The Motorcycle Diaries by Che Guevara

Twenty pages into the book and I was afraid that it was going down the same path as '12 Years A Slave', down being the key word there. This again seemed to be a potentially good story written by someone who was not a writer, though wikipedia does describe him as 'able to wield the pen and submachine gun with equal skill'. I was tempted to give up, especially considering I need to catch up with my week a book target. I decided to stick on only because I had not seen the movie and wanted to know how the journey would end.

Today, Ernesto 'Che' Guevara, is most recognised as the bearded silhouette on t-shirts, probably one of the most popular silhouettes ever. He rose to fame when he became one of the key players in the Cuban revolution, second-in-command to Fidel Castro. But, much before that, he was just a young medical student who wanted to see the world, he started with South America. The Motorcycle Diaries chronicles the 9-month, 800-odd km long journey of Che and his friend Alberto Granado across the length of South America. Most of the journey was on a beat-up motorcycle nicknamed, La Poderosa i.e. The Powerful One, before it gave way and they had to abandon it and continue on trucks, buses and boats.

The feat accomplished by the two friends is incredible. More so, considering it was the 1950s, mobile phones did not exist, even calls on regular phones were too expensive, all communication was by letters. South America was largely rural and lacking in all facilities. Only the audacity of youth can prompt such an expedition. The story did not work for me. Every chapter read like a repetition of the previous one. They start off, reach a place, scramble for food and lodging, have some trouble with the motorcycle, go to sleep, wake up, start off...and so it goes on. Very few anecdotes stick. The writing in most parts is blah, except one sentence that makes me aha - "Gold doesn't have the gentle dignity of silver which becomes more charming as it ages, and so the cathedral seems to be decorated like an old woman with too much makeup."

Perhaps for this story, the book should have been skipped and only the movie made?

Next: The Reluctant Fundamentalist by Mohsin Hamid

Train to Pakistan by Khushwant Singh

The first book by Khushwant Singh that I remember reading was a collection of jokes. I was about 14-15 then and there was one joke which I still remember: 

Q: What is the definition of table tennis in Hindi?

A: Batti ke neeche...takht ke oopar...idhar se thaka-thak,udhar se thaka-thak.

Since then I have read his autobiography and 'Death at my Doorstep', a collection of obituaries written by him. The last obituary in the book is of the author himself, maybe he does not trust anyone else to do justice to it. Or maybe he wants to have the last word on himself. The obituaries are written in his natural style. There is no glorification, he states it as he saw it, perhaps, with a little malice as he was wont to do.

Train to Pakistan is set at the time of the partition of India, into India and Pakistan. At the start of the story he places the reader in an almost non-existent village with no more than three brick structures and a railway station. But, it is clear that the village is on the brink of losing its sleepy status when the author informs - Of the many slow passenger trains, only two, one from Delhi to Lahore in the mornings and the other from Lahore to Delhi in the evenings, are scheduled to stop for a few minutes.

The story does not address the political or social aspect of it. It is about some of those people who knew least about the goings-on but were probably affected the most. And that is why it strikes a chord. The story is written in his threadbare style. He writes without bias, without taking sides and without passing judgement. He plays the role of the commentator and leaves the reader to judge and opine. He paints graphic images, without any inhibitions, that made me cringe and shudder and vow not to read it before bed. 

Train to Pakistan was Khushwant Singh's third novel, and it makes it clear that the man never did hold back. His ability to express himself without reservation was not acquired with fame and experience, he was born with it.

Pataudi, nawab of cricket

Pataudi's life story did not interest me, after all, I identify him more as Saif Ali Khan's father than Tiger Pataudi-the cricketer. My reason for including a book on M.A.K Pataudi was Rahul Dravid. This book is a collection of various people's thoughts on him and narration of their interactions with him. Rahul Dravid, being one of them. Dravid being the only famous personality I have adulated, his posters and photographs covered my walls and once I stood in a horde of screaming girls in the Taj Gateway lobby only to gape at him. In lieu of the crazy things fans, buying a 175 page book on Pataudi to read 4 pages written by Dravid is not crazy. It is not.

Having bought it, I am interested enough in cricket to read more than those four pages. The book did tell me a lot about the man, his achievements and his life. Unfortunately, most books like these especially when written posthumously, rarely paint the complete picture and focus only on magnifying the good bits and ignoring the not-so-good. The articles, mostly by cricketers or sports journos are often repetitive. Some are too detailed, giving a ball-by-ball account of an innings of his. There are some interesting anecdotes but not enough for a book on a man who led an unusual life. He was royalty who went blind in one eye and married a reigning Hindu Bollywood actress. Just that is enough material for a gripping tale. But, it reads like a collection of fan-mail. Dravid's four pages are precise, filled with admiration but not fawning, anecdotal and informative. My other favourite is the chapter by Soha Ali Khan, written only as a daughter could. And then there are of course the pictures, what a looker...he puts the charming in Prince Charming.

The book could have also done with a little more deliberation on the people who made it to the list. A more varied bunch from different walks of life who knew him in various capacities would have built a more rounded profile of Tiger Pataudi. Also, the list of people could have been given more direction on what they should write about and the editing needed to be finer.

Or, I should have just bought a Dravid poster.

The Collected Short Stories of Roald Dahl

Horror films don't freak me out. Yes, I close my eyes and then peek from between two fingers. But, they don't haunt my dreams and turn them into nightmares. Maybe because I don't really believe in the living dead. What do put the heebies and the jeebies in me are evil tales of seemingly innocuous people leading a regular life.

The Collected Short Stories of Roald Dahl has 50-plus short stories by the author and each one of them revels in jumping out of the bushes and screaming "Boo" at the reader. The settings are of the ordinary, a bed and breakfast or an apiary or a country manor or a farm. The characters too don't draw any suspicion be it a matronly landlady or a bookseller or a travelling salesman or a country hick. Then, as the stories moved, some element would be introduced, almost as subtly as the pea under the princess' bed. Sometimes I spotted it as soon as it appeared and at times I missed it, and had to read back to figure out where he had twisted the simple tale. But, the resolution was almost always rewarding.

My favourites in the collection were The Landlady and The Bookseller. The Landlady starts off with a young man in search for a B&B in Bath. He chances upon a place run by a middle-aged lady. There were many clues that pointed to the oddities in the establishment but nothing quite prepared me for the creepy end. In the Bookseller the author's detailed description of the dusty shop and the spiritless owner and his secretary almost lulled me into a false sense of security, but not quite. It is almost at the end of the collection so I had smartened up to Dahl's tricks. And when the secretary called her boss William Buggage, "Billy", I knew the twist was around the corner.


Next review: Train to Pakistan by Khushwant Singh

Twelve Years a Slave

A few months ago, I joined a memoir writing class. 

"I am not sure why I have taken this class," I said in my introduction. "I don't think my life in interesting enough to make a read-worthy memoir."

This was not a concern for Solomon Northup when he was asked to write his memoir in 1853. In his 50-odd years he had been through some extraordinary situations. He was a free black man at a time when it was a privilege to be one. When he was about 30 years old, he was duped, abducted and sold as a slave. Over the 12 years that he lived as a slave, he worked on plantations, changed owners, was abused and tortured, until he was rescued and united with his wife and two grown children. 

The film had me riveted. And when the end credits rolled up to inform that it was based on the memoir of Solomon Northup, I knew I had to read it. It was not so much the story, which I already knew from the film, but the fact that it was a memoir written in the 19th century by a man who was not a professional writer. He was just someone who had led an unusual life. 

The book disappoints. Wikipedia describes the memoir "as told to and edited by David Wilson", and that's what it is. It reads like a narrative account by the memoirist as it was told and reads like a first draft. No techniques of the craft of writing seem to have been applied to endear itself to the reader. The story is expected to achieve that feat on its own. Already familiar with the story, I gave up at page 40. When it was first released in 1853, Solomon's memoir sold 30000 copies making a bestseller in those times. I suspect it had more to do with the subject matter and the fact that it followed close on the heels of Uncle Tom's Cabin, a story based on the same topic but much better written. 

Watch the movie, skip the book or re-read Uncle Tom's Cabin.

Half A Rupee Stories

The stories in the collection are authored by Gulzar, and that's what tempted me to add it to my 2014 book list. I had not read anything by him but I had seen his stories (Hu Tu Tu, Maachis) played out on the big screen. His storytelling had stood out in those films and I expected his stories to overawe me as well. But, I did not take into account that it is the good stuff that is often lost in translation.

Four years ago I completed my Diploma in Spanish and I take on Spanish to English translation assignments once in a while. They are mostly financial and legal documents or corporate brochures. Sometimes when I am stuck, Google translation or a similar tool comes in handy. But, it is dry, mechanical content, a one plus one equals two kind of translation. It does not that require expression.
To simply translate words good knowledge of the target language (English in my case) can suffice, especially when the purpose of the translated content is to simply pass information. But, the purpose of translating prose is not just to tell the story to the reader. The purpose is to create the same images like the original, to evoke all the emotions as the original and to engage the reader as wholly as the original. And that is not the job of a translator, it is the task for a storyteller who can also translate. Only someone who can articulate himself with ease in both languages can do justice to the expression of the writer. 

Half A Rupee Stories fail in translation.

The narrative reads awkward and the dialogue jars. What should have been a quick, smooth read was tedious. I was tempted, often, to give up but I turned to the next one hoping that would be the one that would break through the translation barrier and sparkle in all its glory. The very-ordinary translation spoiled the reading experience and none of the stories stuck. I found myself attempting to translate back to how I imagined Gulzar would have written it. Not an easy task for someone for whom the first best thing about college was 'choose French, dump Hindi'. I finished the book only because I hate unfinished books on my bookshelf, sitting there, mocking me. Silly me! Better use of time would have been to watch Maachis again.

What Arundhati Roy and I have in common...

Arundhati Roy and I have a connection.

I had just finished my workout and was sitting in the lobby and was chatting with the person who owns/runs the gym.

"Why don’t you become a personal trainer at my gym?" he asked.

"Are you mad? