Exit West by Mohsin Hamid

As someone who is fascinated by free-flowing sentences and is fascinated even more when broad-strokes are done well, what I wish to say, having finished this novella that has been marketed as a full-fledged novel, but which in actuality is a short story masquerading as a novella in the first place, that is if I am to keep it short, which in this case would be sadly but surely befitting, is this-

Viewed from a literary eye, and nothing more, Exit West works remarkably well.

This is another exceptional experiment by Hamid in dabbling with a radical style of writing that is somewhat in line with the progression he has demonstrated over the previous three books authored by him, namely, Moth Smoke- a dream debut that is still conventional and hence more detailed in its telling, The Reluctant Fundamentalist- his Booker shortlisted second outing in which Hamid began to show clear signs of veering towards a minimalist approach in storytelling, and finally How to Get Filthy Rich in Rising Asia- his third, through which, if you are to ask my opinion I will tell you, he showed the world how to write a perfect novella that did not have a single word in it that wasn't required.

However- and now we come to the unfortunate part, the part I would never have wished to write about an author who has become a silent mentor to me in some truly dark times both in my personal life and my life as a budding penman- once the literary eye is shed, once the monocle that relishes uniqueness of style over all else is removed, Exit West is an ordinary, weak tale lacking depth in both character and plot development.

The themes the novella deals with, emigration and the dynamics of modern-day love being the primary two, are most relevant in today's times, and much as I would like to focus just on the latter which Hamid does get right, it is the former that should have been dealt with better, and if possible with greater clarity, given the urgency to understand the real-life emigration crises clearly overshadowing the need to understand the dynamics of modern-day love, both in the context of this story and otherwise.

To conclude, as with his other works, the author found atleast two different ways to make me love his book. And I will admit, there is a lot to like and love in Exit West.

Alas, in many other, equally relevant ways, I was left sorely disappointed.

Here's to hoping that Hamid rewinds, resets or atleast recovers a part of his original writing style that had the power to move mountains but at the same time considered it important to actually show the mountains being fucking moved instead of glossing over all the details.

Click here to buy.

Ghachar Ghochar by Vivek Shanbhag

In many ways, critiquing a piece of art that is categorized as slice-of-life can be a tough ask.

If taken in its literal sense, slice-of-life would mean something that represents a segment or a portion of real life.

And as many will agree, there is always this question whether one can consider oneself fully capable of judging the quality of something that is meant to represent real life, where the fact remains that when it comes to judging the quality of their own lives, most humans are perfectly incapable.

Now, you could argue with me on the above point. You could, for instance, contest given that as humans both the reviewer and the review readers are in the same boat, how capable either is in judging the quality of their respective lives is of little relevance.

And to that I will gracefully concede. It is quite possible, yes. I will not deny what I do not have evidence to defend against.

In fact, if we think further along this line, it may well be that this possibility is precisely why I, as a reviewer, can muster the confidence to proceed with this here review of a book that, if you ask me, embodies the genre of slice-of-life in its utmost essence.

Originally written in Kannada by Vivek Shanbhag and translated to English by Srinath Perur, Ghachar Ghochar begins with its narrator describing the interiors of Coffee House, a bar cum restaurant that he is a regular customer at, owing to its old world charm and its laid back feel that reminds him of days before things became complicated and messy.

Through the observations he makes as he sits in a corner of the eatery, we understand that our narrator is a simple man of simple roots, even before we are informed of him hailing from a family of lower middle class bearing that has only in recent years seen a drastic turn of fortune. 

We also understand he is jobless, low of ambition and desires, wishing instead to survive through the day, one day at a time while putting in the minimal effort required to not break his languid routine that is being financed by his uncle’s business.

He is timid in his interactions with others- especially his family of six- and is shown to be happy playing a passive spectator to any and every proceeding, including even his own marriage to the feisty Anita.

As the story proceeds further, we are introduced with each subsequent chapter to the other occupants that share the narrator’s household alongwith his wife. 

These include a strong-willed mother who knows her priorities too well, a passive albeit repercussion-fearing father, a sister who has returned home after her own marriage turned sour, and a paternal uncle who looks after the family business of trading in spices (or is it just plain spice-trading business, one can only wonder knowing so much yet so little of Chikkappa’s shrouded and shady dealings).

