My musing as a book reviewer

When the editor of Muse India, a Hyderabad based online literary journal, invited me to join their panel of book reviewers, I was delighted. This meant a lot to me as I was and still am on the cusp of entering this expansive world of writing.

I have been a die-hard book lover with my favourite titles and authors, just like most people who love to read. But this was different. Here, I was getting a chance to read books with a critical eye, huge responsibility! An obligation to express my opinion on the works of writers who have spent vast amount of time on research, conjuring up plots, creating and giving life to characters in order to whip up a good story or a brilliant prose.

The journey of hope, despair, faith, patience, prayer, dose of good luck and what not, in having the manuscript accepted by a publishing house, could have been a struggle for aspiring writers. And for the fairly established writers, the level playing would have been different. They are morally committed to not disappoint their readers and the pressure starts mounting. The moment they attain the celebrity writer status, everything reaches a crescendo.

Writers feel pressured to the core by media, publicity, fans and their own drive to excel that in order to preserve their sanity and creativity; they disappear in safe houses and retreats until they have finished their book at peace. This is where some writers also fail. There are several writers who have been consistently good and their books sell stupendously. They must have mastered the art of coping up under any circumstances, I reckon.

Reviewing works of an author, aspiring or established, is by no means an easy job. It requires objectivity and an astute sense of attention to details.

I take my role very seriously. I typically read a book as any other reader first. Then when I read it the second time and the third time, I start making margin notes. If it is a non-fiction I do my own research even before starting my first read of the book, to understand the subject matter better so that I can review it with adequate prior knowledge. My legal training has taught me this.

Let me share a few books that I have reviewed:

1. #Checkmate - by Hrishikesh Joshi, published by Frog Books, an imprint of Lead Start Publishing is a bold novella with violence, passion and wildness.

2. #Zorami (a redemption song) - by Malsawmi Jacob, published by Morph books, an imprint of Primalogue Publishing Media Private Ltd is a tale inspired by the struggle for independence by the people of Mizoram.

3. #New songs of the survivors {the exodus of Indians from Burma} - by Yvonne Vaz Ezdani, published by Speaking Tiger Publishing Private Ltd pieces together the reminiscences of courage, faith, hope and human endurance by the refugees and the Forgotten Long March coined by historian Hugh Tinker.

4. #Anusual {memoir of a girl who came back from the dead} - by Anu Aggarwal, published by Harper Collins is a true life saga of a supermodel and Bollywood diva who fought destiny and re-emerged from near death.

5. #The Spectacular Miss - by Sonia Bahl, published by Fingerprint is a chick-lit that is touted to be made into a Bollywood movie.

Book review of Sonia Bahl's 'The Spectacular Miss' by Revathi Raj Iyer

Sonia Bahl
The Spectacular Miss
Fiction
New Delhi: Fingerprint. 2016.
ISBN: 978-81-7599-341-9
Pages: 234. Price: Rs 250.

A ‘not so spectacular’ chick-lit with an overdose of humour

Sonia Bahl’s debut fiction novel, “The Spectacular Miss” loaded with chutzpah and wit fails to impress although it exhibits a skilful portrayal of characters. I am not quite sure if the author intended to whip up a chick-lit or it turned out to be so, but I believe that just as all other fiction, this genre requires copious imagination and style to make it a page turner, more so because it targets a selective audience. Humour is a pleasant ingredient which the author has sprinkled too generously, a bit cheesy at times; but that alone cannot compensate the lack of surprise or build-up in the story line itself.

Sonia Bahl who resides in Singapore, describes herself as one who stumbled through school, forgot to attend college and ended up in the best place in the world, writing ads for an advertising agency. Born and brought up in Calcutta, she has lived and worked in Jakarta, Miami, Johannesburg and Brussels. She quit her job as Executive Creative Director and started a rejection filled screen writing sojourn in the US. She has also written screenplays, magazine columns and movies all of which partly raise one’s expectations as she ventures into the literary field. Needless to say, it may take a few trial and errors to dominate this popular genre; and from that perspective the author’s first attempt is acceptable albeit with a pinch of salt.

