worshipped Lord Srinathji as a divine child; a sweet, adorable, mischievous yet loving child.

In a land where the divine child is worshipped with such affectionate devotion, why are countless children being abused in various ways? The recent deaths of Baby Falak and Baby AfreenThese child abuse cases are only the tip of the iceberg in our society. Not only
fathers, but even mothers and other close relatives can be the active
perpetrators. Some people are simply not fit to be parents. Producing a child
can be a social fashion statement, and there are cases of even educated parents
who perceive their children as chattel/expendable extensions of their own egos.

However we may squirm at the attendant media hype, sensationalising cases such as Baby Falak and Afreen's do serve a
purpose by drawing public attention to such issues. Only a few years ago,
Indians refused to even acknowledge that child abuse exists in our own society. We
liked to bury our necks in the sand and aver that this was some figement of
Western imagination. Indian parents and families were unchallenged authorities
for children. Recently, a young girl in Mysore was forced by her father to beg
because she did not perform as per his expectations in exams. Even in the recent
past, society would have turned a blind eye to underlying issues, and people
would have said it is a family matter, and the parents have every right to teach
their kids a lesson. Community leaders would have supported this.

Child abuse in India goes far beyond such sensationalised cases . Social malaise covers middle and upper classes, from female infanticides
and sex determination tests to 'honour' killings of young lovers . Too many
people have kids just to prove a social point, they dont want them or love them.

When will people like us realise the futile anomaly of worshipping the divine spirit of childhood in temples, and then turning a blind eye to the abuse of real children in the dirty streets outside?

Pichwai paintings of Nathdwara

Paintings from the Nathdwara School occupy a special place in Indian art. Many are in the form of pichvais, which were created to be hung behind the idols in the temples of Nathdwara in Rajasthan. Each pichvai painting is considered to be a seva or offering to Srinathji, the seven-year-old balaswarup or child manifestation of Lord Krishna. The artists paint with a sense of deep devotion. The paintings usually depict scenes from the life of Srinathji, expressing the moods of different seasons and festivals.

Their deceptively simple style hides layers of spiritual significance and symbolism. Using basic colours, concepts and compositions, these paintings show how the whole world, including all living creatures, birds and animals, is Lord Krishna’s leela. It is imperative to trace the historical development of the Nathdwara School of Painting and study the factors responsible for its distinctive imagery, holds eminent contemporary artist, scholar and author Amit Ambalal. Delivering the Tasveer Foundation Lecture, he points out the importance of delving into cultural background, the philosophy of the sect, its colourful rituals, festivals and legends.

Nathdwara literally means the gateway to Lord Srinathji. According to legends, the idol of Lord Krishna was transferred in the 17th century from Vrindaban to protect it from the destructive wrath of Emperor Aurangzeb. When the bullock cart transporting the idol reached what was then a tribal village in Rajasthan, the wheels sank deep into the soil and could not be budged. This was taken to be the Lord’s chosen spot, and a temple was built there. Since then, Nathdwara has been home to Srinathji, the chief deity of the Pushtimarga sect. The Pushtimarga sect (The Way of Divine Grace), founded by Shri Vallabhacharya in the 16th century, is based on Bhagwata Purana scriptures.
Pushtimarga does not stress on asceticism, and holds that the way to spiritual salvation is through a celebration of earthly life.

To devotees, the idol of Srinathji is not a stone image. It is a living, vivacious divine child, who is regularly fed, bathed, dressed, sent out to play, and gives darshan to devotees eight times a day. The haveli is symbolic of Braja, and places all around it in Nathdwara are named to symbolise places important to Lord Krishna. Thus, Govardhan Chowk symbolises Govardhan Mountain. All the areas and dimensions of the temple complex are built as a miniature palace, so that child Krishna can feel at home.
My detailed article is published in Sunday Herald

caucasian tribal carpets

 Viewing a recent exhibition of antique Caucasian
tribal carpets set me thinking. These beautiful and enigmatic patterns created by nameless nomadic tribal women can cast a spell on viewers. They  are silent witnesses to times gone by.