Family dynamics is the key here (after all, we are talking about a traditional Indian family living jointly under one roof) and Shanbhag’s narrator sticks to elaborating the shift in these dynamics over the course of their journey from near rags to suddenly acquired riches.

And with the addition of another member to the equation in the form of his strong-willed and principled wife, the narrator then describes how things are on the verge of going south (or have they gone south already? Again, a question that is left for the reader to ask and answer and ask again, with a shudder).

A fairly simple plot, is it not?

Well the answer is of course a ‘yes’. And yet it is also a resounding ‘no’.

Which reminds me of the conundrum I had began this piece with on how critiquing a slice-of-life artwork can, in many ways, be a tough ask owing to its connection to real life.

Bear with me as I attempt to un-complicate this conundrum for you, my dear reader, for even if what I mentioned at the beginning of this article still holds true (especially when the reviewer’s own life is not of any noticeable quality) there is, as is the case with most other complex problems, a simple solution to this conundrum; a thumb rule that might help in first decoding and then deciding if a slice-of-life artwork has been done right or not.

This thumb rule is simple to use because it has fuck-all to do with all matters abstract, fanciful and flowery.

It goes like this- Real life has two characteristics. Both are distinct. First, there is what we refer to as the ‘real’, and second, there is what we call the ‘ordinary’. A story that focuses on replicating the ‘ordinary’ is slice-of-life done wrong (sometimes horribly wrong).

On the other hand, a story that focuses on capturing what makes real life ‘real’ is slice-of-life done right (which, again, may not necessarily mean that the story works overall, but that is a separate question with a separate set of thumb rules attached to it).

To my good fortune, and also to the readers’, I found that Ghachar Ghochar passed this thumb rule with flying colours.

Shanbhag’s narrator and the other members of his family feel as real as any person you will have met; people whom you are fairly acquainted with but do not wish to know more about- perhaps owing to their borderline-mundane mannerisms or perhaps owing to your fear that there might be more to them than meets the eye, and not in a good way either.

The protagonists, if they can be called that, are as hypocritical as men in real life seldom aren’t. Their natures are layered just as their real life counterparts from most joint families, and with the peeling of each layer, Shanbhag reveals just the right amount of rot to make us feel squeamish but not so much as to make us stop turning the page and look away completely.

Character portrayals aside, the writing flows with a genuineness that seems to have transcended the barrier of language. Each scene plays out in the reader’s head with a clarity that is hard to come by these days, again a sign of the writer’s talent at knowing what makes a scene feel ‘real’ and not just ‘ordinary’.

Perur’s translation works with dual brilliance, first, as an excellent standalone English prose piece, and second, as a piece that retains most of the local flavours one would ordinarily experience while reading in the language of the geography the story is based in.

At a hundred and fifteen pages, the book is able to cover tremendous ground without sacrificing on either the pace or the detailing that was needed for the story to leave a lasting impression.

Overall, I have no hesitation in giving Shabhag’s Ghachar Ghochar top marks.

It is remarkable how the novella is subtle enough to loosen you up and to draw you in, and yet it is also strong enough to keep you attentive and worried about the deeper, darker implications of all that is left unsaid in the tale.

There are many morals here, the loudest and the most obvious one, of course, being- money corrupts.

For me, though, what hit the mark with a much harsher intensity, even if it was only present through the story as an undercurrent, was the importance of learning to differentiate between the ‘unwillingness’ to do bad and the ‘incapacity’ to do bad.

Mind you, one is the spitting image of the other, which means by the time the latter reveals its true self, you are already in harm’s way.

Strongly recommended read.

Click here to buy.

(This review first featured in the April issue of Telegram last year. Helmed by a talented lot having excellent taste in art- and available here for a minimal price of thirty bucks- the magazine is a fantastic platform for amateur writers to showcase their work alongside like-minded others who value quality writing. Do check it out and subscribe.)

The Hit

This short story was first featured in the November issue of Telegram last year. 

Issue theme: Spaced Out. 

Helmed by a talented lot having excellent taste in art- and available here for a minimal price of thirty bucks- the magazine is a fantastic platform for amateur writers to showcase their work alongside like-minded others who value quality writing. Do check it out and subscribe. 

