SMOG CITY: NOTES ON "KARI"

At the outset,let me make a confession of sorts.I have never been much of a graphic novel guy,or indeed a comic-book enthusiast.
It is only very recently that I have been initiated in this strange and wonderful world,(courtesy a comic-book nerd friend at college)where I read and enjoyed books like 300,V for Vendetta,Maus and more of their ilk.

I had read about Kari,a graphic novel by upcoming writer-illustrator Amruta Patil.(Yes,she dons both hats)But what are the odds of finding a graphic novel in dear old sleepy Ranchi(that's where I live when I'm not in college,that is),where even relatively commonplace writers are sometimes infuriatingly difficult to find?

Or so I thought.There it was,in all its slim red-and-black glory,at a new bookstore I had been patronizing of late.Anyway,enough about how I got my hands on the book.
The novel itself is an intense, retrospective, often troublingly honest work.There are many striking metaphors used to bring out the seedy,lonely side of that huge,sweating, panting entity called Mumbai.

The narrative follows Kari, a young woman working as a small-time copywriter, her troubled relationship with her lover Ruth, and her struggle with the loneliness at the heart of this heartless city.

I particularly liked the constant referral 'smog city', especially after Kari falls into a sewer, literally in the bowels of the city,acquiring "A black Trinity-like PVC outfit".She then makes it a nightly ritual,as a "boatman", rowing through the black waters,doing her bit to purge the city of its filth,perhaps to cleanse herself of the loneliness and despair that is the city's gift to her.

In a poignant yet funny moment, Kari's roommate exclaims during a TV ad, "That's my ad! I'm Aishwarya's feet!"

The vignette mode of storytelling works well for Patil, and she uses colour very intellligently, in a book which is dominated by black-and white frames.Her pictures often do speak louder than a thousand words.
I suppose an argument could be made against the loose ends, a bit of over-sentimentalization at times , and the somewhat ambiguous ending of the novel.But judged in its entirety,it is a deeply engrossing work,even more so if you consider that it is a debut novel.

The very first frame of the book where Ruth and Kari sit together, an umbilical cord between them, told me that I just had to take this book home.(Umbilical is also the name of a chapter in the book,and the name of Amruta's blog.)And I was right.

Currently,she is working on another graphic novel called Parva-the Epic which has the Mahabharata at its core, and 1999 a novel.If this debut is anything to go by, great things are to be expected from this clearly talented young author.

P.S. I was delighted to find Kari reading Toole's "A Confederacy of Dunces" in a frame......a book which I enjoyed immensely!

FARGO

One of the best movies I have watched this summer is the Coen brothers' 1996 classic Fargo.It is at once a crime/noir thriller as well as a dark comedy.The brothers Ethan and Joel Coen,collectively known as the "two-headed director" have made films ranging from screwball comedy to dark,intense,often bizarrely violent thrillers.

Fargo is an actual American town in North Dakota.It is here that the central character of the film Jerry Lundegaard(played brilliantly by William H.Macy) meets and hires Carl Showalter(Steve Buscemi) and Gaear Grimsrud(Peter Stormare) to kidnap his wife.This way he plans to end his financial troubles by making his rich father-in-law pay up the ransom.But things go awry when the sociopathic Grimsrud kills three people,including a cop,on the highway,after the kidnapping had been done.

The real knockout performance of the film comes from Frances McDormand who plays Marge Gunderson,the seven-month pregnant local police chief handling the investigation.She seems to be comically naive at first(her scenes with her husband are the epitome of small-town humour,which is juxtaposed nicely with the increasing violence and bloodshed pervading the other characters' lives),but she comes up with some kickass detective work on the crime scene and during the following investigation

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The film uses some interesting comic set-pieces,like the way everyone who comes across Showalter describes him as "kinda funny-looking" , and the rather distinctive accent of many of the actors,coupled with similar mannerisms and turns of phrase.These are dovetailed nicely with the increasingly violent exploits of Showalter and especially the spooky Grimsrud who seems like an early sign of things to come from the Coen brothers,what with the unforgettable Anton Chigurh in last year's Oscar-sweeping No Country For Old Men.

Fargo is a thoroughly entertaining and exceptionally well-made film.It went on two win two Oscars,one for Frances McDormand for Best Actress,and one for the Coen Brothers themselves,for the best original screenplay. These were richly deserved and for those who thought No Country For Old Men was too dull, too slow or too grim,I will say two things-
1)You are wrong.

2)Go watch Fargo,anyway.