 Warm natural colours woven into striking geometrical patterns distinguish traditional carpets hand woven by tribals from the Caucasus region. The art of weaving vibrant, artistic carpets is considered to have originated on the plains of Central Asia or the Caucasus region nearly a millennium ago.

 The nomadic tribes needed something more manageable than their traditional sheepskin wraps to ward off the harsh winter chill. They used wool from their sheep and goats to spin yarn and weave it into carpets. Bright patterns and colours also made these carpets lovely decorations for their tents. Smaller carpets were woven as door coverings, or used as bags. Long, narrow carpets would be used as decorative bands circling the felt tents.
Other carpets were used for sleeping. These colourful carpets added welcome flashes of liveliness to the bleak, desert-like environment. With the passing of time, the tribes have settled into a less nomadic and more modern lifestyle. The creation of beautiful and unique carpets hand woven in the traditional way is now a dying art. Antique tribal carpets over a century old are now rare and prized as collector’s items.

Carpet weaving was once an important part of tribal life. Traditional weavers were usually groups of women who gathered to share stories as they wove magic on their looms. The women wove abstract patterns representing things from nature into carpets.

The men usually sheared, carded and spun the wool from their sheep, and dyed the wool. Vegetable and mineral-based dyes such as indigo were used in the earlier tribal carpets. These colours have retained their rich, mellow beauty through the centuries. In the early twentieth century, weavers also used chemical dyes, says Indian collector Danny Mehra. Some of these early chemical dyes were called fugitive dyes because they changed colours or faded in the course of time.

Traditional tribal carpets were spontaneous compositions and not copied from a pattern or picture. The designs emerged from the weaver’s heart, gradually taking shape on warps (vertical yarns) strung on simple wooden looms. The looms were easily dismantled and carried along with partially woven carpets when the tribe shifted camp. These movements and variations in dye tints and yarns caused shifting lines in the weave.
These lines are called brushes, and they enhance the beauty of handmade carpets. As the weft or horizontal yarns were woven in and knotted one row at a time, dazzling patterns took shape. After the carpet was woven, the pile was sheared evenly. Then it was washed, says Mehra, and the colours were fixed by applying iron filings and other substances which remained on the surface and did not bond with the wool. Each carpet took months and even years to create, and they were symbols of the pride and joy of the weavers.

My  detailed article is published in Sunday Herald

The Yellow Emperor's Cure

I recently had the pleasure of reading The Yellow Emperor's Cure by Kunal Basu. In this engaging historical novel, Kunal Basu takes us into China over a century ago, teetering on the cusp of the Boxer Rebellion. Exotic sights, sounds and tastes, the political equations and clash of cultures of the past play out in the backdrop as Dr Antonio traverses the world seeking a cure for a deadly disease.

Basu brings to life with finely crafted language the western hills hanging low “over the tiled roofs of pagodas, over palaces of lacquer and gold…children caught dragonflies on the banks of canals, and lakes brimmed with incandescent lilies.” The well-researched and vivid details strike the right balance, without miring the story in verbosity or slowing the pace.

The dashing and highly accomplished Portuguese surgeon Dr Antonio Maria is blessed with “the most precious pair of hands in Lisbon”. His friends consider him to be “rock steady with the scalpel, but a prize idiot when it comes to women,” for, while he is adept at flirting, he evades
settling down with a suitable lady. As this most eligible bachelor of Lisbon prepares to enjoy the bacchanalian feast of St Anthony, he is jolted out of his world of wine, women and gaiety. His dear father is losing his mind and body to syphilis, which in those days was an incurable scourge...
 ...
As the novel comes a full circle, Antonio says, “They’ve taught me to look inside the doctor to know what makes him suffer for his patients, what gives him hope and how to go on living even when he fails.” In the end, we love and admire him for his sincerity, for weeping “for all those he’d loved but failed to save.” As he emerges through the many upheavals of his life, Antonio evolves as a man and as a doctor. “Whereas in the past he’d worry over curing a patient, it troubled him now to think of those who must somehow go on living with the burden of their loss.”