-------------------------------------

…and we had laughed so hard at that. At him. Haha! Just the thought of it cheers me up so much.

Well yes, it was rude of us. You are right, we shouldn’t have.

Most definitely rude.

But it was not like I knew any better back then. It’s not like we are supposed to know any better at that age, is it?

Can you do me a favor? Walk up to that desk and turn that frame away from us, will you?

Yes please.

Why? I’ve told you ‘why’ already. I’m not telling you again.

So where was I…

I mean, how old was I at the time, thirteen?

Come now, you can’t blame a thirteen year old girl just for laughing! That too with a reason!

The man fell. And he fell mighty funny. And he fell not once, not twice. Three times! At almost the same spot!

So how could we not have laughed? Do you not see?

Of course I did feel bad for him afterwards. I did think maybe he must be wrong in the head or something. You know, wiring upstairs gone bad. And if it gives you any consolation, I remember mentioning him in my prayers that evening after I went home. I remember hoping he wasn’t hurt more than it looked from where we had watched and laughed.

What’s that? Yes.

Yes, we used to pray a lot. Took religion very seriously, the people at our house did; especially dad.

So I had prayed for him. Now you tell me what kind of ‘bad’ thirteen year old girl does that for a stranger.

Ah, but I see you are not convinced. So what then… Do you say I was still wrong?

No no, don’t deny it now!

I saw how you shook your head. Your bushy beard gave it away.

No, it was not the cough. Well yes, I did hear you cough, but you cough all the time and I know that wasn’t it.

And what about the way you rolled your eyes? What reason will you give me to cover that up, ha?

Your ‘condition’? Oh fuck your condition.

I am on to you, good sir. Your condition is as fake as that three hundred rupee note your friend over there was trying to impress me with at this very hour last night. I told him the note was crap and that he better shove it up his ass, you know, just to balance the amount of crap his mouth and his ass are holding.

Don’t talk about your ‘condition’ with me. Comes and goes when you want it to come and go. Didn’t have any problem spotting that photo-frame I asked you to move, did you?

(I do hope you’re going to get up and move that darn thing sometime soon.)

Your eyes are fine. Admit it, you are NOT convinced.

That’s that.

And I’m okay with it. I mean, it IS a free country, isn’t it? Dey-maw-cra-cee, am I saying it right?

But now that you’re thinking - and I know you are - that I was wrong, I should get to ask you something in return. Doesn’t that sound fair?

Then tell me this -

Now now, don’t think I’ll let you go if you act all sleepy. No sliding down under the bed-sheet. Up! Sit as you were. Match shoulders with me. Lean harder against the bedpost if you want to, but don’t think you’ll be let off the hook so easy, mister. 

And you haven’t even done what I had asked you to. 

That frame is still lying there on the desk!

Of course I know this is not our house and we shouldn’t be touching things. Don’t tell me that! Not like I’m asking you to chuck the frame out the window or something.

What harm is turning it to face the wall going to do?

And again with the ‘why’…I’ve told you before, haven’t I?

She looks like my mum. The woman in the photo.

I miss her, you know. And I don’t want her seeing me naked.

Now leave all of that and answer me this - would you have acted any different had you been in my place? Would you have not, at least, smiled watching a pot-bellied man fall flat on the ground and tear the seat off his pants?

Come now. Be honest.

Oh, how you shake your head again!

How your beard, all bushy, swings from side to side.

Hah! And will you not blame the cough for making your head shake this time, my love?

Or, do you expect in all seriousness that I will believe…that I will agree when you say you would have kept a straight face were it you, not me, sitting on that railing?

Oh, how you mutter a ‘yes’ in response. No shame at all!

What’s that? The man?

The one in the photo, you mean?

Why yes, I had noticed before, he looks just like you. Did I not mention that already? No? Well I thought I had. Must’ve slipped my mind then. Didn’t feel important to remember anyway.

So where was I…

Yes. Fine then. I concede.

You wouldn’t have laughed at that man in that situation. But I did. If you think that was wrong of me, then wrong it was. Now let it go.

Wasn’t even a fair comparison to begin with, if you ask me.

How so? Well, how fair can it be?

We were three in count and thirteen in age, weren’t we? All girls too.

