Shantaram -- a book review

This is only my second book read for the South Asian Challenge. I'm getting a late start, na? But I know I can catch up.

Title: Shantaram
Author: Gregory David Roberts
Publisher: St. Martin's Griffin, New York
(first published in Australia and New Zealand by Scribe Publications)
Release Date: 2003
Genre: literary fiction
5 out of 5 stars

Summary: An escaped prisoner from Australia hides in Bombay. He starts a medical clinic for slum-dwellers, lives in a slum, makes friends, watches friends die, falls in love, and works as a counterfeiter, smuggler, gunrunner and street soldier for the Bombay mafia.

Review:

I learned so much about Indian culture in this book. I want to read it again and again, as a sort of reference book.

Gregory David Roberts actually did a lot of the things his character Lin did, but because it's a novel, there is no way of knowing which parts of the novel are autobiographical and which are fiction, and that tends to create more interest for me, actually. I loved this hugely epic 933 page novel because of the character arc. Because of the character dynamics. Because of the in-depth descriptions of things that I will never know about, and therefore fascinate me.

Well.

I'm not saying that cold turkey heroin detox is fascinating, like I want to do a report on it, but the scientific detail he put in the account of Lin's coming down off the drug was interesting in a car wreck sort of way. It wasn't gruesome, it was ... medical.

I loved observing the local's response to Lin's learning their state language and the glee and surprise that they continue to have throughout the book. Apparently there are tourists of Bombay that learn some Hindi, but no one ever bothers with Marathi. And the simple effort he puts in delights and endears him to all the Maharashtrians he meets.

I love love loved the personable cultural things Lin learns when he first gets to Bombay. His first train ride is a whole month's worth of knowledge right there. That alone gives him insight to the head waggle, the "doctrine of necessity," and the Indian gesture of apology.

And just so you are not left hanging, the head waggle (according to Roberts' ... or rather Lin) is, of course, Yes, I agree with you, Yes, I would like that, BUT "the universal message attached to the gesture, when it was used as a greeting, ... was a signal to others that carried an amiable and disarming message: I'm a peaceful man. I don't mean any harm."

The "doctrine of necessity" involved doing what was necessary to, say, get on the train (kicking, punching, slapping, shoving), and then transforming into a calm and polite bunch of people all needing to peacefully share space on the train and travel a great distance.

Or when Lin offers his seat to an elderly man because Lin can't bear the rudeness of it (in Australian culture), Prabakar, Lin's friend, explains: "That is easy -- only you don't look at that old fellow, Lin. If he is standing, don't look at him standing. That is his business only, that standing, and nothing for your seat."

To say you are sorry in India involves a minuscule gesture involving touching the person you've offended, and then touching your own chest with the fingertips of your right hand.

I love love the dialects that Roberts' writes in. Sample: "Yes, baba. A few bruises I will have on all my bodies, but nothing is broken. If it is absolutely must be a beating, I will shout even more loudly, and you can rescue my bruises in the nicks of time. Are we a deal?"

The friendship Lin has with Prabakar highlights loads of interesting tidbits. Such as, the severe modesty that Indians have regarding the naked body. In one scene Lin is instructed to bathe, so he strips off his clothes. It is a hilarious account where Lin learns that nobody is ever naked in India, "And especially, nobody is naked without clothes." And that "In India, the men are wearing this over-underpants, under their clothes, at all times, and in all the situations. Even if they are wearing under-underpants, still they are wearing over-underpants, over their unders."

Prabakar acquires a pair of over-underpants for Lin so he can take a shower, but the modesty is such an issue that the man he gets the shorts from requires an explanation as to why anyone would ever be without over-unders. Prabakar, to save Lin's reputation, tells the man that Lin had "loose motions."

In every new situation in which Lin finds himself, Roberts' carefully describes the event for his non-Indian readers.  How to eat with your right hand, how to shower without offending the neighbors, how to tie a lungi, and how to interact with the black marketeers. And then, the Bombay mafia.

The novel is broken up into five parts, each one culminating in a life experience that India has taught him. The emotional arc of Lin's character is incredibly deep, and while the majority of the world's population will not encounter half of the things that Lin did in the course of the book -- therefore not having enough commonality with his character to actually be friends with him in real life -- the reader can't help but like him. Respect him. Applaud his works and thoughts. I never thought I would care so much about an escaped prisoner working for the Bombay mafia, never mind he's fictional. The contrast between the criminal acts and the humanitarianism has you rooting for him throughout the book.

The themes of forgiveness, self-loathing, love, friendship, father figures, transformation and redemption are all woven within Roberts' superb writing style. If you like character dynamics, Indian culture, and ... I didn't even come to the action! -- you will like this book. Give it a try. All 933 pages of it.

p.s. Shantaram means "man of peace."