A large and varied cast of characters animates the novel, from Portuguese aristocrats, western diplomats, merchants, spies and intrepid Christian missionaries to decadent Chinese rulers and nobility, concubines, Chinese doctors and a pair of palace eunuchs. Many however, come across as uni-dimensional rather than fully rounded personalities throbbing with a unique inner life. ...
...
As for the historical backdrop, the Boxers and their cause remain sketchy till the end. A more detailed and involved portrayal of the individuals and events related to this upheaval would have added to the overall immediacy of the novel. Despite these factors, the book succeeds as a striking and memorable read

My detailed review of this book is published in Sunday Herald

Surpanakha's story

Occasionally doing a Google search of one's name can throw up all sorts of suprises.

I'd submitted my short story 'Dhatura' to Indiacurrents Katha fiction contest last year. My story was not listed among the declared winners of the contest, and hadn't heard a peep from them since. The contest rules say they can use selected stories for a period of one year in any way they choose, but till date, nobody ever informed me that the story was indeed 'selected' for anything at all,

Now after a few days short of a year, I Googled my name and, surprise surprise, found my short story Dhatura published in

Indiacurrents

The story is based around an episode in the Ramayana, and it's for adults. People I meet often label me as a 'children's writer'. I understand how convenient it is to pigenonhole people into slots. Time and attention spans are diminishing by the minute, and everyone wants to gloss over things before moving on to something else.

I DO write fiction for children and teens and thoroughly enjoy it. But I also write fiction for adults and non-fiction as well. Writing in each genre requires focusing one's thoughts and ideas and working hard to polish every sentence and paragraph. My writings remain an unseemly bundle refusing to fit into any practical and easy to classify slot.

fashion photography as art

Fashion photography as art? Meaning those inane airbrushed images of models in clothes which nbody will every wear in real life? I always thought of fashion photographs as a marketing and publicity tool, glossy stylised images to make viewers drool or gape over people and situations light years away from real life concern. To me they were aids to escapist tendencies, entertaining images to pass idle time.

Viewing Norman Parkinson's iconic fashion plates from six decades ago gave me a fresh perspective. Norman Parkinson was the original innovator. He took fashion photography from formal studios out into the fresh air. Exotic locales from Africa and Asia formed the backdrop for many of his iconic images. Dashes of humour, touches of the absurd made his images unique. He managed to balance multiple effects and pull of an aesthetically pleasing whole. Imagine a dainty model in high fashion clothes posing beside a cow, or a snake charmer intently guiding his snake to dance! Spectacular backdrops weren't a must for his shoots. Some images are shot in blank London alleyways or nest to a rustic barn in the English countryside. Only Parkinson could carry off such ideas.

Later fashion photographers have by and large merely carried on with the concepts pioneered by Parkinson.
My detailed article can be read in Sunday Herald

teaching and learning

    
I've never been a professional teacher. I'm a lifelong learner. I had a briefest of brief brush with teaching many years ago. Some rose tinted memories are shared in my personal essay published in Teacher Plus Magazine 

Law of Averages

Say it loud. We're average and we're proud! Do we, as a society, worship the average and nurture mediocrity? Do we, with our actions and inactions, not only uphold the mundane and below-par, but also resist agents of change? Aren’t we guilty of huddling together in our comfort zones of the pedestrian mainstream? Don’t we often find ourselves systematically focusing our efforts on pretending that superlatives in any field simply cannot exist? We complacently justify ordinariness in every sphere of life. Mediocrity in public life and leadership, in books, or sports; this seems to be what the public wants and supports. But, does popular appeal alone justify shoddy work? Must we, Indians, continue to aspire to the lowest common denominator?

