BOOK REVIEW: FAR FROM THE EAST END by Iris Jones Simantel.

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It is a compelling and layered account of the childhood and adolescence of a young girl growing up during World War II. What distinguishes this book from many other biographies is the candid yet casual trajectory of her highs and lows against a checkered, poverty-riddled backdrop, told in a wistful yet witty tenor. The importance of family and school in forming the emotional template of a child’s mind and preparing it for the journey of life is reinforced through the feelings of the narrator as she strives to express her struggle for a place and person/s to call her own. One cannot but identify at various points with the narrator as her adult retrospection is mellowed by attempts to analyse yet empathise with the constraints and considerations that were inescapable factors in her parents’ mediocre lives. Her rebellious rants against class are subtle yet stubborn in their understanding of how the best of potential in man can be subdued, stemmed and subjugated by a lack of love or lucre.

To generations born amidst war and strife, the book cannot but fail to touch a chord with its Cinderella undertones as the protagonist conquers pain and poverty to present a stolid façade to a judgemental society. However, it is to the author’s credit that at no point of time does the book either glorify poverty/war or directly descend into a pathetic critique of life and its general bleakness. Be it at home or at school or even later, at work, the protagonist finds enough variety or novelty around her to justify her renewed efforts to revitalise and review her own circumstances. Her adolescent awakening into sexuality and her unfortunate encounters with aberrations and perversions in this aspect of life is reviewed through the filter of maturity and even a certain level of detachment. Her preference of certain family members, her foster parents during the war and her future husband is so well scripted that it unconsciously yet subtly draws into it the sympathy of the reader. Through graphic description yet nuanced perspective, she resurrects in the topography of one’s imagination the violence, waste and horror of the Second World War which practically ripped London apart, literally as well as metaphorically.

As a vivid- almost at times visual- depiction of a life that shall surely inspire the individual in each of us, the book shall stay with me for a long time to come and perhaps, possibly help in the personal realization of a more generous perspective of life in the post-war age.

Along the Way

Sometimes it seems like there's no hope and life will never turn around.


For you and I have walked a long way together but we still forget our destination and stop at every crossroad, wondering which road to take.


I keep on cutting my feet on shards of glass mostly invisible to the eye, but glittering deceptively once in a while. They confuse me into believing that I may find a few stars strewn across my path, which will guide me to my home.

You throw away the flowers that I had once plucked for you, complaining that they are now withered and dead.

I wander about, looking for more, but the weather has changed. The season, actually.

We both get distracted and frequently lose our way, sometimes stopping to stare at the cactus along the bank or the dead dog on the roadside.

We meet, of course and continue walking together, but the horizon now seems distant and uncertain.

Unfamiliar faces begin to look familar, friends become strangers.

My feet hurt, but I continue walking.

And yes, I do look around for you, once in a while.

From 'Shirley', Part I, Chapter 7

"A lover masculine so disappointed can speak and urge explanation, a lover feminine can say nothing; if she did, the result would be shame and anguish, inward remorse for self-treachery. Nature would brand such demonstration as a rebellion against her instincts, and would vindictively repay it afterwards by the thunderbolt of self-contempt smiting suddenly in secret. Take the matter as you find it ask no questions, utter no remonstrances; it is your best wisdom. You expected bread and you have got a stone: break your teeth on it, and don't shriek because the nerves are martyrised; do not doubt that your mental stomach - if you have such a thing - is strong as an ostrich's; the stone will digest. You held out your hand for an egg, and fate put into it a scorpion. Show no consternation; close your fingers firmly upon the gift; let it sting through your palm. Never mind; in time, after your hand and arm have swelled and quivered long with torture, the squeezed scorpion will die, and you will have learned the great lesson how to endure without a sob. For the whole remnant of your life, if you survive the test - some, it is said, die under it - you will be stronger, wiser, less sensitive. This you are not aware of, perhaps, at the time, and so cannot borrow courage of that hope. Nature, however, as has been intimated, is an excellent friend in such cases, sealing the lips, interdicting utterance, commanding a placid dissimulation - a dissimulation often wearing an easy and gay mien at first, settling down to sorrow and paleness in time, then passing away, and leaving a convenient stoicism, not the less fortifying because it is half-bitter.