The Case for the Graphic Novel

They have long been derided and ridiculed(by self-appointed guardians of "literary" fiction) as "fat expensive comic-books" and criticised for an apparent lack of depth.But make no mistake,graphic novels are quietly making their their presence felt in the literary world over the past few years.

The modern graphic novel received a shot in the arm towards the late 70's and the 80's with the advent of people like Will Eisner(A Contract With God and Other Tenement stories),Don McGregor(Sabre) ,Alan Moore(Watchmen,V for Vendetta,The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen) and others, like the legendary Stan Lee. Perhaps the most influential among them was the hugely popular Frank Miller,creator of the Daredevil comic strip of Marvel Comics.

Their success was to prove a huge inspiration for new artists experimenting with the genre.A defining moment came when in 1992, the graphic novel Maus by Art Spiegelman was awarded a Pulitzer Special Prize Award.The autobiographic novel,depicting the struggle of a Polish family during the Holocaust years,went on to be declared a masterpiece,and is still widely regarded as perhaps the greatest graphic novel of all time.

Meanwhile Frank Miller continued to rule the 90's with best selling titles like 300 and Sin City.Film adaptations of these two films, the film 300 being a smash hit,only helped popularize the genre.And with the success of Blankets by Craig Thompson and Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi in the past few years,graphic novels seem to have hit the right chord.

The medium itself is,in my opinion,immensely powerful.With a few bold strokes,graphic novels can achieve the lucidity and scope of much longer prose works.Evocative and touching art like that found in say,300,can provide for an exhilarating and immensely satisfying reading experience.I would rather read and enjoy the growth of a character like Leonidas through the pen (and pencil)of Frank Miller rather than see some half-baked Marlboro-Man shrieking "This is Spartaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!!!" on screen.

I would even go on to argue that the graphic novel,far from lacking depth,is actually a more layered and nuanced art form than the conventional novel.The relaionship between images and text is certainly explored to the hilt here.And what with the increasing number of aficionados all around the world,one feels that it's time the doubting thomases were put to rest.

THE RANCHI RICKSHAW MASSACRE

"Some men are born mediocre,some achieve mediocrity and some have mediocrity thrust upon them...."
This seemingly inoccuous statement could have had serious consequences for me a few days back.After a very enjoyable afternoon out with friends,I was in search for an auto-rickshaw ride back home.As I was to find out soon......Boy,did I get one!

A quick rain-check on the status of auto-rickshaw drivers in Ranchi ,for the reader-Not to be confused with the lowly,down-on-luck,wretched creatures to be found on the streets of bigger cities , Ranchi auto drivers are massive chain-smoking,gutka-chewing,cop-baiting Stallones.

They have tremendous faith in both themselves and their machines-angular,lean,diesel-guzzling behemoths,which give off a solid,reliable thunk-thunk sound as they go about their daily rounds of the city,like a benevolent monarch checking on his subjects.

It was a hot,muggy evening,the kind that draws out your sweat glands teasingly,and leave you often with a single,immensely annoying trickle of sweat down your back.I glanced inside the auto which was almost filled.I thought I could squeeze in myself towards the front of the vehicle,and presently I did so.I sat there,two other people with me minus the driver himself,and waited.And waited.And waited.

It seems that the driver was not to be appeased until the auto had broken every known record(if such a record existed) of people crammed in an auto.No amount of pleas on our part could move him to stop looking for potential customers and start his hallowed vehicle.Finally the chap on my side decided that enough was bloody well enough.

"Agar nahi chaalu kiye to jaa rahen hain hum........", he insisted, in what he obviously thought was an ominous,scary voice,as if pronouncing the death sentence to the driver.The driver barely glanced behind his back,continued his calls of "Aaiye aaiye....Harmu colony,Argora road...." and somewhere in between managed these words-"To hum kab roke hain aapko....jaaiyega to jaaiye....sasur ka gaadi nahi hai aapka...."

I was speechless.As the driver stood there smoking a beedi,in his carefully careless way,I sensed all the swagger of a Viv Richards striding out to bat against hapless novice bowlers,a Jimi Hendrix strutting his stuff in front of the swooning millions,a Kasparov secure in the knowledge of his own genius..........

Meanwhile the driver spit out red betel-juice on the road(he had discarded the beedi in the favour of a paan now),an elderly woman stumbled and stuttered her way towards the backseat of the auto.Now the auto was so full, that stray hands and legs were beginning to poke their way out of the open sides of the vehicle,like overgrown diseased branches of some massive banyan tree.Half of my own body was now at the mercy of the elements.

It was then that the driver,I'll call him Rambo,was finally satisfied.So,with four in the front,minus Rambo himself,and God knows how many people in the back,we set forth on our voyage,as intrepid as Columbus himself.

Picture this,if you can.There was so little space in the front,that Rambo was nowhere near facing the steering.Instead he was near the edge of the vehicle,his legs pinned to one side,his upper half contorted in an angle of 45 degrees or even less,to reach and control the steering.And don't even get me started about my own discomfort.It shall suffice to say that I was just about conscious of my limbs,and I was hanging on for dear life.

I have never been on a real rollercoaster,but the mixture of thrill and fear is, I have been told,somewhat similar.It was in apparent disdain for traffic laws and the laws of physics alike that our merry ride was thundering along.

Since Rambo was not directly in front of the steering,he had only his wrists,instead of the whole arms,to provide direction to the wheel.So,the auto was turning sharply and rather abruptly,sometimes avoiding unsuspecting passers-by by inches.Those magical wrists,with all the artistry of a Tendulkar flicking off his pads,or that of a Federer imparting a beguiling top-spin on his forehand.............. they were all that stood between us and disaster.

Yes,the game was well and truly on.After a particularly close shave with a motorcycle rushing directly towards us,he turned towards me,and grinned from ear to ear,showing off his tobacco-stained molars,as if to say,"Close shave,eh?" I tried not to betray the fear on my face as I meekly told him to slow down,a motion seconded by-
1) A young mother clutching her infant daughter who was getting increasingly shrill with each turn.

2)An excitable old lady who presently let forth a stream of Bhojpuri abuse which would,I am sure,have put her grandchildren to shame.

In the face of such strong and varied opposition,even the mighty Rambo had to bite the bullet.He slowed down,and finally a couple of passengers skipped off the auto,grateful to have reached their destination alive and well.This meant that life was a lot easier for both Rambo and myself.He now had more space to manouevre and as for me,well......the circulation returned to my blood-starved legs.

When it was time,finally,to step off the auto,I heaved a huge sigh of relief,having seen tantalising and unescapable proof of my mortality.I looked at the ground beneath my feet,like a pilgrim setting foot in Mecca for the first time.My spirits lifted considerably,I reached in my pocket to hand Rambo the fare,which he accepted with a good-natured grin,which was either a sign of his beastly sarcasm....or his deep-rooted psychosis.

Either way,he left me with this parting thought-
"Bhaiyaji,sambhal ke...aajkal to paidal log ka bhi koi theek nahi hai......hamri gaadi ka kya karen..."

A TALE OF TWO NOVELS

(This week I read an absolutely smashing, genre-defying novel "Slaughterhouse-Five" by the American author Kurt Vonnegut.Because the basic premise of the book is the Dresden bombing by the Allied Forces towards the end of World War II,comparisons with another iconic war novel "Catch-22" are inevitable.I read it last year in a somewhat hurried fashion,but after reading "Slaughterhouse-Five",I re-read "Catch-22".)





Joseph Heller's "Catch-22"
For a novel which was initially rejected by several publishers,"Catch-22" rose to dizzying heights.Not only was it an international bestseller(spawning the eponymous phrase along the way),it went on to be regarded as one of the most important works of the 20th century.
The novel traces the trials and tribulations of Captain John Yossarian,a fighter pilot who is recuperating from injuries sustained during a mission.He soon realises that there is no such thing as free will when it came to fighting a war.The novel is peopled with eccentric and unforgettable characters like Doc Daneeka,General Peckem,Milo Minderbinder and the impossibly named Major Major Major.


Yossarian's frighteningly human fear for his life and his struggle to remain sane in a world quickly degenerating into insanity is nicely juxtaposed against the barbaric and inhuman excesses of war.What comes out is a pitch-perfect black comedy,scathing in its critique while remaining non-judgmental towards the characters.This is the famous passage from the book where Yossarian realises that he has to fly more missions,no matter what.



There was only one catch and that was Catch-22, which specified that a concern for one's safety in the face of dangers that were real and immediate was the process of a rational mind. Orr was crazy and could be grounded. All he had to do was ask; and as soon as he did, he would no longer be crazy and would have to fly more missions. Orr would be crazy to fly more missions and sane if he didn't, but if he was sane he had to fly them. If he flew them he was crazy and didn't have to; but if he didn't want to he was sane and had to. Yossarian was moved very deeply by the absolute simplicity of this clause of Catch-22 and let out a respectful whistle."That's some catch, that Catch-22," Yossarian observed."It's the best there is," Doc Daneeka agreed.