On the flip side of the coin, what’s wrong with being average, which also means normal, ordinary and usual? Must we be tossed into some social compost pit because we aren’t all Gandhijis and Einsteins? Does anyone have the right to judge us for swaying to commonplace but catchy tunes or enjoying hastily-patched-together pulp fiction? Last, but not least, must ‘average’ necessarily be equated with lack of skill, intellect and overall abysmal lack of quality?

My long rant on the subject is published in Sunday herald

chinese photography

IT"S NOT IT _ TOOL (Chu Chu/OFOTO/Tasveer)


I recently had the pleasure of viewing an exhibition of contemprorary photogrpahy from China. One of the most ancient and progressive civilisations in the world, China is surrounded by an aura of mystery. Making giant strides in economic growth and technological progress, China continues to remain enigmatic to the rest of the world in many ways. An exhibition of the work of six contemporary Chinese photographers, which has been made possible by Glenfiddich, Tasveer and OFOTO Gallery, Shanghai, seeks to throw fresh light on the complex culture of China today.

Chu Chu’s series, ‘It’s Not it – Tool’, for example, shows everyday objects such as a wok, a spanner, scissors and a hammer from unusual perspectives, encouraging viewers to perceive them as objects of art transcending their mundane functionality. These larger-than-life images in black and white shades encourage an appreciation of their forms, rendering the familiar with fresh aesthetic appeal. Viewing these objects from unusual angles and perspectives, one wonders about the human stories behind the people who created and used them.
China is the world’s most populous country. Yet people are conspicuous by their absence in most of these photographs. What we see is things they have created and used; homes, skyscrapers, elevated roadways, tools and objects of daily use. Through these images, these Chinese photographers are exploring and responding to cultural and economic sea changes sweeping their land, and their effects on their deep-rooted cultural values. Works such as these have intrinsic artistic value. They do not pose direct criticism or political challenges, but are suggestive of wider issues, urging the viewer to ask far reaching questions and seek answers.  My detailed article is  published in Sunday Herald

wishlist for 2012

As a 

As a new year dawns, what do ordinary folks like us wish for ourselves and for the world? Here's my wish list for 2012, May democratic values and peace rule, may every child have proper food, healthcare, education and most of all, the hope to be born. And if we do follow our human instincts and end up nuking our earth or smothering it in noxious wastes, let us take heart. Let’s hope to colonise Mars and discover other habitable planets out there to explore, exploit and devastate. Read my detailed take in Sunday Herald
   

season's greetings

Neighbourhood kids of different faiths sang carols at our doorstep celebrating Christmas and welcoming 2012 with the Spirit of unity. Here are the cuties dressed as angels, magi and all. Taking a cue from them to wish all friends a wonderful Christmas and a fabulous 2012

Reaching out beyond the void

Title: The Empty Space
Author: Geetanjali Shree
Translator: Nivedita Menon
Publisher: Harper Collins India
Pages: 260
I recently had the pleasure of reading The Empty Space, a powerful novel about death, life, and the empty spaces in-between.

This stunning novel is far from a simple story which ''reveals itself on its own, predictably.'' The author deftly draws us into exploring the momentous empty spaces between life and death, between overwhelming tragedy and regeneration in these times of insurgency, senseless violence and killings.

A bomb explodes in a university café, blasting to smithereens 19 young lives, the promise they held, and the dreams of the loved ones who survived their deaths. The last mother to enter the café and identify her dead son takes home his remains packed in a box. She also returns with a three-year-old boy, who was found in a small empty space amidst the carnage, miraculously alive and breathing. As the little survivor grows up and tells his story, the past “barges into the present and shifts life from its centre.” The parents of the dead boy are powerless to prevent the grey pall of their loss from withering “all the dreams and seeds and fruits and flowers and bees” of the present in one sweeping stroke. The parents and society refuse to see the surviving child as an individual in his own right. Made to take over where the dead son left off, the traumatised child refuses to speak or eat. It is as though the dead boy and he are all mixed up. “The new one just lies in his empty space, just lies there, who notices? It’s the old one who is buried again and again and then resurrected each time.” Entangled in memories of someone else, the parents may tend to his physical needs, but emotionally they are not with him. The dead son’s presence continues to control the family’s lives. The characters are powerfully portrayed. Their emotions, their motivation, strike us like that bomb blast, forcing us to rethink the enigma of the human condition. The surviving boy’s character shines through the bleak landscape of the book. He refuses to be negated by that one incident that becomes the driver and the keeper of the rest of his life, to languish as the ghost of someone else.

