Revisiting Amitav Ghosh's 'The Hungry Tide'

 Revisiting a book once read is like visiting a lover from the past. The context remains while the person has altered. As a rule, I seldom read a book twice; I am afraid that the book will not hold my attention as it did in the past; Just like the past which has given way to newer selves! But alas! I had to revisit The Hungry Tide this time not as a curious reader but as a teacher. Several doubts assailed my mind - whether I would enjoy the book as I once did or would I be able to recreate the book as it unfolded in my mind way back. 

And so, I began rereading The Hungry Tide by Amitav Ghosh!

To my dismay, save the names of the characters and some important details, I seem to have forgotten most of the details of the book. But yes, I remember the conditions that surrounded me while I dived into the text. It was the halcyon days of my student years when reading a book meant no other responsibilities or tasks to compete and complete. I was free of deadlines and my mom would take care of my meals as I was still at home and enjoyed the pleasures of a warm and cozy abode. I allowed myself to be moved by the book feeling the pleasures of the book alongside partaking in the world created by Ghosh. How could I possibly recreate this for my students? When I delved further and further into the book, I realised that I gradually remembered the plot and the various entanglements that it led me into - in short, if revisiting a book could bring so much joy then I don't mind the past appearing before me! But I also knew that not all books could create the same pleasure. There are few other books which I had attempted to read but abandoned them due to a restlessness that bordered on part boredom and part agony. But The Hungry Tide was nothing like that. as I progressed into the lives of Piya, Kanai, Fokir, Kusum, Moyna, Nirmal, Nilima, Horen and Tutul, I felt as though I knew them earlier but now I understand them clearer.

Ghosh is a master weaver of stories. The mixing of history, story and geography is done quite deftly creating a masterpiece that moves the reader. I remember how the worldviews of Piya and Fokir were light years apart yet they find a common ground; I recollect the mad idealism of Nirmal and think of my own Professor with the same name and a similar madness; I remember the anguish that I felt when certain events occur in the plot. 

While revisiting the novel for a class seemed inevitable, I still don't know how to lead the students through the paths that I knew of The Hungry Tide. Will the tide touch their lives, is something only time will unfold. Until then, I revel in the stupor of the revisit!

Reading in difficult times

 One has to admit that reading is a highly inclusive and individual activity which cuts one off from the immediate environs and of course the world outside. While it is a worthy and much commended activity, it also reeks of privilege and a certain 'social uppity.' I realised this the past year and pretty much this year too. I could not read! I could not allow myself to wander and get lost in the pages of a book. It felt snobbish and unkind. I did not read much. Every time I had allowed my self to open a book, I had to close it after a few pages. A disclaimer here: I did admire those who could read and complete books during these grim times and I do not intend to cast aspersions on them. 

For me, it felt heavy to relax with a book and complete it. If I did pick up a book, I took lot of time to turn the pages and sometimes body fatigue got the better of me. Go to see, reading is definitely an act of privilege - that one could cocoon oneself with a book sans care, sans time and sans many aspects stands testament to that. Here I am not even including the privilege of education, ability to possess and borrow books and afford the luxury of knowing good books. 

In spite of all the privileges and sense of escape that books offer, I could not see myself as anyone else but one who loves a good read. I have read through sickness, through my doctoral journey, my heartbreaks, my anger, my feelings of being incompetent and many other such predicaments. But all these also do not prevent me from seeing the point that books are meant for a time - every time cannot be reading time. Of course, there might be many who would argue otherwise but this deliberation belongs to me and how I see them. 

The last two years (Beginning 2020 March) has been particularly difficult for me in terms of reading. I haven't been reading as much as I would have liked to but I do pick up an occasional book only to crawl through the pages rather unwillingly. There are times when I would want to lose myself and shut the world off deliberately and hence I read. Sometimes I read because I start panicking whether I would lose my love of the written word and therefore I shouldn't keep away too long from reading. But could one forget to read, I wonder. Common sense says 'no' but my inner compass admonishes me.