“The Spectacular Miss” revolves around Nira, an eight-year-old girl, who is obsessed with being a boy for no compelling reason except being unable to pee standing up or having the liberty to pee in circles. I liked the ingenuity with which the author has coined a name for the protagonist Nira, being the first two letters of her brothers Rahil and Nikhil. Till the age of five she is at the mercy of her mother who dresses her up like a baby-doll. The rebel in her starts at six when she messes up her hair with scissors on hand. This marks the beginning of her tryst with boyhood.

A tomboyish Nira is part of a bro club, deft at karate chops, perpetually bruised and smeared with Mercurochrome that she even mistakes her first period for that orange liquid left unflushed in the toilet. Her adventures or misadventures, truancy and boy fights fill up the pages interspersed with few distasteful extremities such as when her mom-stitched knicker gives way precariously hanging between her knees when she is sprinting in a school race or when she is faced with a dilemma and disgust of having touched Josie’s thing. The analogy that the author comes up with the body part resembling a sausage, just for laughs, might shake up hot dog lovers. I wish the author had diverted her imagery in the mid parts where tedium and predictability starts to creep in.

The friendship between Nira and Bir Narayan, a buddy of Rahil, his utter disbelief that this eight year old is actually a girl, his appreciation at her first whistle, his naming her Nero, the way he steps in to help Nira overcome the knicker episode, sneaking her in as jockey at the races all of which seal a long lasting bonding between the two. Enter the vivacious Dipika Sen, a la Bo Derek, in Bir’s life resulting in sudden holy matrimony. Nira’s inability to cope up with her own hormones, Nick’s jabs and to Bir’s infrequent visit to her place reach a crescendo that drives her to make an impulse decision to become a doctor and off she goes to the UK. Bir still keeps zipping back and forth to keep the friendship alive and intact, loyal to his wife all the same. Somewhere along the line, Nick gets married and so does Rahil. Omer enters Nira’s life and as one would expect turns out to be gay perhaps to not stir the emotions of Nira, who is going through the rigours of becoming a doctor. Omer fills up the times when Nira is in need of a friend and craves for home cooked food. Her whimsical nature is not a passing thing but seems to hang on to her personality even when she transforms as a young adult and into womanhood.

The mid parts of the book are quite predictable and flagging in its ability to sustain interest. Humour is a continuous vein throughout the book to the point where it stops to tickle and makes one wish for something more. The story stretches and screams for a twist and turn. At that juncture, the author has thankfully risen with an unexpected twist, not quite befitting the character and shaping up of Nira, and thereafter the story picks up to a touching yet predictable finish. Let me not give away more as the readers might want to grab this book to form their own judgement. The buzz is that this book is being considered for a Bollywood movie. It is quite possible that a failed book could turn out to be a movie worth a watch, under good direction if made racy and interesting from start to finish.

{Published in Muse India - Sep/Oct, 2016}

http://www.museindia.com/regularcontent.asp?issid=69&id=6842#

Circle of Life - short story by Revathi Raj Iyer

The shimmering moonlight cast a sliver on my bed through the timber blinds and fell upon the face of my infant. Her wrinkles, supple and soft as shea butter, her tiny mouth as it stifled a yawn, eyes closed as if never wanting to wake from slumber-land, both hands curled into a tight fist that had to be cajoled to be released only to curl back tight against my little finger, as if never wanting to let go of me. She looked angelic, and as if reading my thoughts, smiled and nestled against me. I could hear her breathe softly and evenly. As I looked fondly at my new born, drawing her closer to my chest, I felt like a life giver.

“This is the best gift that you have given me,” said Samar as he put his arms around and kissed me on the forehead. We both looked fondly at our little princess, wrinkly and yet so very beautiful. That moment sparked a new emotion within us; the proverbial “parental instinct” bundled with abundant joy and an overwhelming sense of protection as we both tried to fathom the huge responsibility cast on us by our infant’s unconditional trust.

Samar and I sent a silent prayer to the Universe and saved that glorious moment in our memory box never to forget!

*****

Going back in times…..

“Grandma, your hands are so wrinkled and rough,” I said examining my grandma’s hands.

“Yes they are; years of hard work and age has added up,” she answered with a smile that made her lips curve upside down to me as my head was on her lap.

“How old are you?” I asked drawing her hands to my cheek. They were coarse.

“All of eighty-four,” she replied.