Kurt Vonnegut's "Slaughterhouse-Five"
This book is perhaps impossible to pigeonhole in a particular genre.Nothing like this had ever been written before,and even today it occupies a unique and important place in the canon of world literature.It combines elements of science fiction,metafiction,hysterical realism and fatalism to construct a frenzied,pulasting narrative that takes frequent leaps of space and time.
Billy Pilgrim,the central character,(some critics think that this name has been deliberately chosen as a riposte to Bunyan's medieval Christian text "The Pilgrim's Progress") has become "unstuck in time", that is,he views his past,present and future all at once,and at any given point of "conventional" time lives any moment of his life.
His experiences as a prisoner of war during the closing months of World War II form the crux of the novel.Vonnegut's distinctive writing style,consisting of short,sharp sentences ensures that short passages in the novel often have more meat to them than whole novels by lesser writers.
This is a once-in-a-lifetime achievement on the part of the writer,and surely Vonnegut's enduring classic will continue to enthrall generations to come,while striking a cautionary note against the terrors of war. (I have these two amazing novels on my laptop as e-books right now......so just e-mail me if you want to sample them!)

BETWEEN FACT AND FANTASY

(Returning to book reviews after a while...... )

Raj Kamal Jha's "If You Are Afraid Of Heights"
Raj Kamal Jha is one of the most original and unusual voices in Indian literature.His fiction is hypnotic,conspiratorial,always pushing the line between reality and fantasy.According to the author himself,his day job as an executive editor at The Indian Express presented him with " a story-pool lapping away".

"If You Are Afraid Of Heights" is about three seemingly separate stories-told by different narrators. A young man falling in love with a mysterious stranger who rescues him from a deadly accident,a reporter investigating the brutal rape and murder of a child,and a little girl worrying for her parents after a weird suicide epidemic.

Recurring symbols,motifs and turns of phrase seem to suggest a connection between the three.For such a fable-like tale,it is fitting that Jha is mostly vague about the location or the chronology of the events taking place in the novel.He also employs many of the standard devices of magic realism to underscore the dream-like nature of the book,and also to overcome the frequent barriers of space and time that crop up.

The book is a bit taxing on the reader,plot-wise, but Jha makes up for it with some luminous prose,displaying wry,often bleak humour in unexpected places.He also has a gift for imagery,descriptive passages that grab you by the scruff of your neck.These were on display in his debut novel "The Blue Bedspread",too, an effort which won him a Commonwealth award and plenty of critical acclaim.

I am a confirmed fan of his writing,(something which has nothing to do with the fact that he is an alumnus of my college IIT Kharagpur),not just his fiction but also his columns at The Indian Express.I would strongly recommend the following two articles written by him-

1.About the engineer Satyendra Dubey,who was murdered for blowing the whistle about the rampant corruption in the central government's Golden Quadrilateral project.
2.About the Gujarat riots

You can also check out a really cool interview of Jha here

THE GOOD OLD DAYS

(I return to these pages after a month,but rest assured..... my vacation has started......it feels good to be back!)

It's a wonderful experience to rediscover the neighbourhood you grew up in....and sometimes a painful one,too.Those well-beloved lanes ,secret hideouts....."addas" where you endlessly plotted and planned future escapades with your gang.....

Everything seemed so right then,there was something in those places that was reassuring. You wouldn't give them a second thought.And yet,when you see them changed beyond recognition,it seems a part of your past has been cruelly snatched away from you....like the passing of an old friend.

In the past 3 years,I seldom had time to check on my neighbourhood........indeed the last one year I had been away to college,and before that.....way too busy with the endless cycle of books,studies,school and tuitions.

So when I took a nice long stroll on my first day of vacation....I was in for a rude shock.

Gone was the sleepy old bunch of houses that used to greet me.....in its place was a conglomerate of cramped,soulless high-rise buildings eating up every nook and cranny that we,as kids,had endlessly explored.

Gone were the maidans in which we spent hours and hours.....playing every imaginable sport(and then inventing some of our own! )

The faces seemed familiar,yet alien to me. Kids I had seen playing with tennis balls now sported highlighted locks,leather jackets and tons of attitude.The carefree chatter of children had been replaced by the annoyingrumble of screaming motorcycles,most of them driven by kids barely into their teens(and by the look of it,already inspired by Lewis Hamilton).

I don't know if I am getting too paranoid about the inevitable passage of time,but their was something undeniably sad about this sudden "end to innocence",so to speak.There was nothing to be done,so I quietly walked back home,to think about the good old days.......

Here's to a golden summer for all of you......
Aditya