Of late, I forced myself to pick up Albert Camus' The Plague - a fitting volume for the present day and time. And after long, the book engaged me enough that I did not put it away. After all, it's a mirror to the times that we are living. It is unputdownable for the reason that Camus seems to have imagined every single aspect of the pandemic in great detail. Every situation and sentiment in the book made me think of the present day predicament and it has been captured so well. Nothing goes unpredictable. Every single thought that has been described by the narrator has oft covered my mind - the feeling of exile, the thought that this phase is temporary, the despair of not being able to travel, the longing to connect to a loved one far away - it’s so eerily similar that I started feeling that if even one of our political leaders had read this book, they would’ve been able to understand the workings of how to handle an epidemic.

I’ve still not completed the volume but whatever I have read is enough to write this. I forgot to add - this book was picked up when we were in the midst of a power cut which lasted for 63 hours.

Has the pandemic altered your reading habits?

Asian stories and Western sensibilities

The past week saw me ordering Haruki Murakami's two books on an impulse after a passionate conversation with my friend/colleague on how reading time is slowly leaving our systems. I started reading Norwegian Wood first, for no specific whim or reason and thus began my journey into the lives of Watanabe, Naoko, Midori, Reiko and several others. I have read Murakami before and the remembrance of past reading pleasures drew me to his books again. It comes as a surprise to me that somehow I pick up a Murakami in the beginning month of the year. About two years ago, I had read Murakami on a January and also had written a post (Murakami and related thoughts), which surprisingly echoes most of what I have written now albeit in a slightly different manner. Murakami is Asian, Japanese to be specific but that awareness slowly dissipates as I progress with the book. That Murakami is a fan of the pop songs of the 50s, 60s and 70s is quite limpid in his works. In fact, the title Norwegian Wood  is the title of one of the popular Beatles' songs. Now, my senses are quite welcoming of the references to diverse cultures and habits and knowing fully well that a Murakami will lead me to the Japanese way of life, I tend to lose my way somewhere in the pages. Though my imagination is coloured with petite women and men with pale skin colour, somewhere I lose the track and start imagining western people and surroundings. Then, mid-way, I realise that here I am reading a Japanese author and imagining western people. The character Reiko, especially. She plays the guitar and belts out popular numbers, all of which I know quite well, having grown up listening to them. My image of Reiko is that of a blond, fairly well-built with an imposing personality but then reality often intervenes and I try hard to stop this as it seems sacrilegious to do so.

I wonder whether I owe this to the explicit Western sensibilities of Murakami or to my knowledge of the songs which colour the story or my imagination which is used to imagining white skin and blond hair (Read influence of Shakespeare, Dickens, Austen and other sundry writers). Whatever the reason, alongside getting entwined in the characters' lives, a parallel track on my imagination was also niggling me.

Well, I have now completed Norwegian Wood and have embarked on the second novel, The Wind Up Bird Chronicle

A quote from the book Norwegian Wood

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The joy of escaping

I have always known that reading is cathartic but only recently woke up to the fact that reading makes me come alive and that it can save me from the drudgery of everyday routine. When I escape to my College Library and pick up some random book and lose myself, I realise that I am happy, safe and sane. Reality as this is sometimes mind-boggling as you never realise how much you need reading and how much the written word penetrates within your being. Losing oneself in words is an escape - an escape into the void of no return. When you then return to reality after that escape, you realise that things are no longer the same. You carry that bit of voyeurism that you chanced upon in that escape and you personalise it - almost like how people monogram their initials on that worthless piece of handkerchief. You know the lust and joys of that place where you escaped to and it is your secret - unless you choose to allow someone to partake of that guilty pleasure. Even then, you retain parts of it to yourself. You want certain bits to your self you see!

I recently read chanced upon a back issue of World Literature Today and relished the piece, Le Suicide Monsieur M. The piece moved me - I discovered the power and magic of the written  printed word. I was charmed. Smitten. Aroused and what not. The entire piece was written in the form of a letter by a city. I assumed all the while that the letter was written by an admirer who had lust confused for love. Well, it could have been written by anyone but this was by Iowa city. Pretty neat for a city!