“How ancient is that?” I asked. To me anybody beyond twenty was old. Well, that’s how we all felt when we were in our teens, right?

“Just seventy years older than you. I was your age when I married your grandfather, you see!”

“Whaaaaaat?” I asked in disbelief. She pointed at the wall and I looked intently at the ‘black and white’ wedding photo. My grandpa was in a dhoti kurta, his arms around my grandma who was in a nine yard Kancheevaram sari. Both were wearing rose garlands and staring at the camera. The smile was inevitably forgotten as the shutter bug clicked.

“I cannot see much of your hands as they are hidden under that sari of yours.”

Grandma laughed.

“Did grandpa love you?” I asked.

She was quiet. I didn’t say anything and kept examining her hands and wrinkles with subdued fascination.

“Your grandpa perhaps did not want to see my wrinkles. So he left me as a young widow. But blessed I am with his children and now you, my dear grandchild,” she said.

There was sadness in her tone and I hated myself for having stirred up her emotions. I had never seen Grandpa and whatever I knew about him was a hand me down from my mother or grandmother.

“But one day your hands will also look wrinkled,” she added suddenly cheering up and breaking the melancholy that threatened to rise within me.

“Oh Grandma, I love your wrinkles,” I said fondly and kissed her hands. She gave me a tight hug and started stroking my hair as I resumed reading. A glorious moment saved in my memory box never to forget!

*****

A few years later….

“You have to listen to one of these,” I said eagerly pointing at the booklet of limericks that I had been writing for a while.

“Not now, can we postpone it for later?” Samar asked frantically searching for the TV remote. The night dose of daily sports was something he could never live without.

“Never mind then,” I retorted explicitly showing my disappointment.

“Okay, okay, I am sorry. Let’s hear them all,” said Samar as he settled down on the couch besides me.

Sa re ga ma pa da ni,

I began and then paused to see my husband’s reaction. Samar was clearly intrigued. I felt encouraged and continued.

Sa re ga ma pa da ni,
What is it that I see on your knee?
Everyone looked at one another
Without looking at her brother
So tiny was he that he sat like a speck on her knee!

“When did you start writing these? After all these years, it appears that I hardly know you,” he joked. I continued to read another one.

There lived a tiny sparrow who knew not how to chirp
She made strange noises that sounded like a burp
She flew in fright
In dark and night
Trying to figure out what made the mother sparrow chirp like a twerp!


Samar burst out laughing and I realised that it had been a very long time since we shared moments like these.

Just then the shrill tone of the telephone broke the spell. I knew that this had to be Ankita. Our infant was a big girl now and she never failed to call, every single night, just to hear our voices and mumble a good night, although she was in a different time zone and was about to start her day.

That night I was thrown off balance by her concern.

“Ma, are you using the creams and lotions that I bought from Paris?” she asked.

She came straight to the point and skipped the ‘how are you’ part; the assumption being what could possibly go wrong since the previous night that we talked.

“Oh dear, yes but I do keep forgetting sometimes,” I replied with a nagging thought.

“Why don’t you set a reminder on your cell phone,” she insisted and mumbled good night, as usual.

But her words lingered. I hadn’t thought much about ageing and had taken my youth for granted. That night I examined my face closely.

“Oh my dear sweet God, can you see that?” I asked Samar who had followed me to the bedroom.

“See what?” he cupped my face. My lips parted.

“Stop distracting me. Don’t you see the fine lines on my face? Look at my hands and my neck; there is no mistaking the fact that I have started looking old and tired,” I whined.

“I see nothing except the pretty girl that I married,” said Samar consolingly and softly added, “learn to love your wrinkles, darling,” as he handed the photo of us with our little infant, wrinkly, yet so beautiful.

******

I reminisced…..

Few years from now Ankita and Ron will be holding their little one and feel exactly the same way as Samar and I did, when we first held our bundle of joy, the wrinkles on her face, hands and body, yet as supple and soft as shea butter. The circle of life will be complete sooner or later. I smiled to myself and as I put the jar of creams away, I saw flashes of my grandma and ma. Wrinkles create memories and that is all that matters!

{Published in Muse India - Sep/Oct, 2016}

http://www.museindia.com/regularcontent.asp?issid=69&id=6851