What I liked best about this novel was the positive strength of the surviving child. Also, the translation is beautifully done. My detailed review is publsihed in:Sunday Herald

exquisite miniatures by Nainsukh

 Indian minature paintings fascinated me from the first time I set eyes on them as a child in a lovely book in Lady Irwin School library. In later years, my little son and I would spend many holidays exploring Mumbai's Prince of Wales Museum. Their fabulous collection of Indian miniature paintings was among our favourite haunts. These intricately painted gems were marvellous down to the minutest detail. So many schools, each with their distinctive styles; so many wonders packed into tiny spaces. Who created them? What inspired them? What were their lives and times like?

Many of our artists of yore are nameless and faceless. While some of their beautiful creations have survived the ravages of time, little is known about these individual artists. I recently attended the inaugural lecture for Tasveer Foundation’s lecture series by eminent art historian Prof B N Goswamy, who threw fresh light on this beautiful art form.

From the 17th to mid-19th centuries, artists of the Himalayan foothills or pahari region produced exquisite miniature paintings, which are a vital part of India’s artistic heritage. Foremost among them was Nainsukh, whom Prof B N Goswamy ranks among India’s finest miniature painters. Working in the 18th century, Nainsukh left behind a treasure trove of portraits, court scenes, hunting scenes and glimpses of daily life. In the 100-odd surviving paintings and sketches attributed to him, we see a deceptively simple world rife with complex subtleties. With an incredibly light yet masterly touch, Nainsukh’s paintings breathe life into magical and intensely human moments from times long gone.

Nainsukh was born in Guler, a tranquil place in the hills, and created many of his paintings there as well as in Jasrota. He painted in a fresh, realistic and ethereal style, marking a change from the earlier heritage of rich, bold colours, robust human figures and breath-taking stylised language of art. Nainsukh’s work is marked not by emphatic accents, but by soft, delicate tones.
They appear simple at first glance, but a closer look reveals subtle nuances brought out through skillfully executed precise lines. Nainsukh captured the beauty of the people and their emotions, and the verdant hills where they lived.

My detailed essay on Nainsukh can be read in Sunday Herald

spiders, spammers, sweet tongued flatterers

    
I haven't posted personal stuff here of late. I've mainly posted links to my published writing (yes' I wrote that stuff and they're my original ideas). But a recent deluge of fake 'comments' have urged me to speak out.

What is it with unscrupulous freeloaders and shameless self-promoters?

Every day for months, my blog's been swamped with thinly disguised 'comments' which are nothing but promos and links to the poster's e-commerce sites. These comments may be generated with plausible human sounding names by spiders and other mysterious creatures stalking cyberspace. But I'm human and can clearly see through the ruse.


Readers are most welcome to post genuine comments and generate legitimate and relevant discussions. BUT I do not encourage 'comments' here which have no connection with my blog's content, but are solely meant to promote sales of some on line stores.

My blog is not here for spammers to flood the comments space with free advertising.

Even if you add something like "content was useful" as a preamble to a promo of your commercial venture, such comments will be still be detected and sytematically deleted. Don't waste my time and yours.

If you want to promote your on line store for flowers, candy, gadgets or whatever, kindly advertise these in appropriate venues.

Sigh! and back to work.