I wonder if you have tried reading something when you have tons of backlog - It is like forbidden pleasure - you experience longing and guilt (guilt because you should be working on something else and longing for the words which you have been ignoring for long!) Reading is like the surrogate lover who has the power to seduce you anytime and any given day. No fixed bearings and no passage of time can wane the seduction. I succumb and forgo reality. I prostrate myself and forget etiquette or morality. I drink on that word and lose my morale. I am addicted.

Reading makes me sane.

Tracing my reading timeline without success

If I have to trace my reading habit, I will be at a loss for I don't exactly know how I started to read and why. There are a few I know who will exactly tell the moment as if they forced their memory to record the significant date and episode. Alas! when I started reading, I hardly knew that one day reading would be considered such a fantastic activity and that there would be book-clubs, Facebook pages and blogs devoted to the love of reading and hoarding books. For that matter, I have never wondered to stop and think about the reading habit that found its way into my life until recently when we were having dinner with a BBC-Canada film director who asked me: So, Susan, do you read? How exactly did you start reading? Did your mom and dad read a lot? Did they ask you to read? What did you read as a child?

Well, I have to admit that I was looking at him with a blank expression for I cannot put a finger to my timeline of the much adored habit. I also seem at a loss when people gush and mush about Enid Blyton. I think that I haven't read Blyton and the much acclaimed hostel life stories. I remember having read Famous Five, Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew but never cared about the author. I used to remember titles but not authors but now I know that the names should be remembered and flaunted wherever and whenever appropriate.

The reason for reading is another topic that used to confound me. When I enrolled to do English Literature, the first day of the College, one had to meet the head of the department to collect our handbooks and also the identity card. She was a splendid woman who had a fine Brit accent. She asked me (in her RP): You are Susan? and then proceeded to ask, What do you read? to which I muttered 'Fffiction.' She then responded by asking, Why Fiction? I was at my wit's end. Why fiction? Come on, how would I know why I read fiction at the tender age of 19! Those days I did not know that there should be a reason for reading something. Coming from the suburbs and reading whatever managed to catch my fancy, I did not know how to respond to Why Fiction? What I did not know then was also that there were other genres like drama, poetry and other such which people did read for pleasure. I wish I had known that then. As they say, we get to know everything at the right time. Maybe that holds good in my case.

Why do people read afterall? Why do you read? I would like to read your responses.

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Murakami and related thoughts

This year began with me reading a brand new author - the much acclaimed Haruki Murakami (whose name somehow always reminds me of the word, 'harami') Well, I have seen different quotes of his adorning different friends' Facebook walls and when an online book-club that I am a part of, decided to read Murakami for the month of January, I was filled with glee. I decided to pick, 'Kafka on the Shore' on a whim because of the name Kafka. Please don't think that I'm a fan of that metamorphosis Kafka! In fact, I hated that book - Metamorphosis! It is considered as a great piece of art and art is always something subjective and that subjectivity made me dislike that book! But a Japanese author dabbling with a Western writer's name in his Japanese novel's title made the book intriguing. And yes, as you guessed the book is definitely not a sunny read which one can savour with a cuppa tea and some muffins! Far from that, the book compels you to give it your complete attention and time and in doing so, it pulls you into the vortex of the dark aspects of your mind which you usually don't want to dig in normal times.

Murakami fashions his story after the famed Oedipus myth and leads the reader into various layers of the protagonists' minds. There are various allusions to many famous works and writers which point out to the different interests and sympathies of the writer. That he is fascinated and enthralled by many Western philosophers and music is no doubt and after reading the novel, one feels enriched by the information that we gain out of the book. Information on one hand and dissection of the self on the other is what this book did to me. It is quite impossible for me to maintain an emotional distance while engaging with the book because it is not possible to get into the skin of the different characters without drawing similar insights from our lives and the lives of those we know. One caution which I should use is being able to distance myself from the work of art. I guess that's a great lesson which time alone can teach me!

After completing 'Kafka,' I also dabbled with Murakami's collection of short stories titled, 'Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman.' It did not impress me much.