Dancing With Coalessence

Dancing

Sways from limb to limb, out my fingernails and pores.

My thighs squat and my hips undulate

To the rhythm and the

Underlying percussive beat.

Graceful in jeans and kurta,

Or salwar kameez,

Rolling on the floor, stretching myself.

Spinning, floating, climbing inside the music, opening.

Climbing out of my skin.

The music enters my feet first. Then my brain hears.

My head and hips and shoulders

Find the truth in the song

And I move.

My body curving around the shape of the musical notes.

Sometimes I move in place, my feet rooted.

Other times I walk serpentine through the bodies

Feeling the smooth and dustless hardwood floors beneath my bare feet.

Sometimes my eyes are closed.

Other times I scan my dancing tribe.

And only on brave days do I look into the eyes of my companions,

Seeing their truths and joy or sorrow,

Or madness.

Sometimes I am drawn to others that share a common energetic field,

A matched set of emotions wafting from their centers.

I dance next to them, or sometimes, touch them, dance off them.

But most times I dance by myself, and heal.

Sometimes I cry,

Sometimes I thrash my arms and stomp my feet.

Some songs elicit bouncing and laughing,

Some pound through my heart chakra and I stand still in one spot,

Letting the bass permeate all my meridians and channels and exit my hair follicles.

Moving with intention, with awareness, or with neither.

Moving just to be moving.

Moving because the music makes me.

Letting go of my improper belief that I control anything. Even my body.

Write Write

I have a man on my floor. My hardwood floor. He is humming his symphony and reading The Handmaid's Tale. He is my friend. My platonic brother. He stays with me when I am lonely. He stays with me when he is lonely. And we talk.

We dance. We eat. We cook for each other. And we take walks.

We ask questions and make observations. About each other.

And sometimes they are ... not what we want to hear.

I don't know where to go to write anymore. To process life’s griefs and sorrows. The big ones that stop my breathing, and send me to bed with my clothes on, and the little ones that I just want to vent about. I took this platform class that has streamlined my blogs and website to make it more "professional," but then ... I don't have anywhere else to write write. Write write my heart. But maybe. Maybe maybe I should just write write anyway. Platform be damned. There is something, after all, to be said about writing as you are -- showing up on the page -- and whosoever gels with the message will stay to read. Will feel the resonance. Will soak up my words, like rain, and plant their own seeds because of what I've said. That's who I want reading my stuff anyway.

The other ones -- the ones that take umbrage with my phrases, my pictures of story -- those ones, they can just not read. They can put the book down. They can click away. They can unfriend me. Not with any haste or malice. Just. Because they don't find what I say interesting. It doesn't make them bleed or cry or say Yes. And that's ok. I am not writing for those people.

I've been dancing lately. Unpeeling myself and looking inside. Sometimes I'm amazed at the beauty, other times I'm startled at the dishonesty and ignorance. The blindness. The self-defeating practices.

Even now I'm struggling. Struggling to write these few words, because I've been blocked again. Blocked by my own arrogance. My own denial. My own ... unhealthy practices. Who knew that not eating enough calories, or subsisting on restaurant food and instant oatmeal, or not going to bed by 10pm could interfere with my writing?

But there it is.

So I'm forcing it through.

Sucking the stories and truths out of my bone marrow to look at them.

Thinking.

Trying not to think.

Feeling.

Trying not to feel.

And then realizing I have to.

One of the things my brotherfriend and I talked about tonight had to do with letting go of static ways of being, honoring the grieving process – no matter what it’s about, and then looking at ways to bring yourself back to wholeness. He says that I can't grow with fear stopping me every time I open up a little bit. But isn't fear a natural reaction to change? Isn't fear a necessary emotion during transition? One that helps you slow down your impulse to sprint through the grieving process? Because that's my inclination. Hurry up and grieve. And in doing so I would miss the lessons and gratitude my life situations have gifted me. I want to meander, not sprint. Even as my fear is slightly paralyzing, isn't that better than the alternative?

Ultimately I know that the fear will subside with time, and I will begin to move again. Look at the light again. Foster hope again. And actually, I think that will happen probably sooner than I think, but the safety of fear and paralysis is comforting.

If even a little annoying.

And then. And then then. Maybe after I have the courage to leave the sameness and routine of fear – I can write write again. Platform be damned.

You Don't Spit Out Sweet Paan

"You want to try some paan?"

"No!" I am sure I looked horrified, but smiled nonetheless.

"Why not?" he laughed.

I wrinkled up my nose and grimaced.

"Isn't that the stuff that's red and you spit it on the sidewalks all over India?"

He laughed.

"Yes. But no. I don't want you to eat that kind. I'm talking about sweet paan."