And you, how old are you - forty-five minimum?

Yet you think it fair to pit the ‘us’ from back then against ‘you’ as you are at this moment?

Oh, how you mutter a ‘yes’ in response again.

No shame at all!

Why I think I should slide off this bed right away. Maybe I will do that, yes.

That mattress on the floor over there doesn’t look too shabby. And your friend I’m sure will be happy to accommodate me. Maybe he will even do as I tell him and move that god-darned frame from that desk.

Don’t you understand how bad it feels with my dad watching?

Well yes, your friend does look unconscious. And it does look like drool running down his cheek. (Or is it vomit?) But how does it matter anyway. You know I’ll have him standing erect within seconds. Not the first time I’ll have got a sleeping man erect, is it?

Stay away!

Stay away, I say!

I never said dad. I said my mum is watching. Why do you lie and add to my anger?

I will leave! I swear I will leave this bed. No use making puppy eyes at me now.

What of your eye ‘condition’, hmm? Or have you forgotten so conveniently now that you ever had one?

Away! Away with your hand!

My belly is not dough that your fingers should be kneading.

And what makes you think I will lie still as you lean into me the way you are right now - with your waist against mine and your other hand slipping towards the small of my back?

Don’t I have a mind to simply bat it away and push you off the bed!

And that bloody frame! You didn’t move it from the desk. The photograph is still facing us.

Can’t you see he is watching?

Is that an apology now that you are mumbling into my neck? Speak up, will you? I can barely hear. Or why not stop rubbing your leg over mine so I can concentrate better?

And what is with your hand moving up to my breast now? How did you think I would not object to you drawing circles around my nipple with your thumb? Or to your finger strumming the single strand of hair on my teat, like a guitar string?

So what if you say my nipple feels erect and my breast fuller than when your arm had grazed it a while back. Am I not the one who will decide if I like it or want you off my chest?

And how he is glaring at us now - through his round spectacles and his bushy beard - don’t you see? Could you not have moved the frame like I asked you?

Speak up! I’m hearing no apology. You might want to put your tongue back in for me to hear correct once you’re done running it along the length of my neck, making it all wet.

So what if it is cold in here. And so what if the blanket is thin. What makes you think I will allow you just for those reasons to squeeze my bosom and fondle my buttocks and love handles the way you are right now?

And didn’t you notice the mouth underneath that beard slit open? The tip of his tongue slither out to lick his lips and slide back in?

Stay away, I say!

I’ve heard no apology, yet here you are taking my hand below your waist, wrapping my palm around you, teaching me how to stroke. Why you smelly old man, what makes you think I will not want to throttle your cock instead? Or worse, scratch off the skin around its head?

But I cannot do it now, can I?

So stern, that gaze! Just like all those years ago.

Those eyes, all big and round, penetrating right through me. All of me.

And his voice, hungry as ever, whispering into my ear, ‘Harder’.

Or is that you, my love. I cannot hear you proper. You’re coughing again.

‘Harder, little girl’ you say?

But I have grown since then. Can you not see, old man?

I am a woman now.

I have become one since the last time you made me stroke it for you; since that night I had confessed to laughing at the stranger who fell, and got disciplined for it.

(I had prayed for him, remember?)

I am a woman now. I know that for sure even if everything else between that night and this has been nothing but an unbroken blur.

I am fuller now. Not just my breasts, but everywhere.

If you ignore the needle-marks on my arms, my feet, my ankles, my thighs and my wrists, you will find that I am beautiful.

And I get wet down there too, you know.

All unlike the last time you had tried.

Ah, but I think you know that bit already don’t you, you smelly old man?

I see you have swatted away my palm from your shaft that has turned stiff and must be throbbing. I see my bosom my buttocks my love-handles no longer hold interest for your hands and your bush-bearded mouth.

I have heard no apologies from you yet - I must repeat - and now you are on top of me, my legs parted wide, you still throbbing, but inside me.

Won’t take long, I’m sure.

Ten minutes and some change.

I see you were offended by that, good sir, even as you groan and cough and cough and groan over me like the sputtering of a battered and ancient motorcycle.

For, although I admit that one is linked to the other, surely you will understand it wasn’t your performance being measured, but only the time till my next needle so I may again space out.