Fate and the individual as a shaper of his own destiny

Man of a Thousand Chances

Author: Tulsi Badrinath      Hachette

Why do the just and innocent suffer for no apparent fault of their own? And why do some people get away with murder most foul? Why are some blessed with more money than they know what to do with, while others are forced to lead a hand-to-mouth existence? These and allied questions, which most of us wonder about at some point in our lives, are examined in the course of this novel. At first glance, middle aged, greying, careworn Harihar Arora seems anything but heroic. Striving to rise above petty joint family rivalries where he is the underdog younger son,Harihar secures a job as assistant to the curator of the Madras Museum. He struggles to make ends meet on a modest salary, and plug the unforeseen places from where his money leaks away triumphantly. Settling his darling daughter Meeta into a happy marriage is his primary concern, and the means he adopts to arrange for the money fall on the wrong side of conventional morality.

Harihar is by turns both a victim and a mover of his own fate. Beneath the beguilingly simple surface of an interesting story are deeper philosophical questions which Harihar, and by extension, the reader, are compelled to examine. In the end, Harihar sees that “life, despite the worst of circumstance, was not a prison. Each day with every single thought and act of his, he was building his future lives. If he paid attention to the now, he would ensure an excellent, though indescribable, later.”

My detailed review can be read in Sunday Herald

simply SMS

  

Some years ago, I wondered where SMS lingo was taking us. My piece once published in Deccan Herald still has relevance:

Carrying a cell-phone can be thought-provoking, especially when one gets those cryptic SMS messages. When folks type ‘pls snd txt msg’ in SMS lingo instead of ‘please send text message’, I see not the death of language, but new possibilities. I'm talking about change and evolution, not advocating SMS-isms per se. As I see it, some SMS-isms might very well seep into the language if SMS lasts that long. Chances also are, something entirely new may take the place of cell-phone communication and kill off SMS.

SMS lingo has evolved as the result of a genuine need in much the same way as slang. Many tend to look down upon such 'pedestrian' innovations which challenge the conventional boundaries of 'pure'
language. But we mustn't forget that the language we consider convention and
time-honoured and hence pure today, is itself the result of inventive usage
gaining popularity and ultimate acceptance.

 Language, not just English but any language, is a living, growing entity.
Think of all the Indian languages that evolved from the original 'pure'
Sanskrit. Compare modern Kannada usage with Hale Kannnada, or even the more
historically recent works of Bankim Chandra or Vidyasagar with the current
trends in Bangla writing. Compare the English of 'Beowulf' with Chaucer's
Canterbury Tales, and compare Chaucer with Shakespeare. Then compare them with James Joyce and compare Joyce or Pound or Yeats
with (oh horror of horrors), SMS lingo.

Since languages are dynamic entities growing and changing with time and usage,
we can expect further change. Yes, even perhaps the inclusion of some SMS-isms in
due course. It would take time, but it would happen. Right now, SMS lingo offers interesting possibilities. They can, when
judiciously used, spice everyday communication with humour or bring alive a fictional character who uses such language.

An avalanche of innovations may be confusing and destructive. But a slow,
gradual process of evolving popular usage is a must for the growth and
development of any language. Imagine what would happen if humans adamantly
refused to accept change? We might still be grunting and groaning like the
Neanderthals because that was the original, 'pure' way of communicating.

Then again, perhaps we are truly reverting to the original way of communicating. Don’t SMS-isms suspiciously resemble the monosyllabic grunts of our cavemen ancestors?

face value

We live in an unjust world where those who successfully present a certain image are given more prominence and respect. In an age of tapering attention spans, snap judgements are made and individuals labelled and slotted depending upon the brands they sport. Some of us may like to believe that we are valued for our inner qualities. But clothing as a means of self-expression is very much here to stay.

The way we dress helps others form an instant image of who we are, offering insights into our lifestyle and attitudes. Which brings up that age-old question; do clothes make the man or woman? Of course they don’t! Looks can lie and superficial clothing cannot change the essential character of a person. Why then does up-to-the-nanosecond fashion dominate our time, thought, newsprint and airwaves?
My detailed and somewhat tongue-in-cheek take can be read in Sunday Herald

timeless tribal art; an interesting tangent

I recently interacted with self-taught artist Bishnu Prasad from Orissa. For many years, he studied the tribal cultures of Orissa as an assistant to anthropologists. Fascinated by the dying art of the Saura tribals, he creates paintings which are a vibrant fusioon of ancient Saura motifs and the artist's oown interpretations and innovattions.