Most of the stories from the collection are quite abrupt and abstract. Being used to reading delightful short stories with equally delightful characters, Murakami forces me to let go of my previous experience of reading short stories and leads me into another reality which left me a bit disoriented. Metaphors and words are the characters of some of the stories and often they leave me heavy and tired. The pleasure that one associates with short stories is not present in Murakami's short stories instead each story leaves the reader distraught and groping for meaning and sense. Well, as I mentioned earlier, art is subjective and my conclusions can be subjective as well. I would very much welcome a debate or argument on the topic of Murakami's short stories.


So far, so good. Have you read Murakami? If yes, please tell me your thoughts on him and if no, I'd say, give it a try and see!

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Reading a book and eating pistachios

The problem is that one cannot read a book and eat pistachios at the same time. Well, if you haven't tried it yet, please do so. When I say pistachios, I mean the pistachios with the shells. If the book is interesting, then the pistachios have to wait but if the pistachios are tempting enough to pull you away from the book then the reading has to wait. Like me, if you like both books and pistachios, then there is an existential problem between choosing what to do.

Well, let me list the odds. First, you hold the book in one hand and try to skilfully remove the pistachio nut from the shell. 99. 9% you will not succeed for you have to keep the book down and then shell the nut! What a nut one can be to do two things at the same time!

Second, if you think that you can just pop a nut into your mouth and spitting out the shell, then you might end up spitting the nut and swallowing the shell. Distasteful!

Third, if the book is interesting enough that you think Let the pistachios rest a while, chances are that the nuts will disappear faster than you complete the interesting passage in the book. Why? The person next to you will hardly be able to resist the pistachios.

Four, everyone likes pistachios better than books and one cannot eat just one.

This was exactly my situation the day before yesterday when I thought I could effectively manage eating pistachios and reading a book and mind you, the book was no breezy fiction. It was a hardcore theory one which demanded my complete concentration but me being me decided that I could handle the combo of pistachios and a book. I was proven wrong. Finally, what did I do? Well, I put the book down, polished off the nuts and then began reading but by that time the book did not interest me much and off I went to sleep. So much for pistachios!

I guess no one can serve two masters at the same time! What say, dear reader? Do you like reading? Do you like pistachios? Are you a nut trying to do two things at the same time?

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What's your worth?

Clothes maketh a man says a popular adage but sometimes this adage is taken a bit too seriously by many merchandise sellers. Sales personnel at many retail outlets literally try to guess the worth of the customer by the way he/she is dressed. Now, don't get me wrong here. I am not propagating shabby dressing sense or pleading the cause of people dressed carelessly. I am just trying to say that a person should not always be judged by the manner of dressing. Some people just don't care about their dressing. Period. Take this professor who is my colleague. He is an intelligent academic scholar who is well read and quite quirky as well. He has his own eccentricities like we all do and can be a perfect illustration of an 'absent-minded professor.' Once he happened to visit a popular upmarket book-store and at the entrance, he was warned, All the books here are very expensive. Well, the security would have no idea that the person in question holds a PhD from one of the most prestigious institution in the country. All that mattered was that the professor was dressed quite shabbily.

A person's worth is determined by his/her clothes. And, if one is not well dressed then it is assumed that the person cannot afford 'decent' clothes and hence a poor man. Well, if that that is the case then is monetary worth determined only by the appearance? History records that many geniuses never cared about their presentation in public: unkempt hair, dirt-filled nails, different footwear for each leg, button-less shirts and an open fly.

Having said all this, I would also hasten to add that it is quite impossible to blame the security as he with his limited knowledge of the world matches the outward appearance and the monetary worth. His world is limited to the equation: money=well-dressed and poverty=shabby clothes. He cannot estimate that sometimes there are also individuals who do not care about how they look for their mind is preoccupied with things that are far more important to then than smart dressing.

And, I also don't negate the fact that well-dressed people do have an edge in this world which gives importance to sheen and outward looks. Afterall, Clothes maketh a man in the world and Bacon's Reading maketh a full man is only limited to certain circles.

So, what is your take on this. Do you make first impressions based on clothes or do you wait before arriving at a conclusion?

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