We were walking down a sunny street in a small town in New Jersey. One, of course, heavily populated by the large Indian community that lived nearby. That's why we'd come here. I had come in search of a diya (oil lamp for altars and prayers), more clothes for work (salwar kameez), and to fix one of my silver-belled anklets. I also wanted burfi, and bad.

And so we were walking.

"You want to try new experiences, right?"

And with that logic, we stepped into a sweet shop and made our purchases. Two boxes of burfi, a sweet lassi (a yummy yogurt drink), and -- with trepidation -- sweet paan.


The sweet (Meetha) paan I ate was: a betel leaf wrapped around coconut, rose paste, candy-coated fennel seeds, and ... other stuff. The idea is to stick the whole thing in your mouth at one time, bite into it, and hold it there while you suck out the juice. Bite and suck. Repeat.

 It's really sticky.

 The paan we were served were too large to fit in all at once, so I bit it in half. 

(This is what it looks like inside.) 

Once it was munched down enough, I put the other half in.

This is what you look like with your cheeks full of meetha paan.

Final result: I'm sold. I like it. At first explosive taste, it was ... like ... eating incense. We bought several wedges (I'm sure that's not what they call them anywhere but on my blog) in town, and ate them up within a couple of days. They are traditionally eaten after a big fancy meal, like at a wedding. But I'd eat them after any meal. Probably a good thing I don't live in New Jersey then. I'm sure they are loaded with calories.

Another humorous account of a first time paan-eater.

Love in Art

 On our way to Penn Station 

 to walk the streets of New York City

 to find, among others, this place ... represented in art

 at the Asia Society Museum and the MET

Of course I was drawn to anything with tiny detail, script, and books. Holy or otherwise. And love. And then I remembered that any work of art is a piece of love. Made manifest. Intangible made tangible.

Look again at the photos. Closely. They all bleed and breathe love.

As should we all. Every day.

Let every day be a work of art for you.

How to pee in India

It takes a very special relationship, and one that is ... say ... eighteen months old. That's how long you have to know someone before you can ask them how they use the toilet.

Let me explain.

Before you think I'm perverted.

Oh.

I'm too late?

Well ... I'll tell you anyway.

Source: http://princesswithapen.hubpages.com/

The Artist of Disappearance -- a book review

Title: The Artist of Disappearance
Author: Anita Desai
ISBN: 978-0-547-57745-6
Release Date: December 6, 2011
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
Genre: Literary Novellas
Source: LibraryThing Early Review
Rating: 3 out of 5

Summary:

A collection of three short "novellas" in the category of personal drama. They seem to center on choice and integrity.

Review:


The publisher, or author, says this book is a collection of three short novellas. But I think it is just three short stories. The whole compilation caps out at 155 pages total. To me, that, in and of itself, is a novella -- a short novel. This isn't a novel. Nor a novella. Or a collection of novellas, for that matter.

The three short stories are as follows: The Museum of Final Journeys, Translator Translated, The Artist of Disappearance.

Desai writes well. Her pacing is good, her choice of words, and her voice and style are all champion. She seems a prolific writer -- with fourteen other works listed at the front of the book -- and I will definitely be looking up some of her other titles. But this book? Nope. Not happy with it. I gave three stars only because she writes so well. The characters in these short stories are all ones I never want to know in person though, and that's saying something.

"Museum" is written in first person and tells of one man's unsatisfactory experience at a job he doesn't like. He's given an opportunity to really stand up and make a difference in someone's life ... and fantastically fails at it. By his own choice. I didn't like the character EVER. And especially at the end when his failure is so epic. I didn't dislike him because he failed at his task, but because *he never stepped up to the plate to take the challenge in the first place* AND hurt someone in the process. Total loser.

In "Translator" (a strange mixture of first and third person), I started out liking the character quite a bit, even resonated with her, saw similarities in myself ... and then she got way too "into" herself. A.R.R.O.G.A.N.C.E. personified. Now. Maybe the reason I found this particular story so dissatisfying was because the main character's shadow side too closely mirrored my own, and I didn't want to acknowledge that. BUT, I still maintain I wouldn't have made the same choice she did. I would've operated under a different moral code. So, again, I just couldn't like the character in the end, and that left a bad taste in my mouth.

"The Artist" was my favorite, and it almost made up for the other two. In fact, I can't fault it at all. I loved the main character. I felt for him, I understood him, and I think I would've made the same choices he made if I had been him.

While this book's setting is India, I felt that any of these stories could've happened anywhere, to anyone, of any nationality.

That said, *maybe* the reason I disliked most of the characters and felt so strongly about their integrity (or lack thereof), was because I am viewing them through my white American girl sensibilities. *Maybe* if I were Indian, I would've sighed and nodded my head at their choices. Not been happy, per se, but compassionate and understanding of them -- maybe even seen how (as the book jacket says) there are "ways in which Indian culture can nourish or suffocate." (  )