These intricate paintings were an integral part of tribal life since millennia. But with conversion of many tribals into Christianity, they began renouncing old customs. “Today, their once common wall paintings have all but vanished,” laments Bishnu Prasad. Interested in painting since childhood, this self-taught artist has honed his skills for many years and aims to present his renderings of Saura art before the world.

The Sauras are among the most ancient tribes of India. Savari, the woman devotee of Lord Rama in the Ramayana, belonged to the Savara or Saura tribe. Jara, the hunter, who mortally wounded Lord Krishna with an arrow by accident, also belonged to this tribe. Today, the Sauras are best known for traditional wall paintings, which they call italons or ikons.

These intricate paintings have ritualistic significance, drawing upon tribal folklore and ancient animistic religion. The paintings are created around Idital, the deity of the Sauras. Each Idital contains many significant symbols. The paintings reflect the daily life of the Sauras and even the tiniest detail is rife with significance.

My detailed account can be read in Sunday Herald

A deeply moving love story

I recently had the pleasure of reading The Exiles by Ghalib Shiraz Dhalla (Harper Collins, 2011, Rs.350)

The novel traces out the love triangle of Los Angles based banker Rahul, his beautiful and devoted wife Pooja, and Rahul's intellectual and artistic young lover, Atif.

The novel has a strong storyline and finely drawn, convincing characters.  They falter and stumble through life seeking an elusive sense of belonging, of loving and being loved in return. The troubles they face, the upheavals in their lives, are partly the outcome of their own tragic flaws. The author succeeds in making us share the sensitivity and pain of these people; each a good human being in his or her own way. As we are drawn deeper into their intertwining stories, we feel deeply for them. We want to hug them and wipe their tears away. This intensely moving quality is one of the strongest points of this book.

My detailed review can be read in Sunday Herald

The book is also available outside India with the title The Two Krishnas. Book coupons are available online for The Exiles.

The Cousins Book review

The Cousins
Prema Raghunath
Zubaan
2011, pp 209
325
This is the intensely moving story of Goutami or Goutu, for whom life in upper class Tamil brahmin society hides fangs of avarice, jealousy and petty vindictiveness under its facade of old world graciousness.

Barely a year old at the time of her mother’s death in 1921, Goutu learns early on to “fight, fight for everything, the hand-me-downs, the handouts, the charity.” She knows too well that her diamond-studded aunt and her cousins envy her inborn talents and want her out of their way, even dead. Cornered too often through her formative years, she cannot afford to indulge in feminine graces. The author succeeds in making us feel for Goutu.

Goutu’s life is inexorably entwined with her tormented older brother Achyut, her debonair cousin Krishna who beds all young cousins before their wedding night, and her dutiful, clever and coldly logical husband Seshadri. They are travelling companions through the journey of life, enriching each other’s perspectives over the course of time. Seshadri cannot tell a lie, not because it is a moral issue, but because “beautifying things or rendering them more palatable did not even occur to him.”

To Goutu, lying comes just as naturally. She embellishes bare facts to create an impression, escape from trouble, or not hurt another’s feelings. A solid yet unfulfilling married life leads Goutu to turn to Krishna, and fall for the dashing but unprincipled Subra.
The story takes us all over India, from a traditional Brahmin home near Madurai in the early twentieth century to Delhi, the seat of the British rulers in India. We follow Goutu on to England, where she venutres boldly to seek a cure for her physically challenged daughter, Meera. It is Meera, who with her deep insights guides Goutu in her twilight years to find inner peace.

The transitions from place to place and from points of views of the main characters, can be too rapid and abrupt at times. The sense of place could have stronger too.

The intensity of Goutu's emotions draws the reader to her and makes her life story a worthwhile and memorable  read.

My detailed review is published in Sunday Herald