Half-bitter! Is that wrong? No; it should be bitter: bitterness is strength - it is a tonic. Sweet, mild force following acute suffering you find nowhere; to talk of it is delusion. There may be apathetic exhaustion after the rack. If energy remains, it will be rather a dangerous energy - deadly when confronted with injustice."

-------- CHARLOTTE BRONTE

TRIBUTE : NIAGARA

NIAGARA

Life ventured into vague debenture,
Spent in sordid fits and starts ;
A dream devoid of adventure,
A fiasco of cynic hearts ;

I groped about each morning
For fabulous grapes, however sour,
Stumbling, often, into obscure yearning :
For one brief, magical hour.

Then, one sultry summer evening,
You stunned me from grey slumber,
Sung me into swift, simple meaning
Stoked strength into my dying ember ;

I drank nectar of mist and water
Smiled rainbows of solace
Rose to froth, all a-flutter
Seeped in iridescent grace…

Nightmares thinned to nothing.
Doubts died of sheer exhaustion.
I found my own Xanadu :
Wisdom to ease each question.

Resurrected by nature’s own creation,
I now stride centuries tall,
Humbled by revelation :
Oh Niagara, how proud you fall !


08-07-2009

'UP'

While taking a walk one evening, a couple of days ago, K and I were discussing when would be the most opportune time to die. It does sound a tad too premature, I concede, but then on some days, the weather’s so fantastic, you feel you’d like to live forever but know it isn’t possible and then, abruptly, you’re beset by the contemplation of mortality and human existence. Besides, we were both a trifle ‘senti’ that day, having shed tears (me, mostly) at several points while watching the film ‘Up’ that morning in the theatre and feeling like we needed to re-examine the nature and purpose of our respective trips through life.

Well, then. I brooded over the topic for a while and announced that my fears of old age were mainly related to loss of independence. In all senses. Not only in the crudest sense of the slowing down or disruption of one’s bodily functions but also that of feeling infinitely more vulnerable and irrelevant all the time. Of being too old to be in sync with trends any more, of leading too solipsistic a lifestyle to allow the current events and incidents taking place elsewhere in the world to matter or work me up into a reaction of any sort any more. An indifference towards knowledge in any form. A relentless wait for the inevitable. That seems like time to make a graceful departure.

K’s attitude was distinctly different. In fact, his thoughts were not half as complex as mine. He put it very simply : he wanted to live as long as his partner did. He wanted to be able to bask in the comfort of the thought that he was there to care for me and me to care for him. Otherwise, life would seem rather hard.

That set me into rewind mode. ‘Up’ (2009) had reinstated our faith in our relationship, somewhat indirectly. A very ordinary child who grows into a very ordinary adult and then a very ordinary old man, receives a fresh lease of life when his wife’s ‘Adventure Book’ (a scrapbook) reveals to him how their fun-filled personal life had been adventure enough for her. From the realm of death, she succeeds in convincing him that their humdrum life together had been as good as a historical romance, where love had helped to enhance each experience and endow it with meaning. They had had no children, but towards the end, Fredricksen realizes that any child may be your own child, it’s your approach to life that makes someone family. The realization is reinforced in a brilliant sequence, where Fredricksen begins throwing out all the furniture Ellie and he had carefully created, collected and cherished over their years of marriage to decrease the weight of the house and set off to rescue Russell. Ellie’s last autograph, persuading him to embark on a fresh adventure, convinces him that it’s the emotions that make a home and not the furniture it contains. The grumpy, grizzly Fredericksen finally emerges as a hero in someone’s life : in Russell’s life.

The lesson’s simple : life is as exciting as you make it out to be. Every moment is an adventure, ticking away all the time, while one is foolishly pining away for more thrill, envious of the lot of others.

Who can tell what’s in store for us tomorrow ? Right now, we are together. That’s what matters, right ?

Carpe diem !

Talent, thy Name is Tanima

Tanima, I recently discovered, is blessed with talent. She can draw and paint, knit and crochet, design and sew, cook and create. That's a whole lot of skills, I would concede. Ever since I was young, my parents being Bengali parent prototypes, frowned on too much of extra-curricular activities, be they physical and strenuous or indoor and sedentary. Hence Mitu (my sibling) hardly found occasion to develop her evident passions for art and dancing, while I was not even the remotest bit encouraged to learn singing (thought in that my parents were a notable exception, since one of the most marriage-worthy features of Bengali girls are their mellifluous vocal flourishes) or any form of sports (although I was considered a decent athlete in school, especially in running and broad jump). While children of our age but enrolled in schools affiliated to other boards made the most of their evenings amidst games and giggles, we were advised to concentrate on our homework and hone our reading and spelling skills. Our longing glances outside the window at the fortunate others and our innocent childish comparisons were interpreted as rebellious rants and criticised with befitting asperity. Quite naturally, both of us grew up sallow and sickly, our immune systems ill-developed and our aesthetic aspirations nipped in the bud. I was fortunate enough to fare well academically but my sister, alas, was a victim of our educational system, too mediocre to do our parents proud. When I had the intrepidity of advising her to refrain from taking up science at the higher secondary stage, my parents (and so-called well-wishers) suspected the nobility of my intentions. She did not fare well in the concerned exam. Not because she was not intelligent but because she could not relate to science and the excessive dedication necessary to do decently in the board exams. And so surprise surprise, the victim became the scapegoat herself.

When I outraged my father by deciding to pursue English at JU instead of appearing for the Joint Entrance Examinations and consequently, entering the hallowed (and what's more, tested, tried and typecast) portals of medicine or engineering, most people (especially relatives) suspected that I had failed to clear the former exams. I persevered, undaunted, and did manage to draw the attention of most of the professors who matter (and are living legends, so to say) at JU. My attachment to my subject was so strong that although I did burn the oil at all ends and do quite well in both my graduate and post-graduate levels, I actually managed to thoroughly enjoy the whole tenure too. However, it was then that I discovered at the numerous college fests, to my immense dismay, that there lay a whole wide world beyond the academic threshold, where people were respected and even celebrated for their innate talents in singing, dancing, debating, dramatic acting, drawing or athletic abilities. Where they won accolades and were remembered for years to come, with fondness and envy, respect and even reverence.

And later, when I worked as counsellor and tutor at an institute in South Kolkata offering guidance, training and counselling services to students who wished to pursue higher studies abroad, I discovered that their target countries preferred all-rounders to mere rankers. Where just showing a decent GRE score would not ensure entry into an esteemed school or university. And when I went to interview people in the course of freelancing for a newspaper story on MBA as the latest career fad for 'The Statesman', this fact was reinforced by the astonishing avowal of the Regional Manager of the leading CAT-training institute in Kolkata, that even the IIMs considered the CAT score one of numerous other eligibility criteria to study the much desired stream. Extracurricular activies scored well there too. I was traumatised.

I have now learned to respect anything and everything that lies beyond the scope of our limited educational endeavours in India. I was the strongest and only supporter of Mitu when she proved drastically radical in her choice of career and went for fashion designing. I knew she had potential and would do justice to all the expenses that would be incurred in course of her academic training. I would not allow my parents to repeat the mistake they had made with me. I won prizes for art in school (in MHS). I did well in needlework class. Friends tell me I have a melodious voice and should have had it trained professionally. If my parents supported me, I might have taken up interior decoration. It fascinates me and I honestly believe I might have an aptitude for it. But maybe it's too late. Maybe I'm too old to start anew.

That's why I take vicarious enjoyment in Tanima's gifts. She says her parents rued her academic medicrity. I encourage her to overrule such orthodox assessments and believe, instead, that she is naturally gifted. Everyone, with a little effort, can do well in academics. You need to be blessed like Tanima to have other talents. God-gifted ones.

TANIMA'S TALENTS :

KNITTING....

CRAFTING....

DRESS-MAKING...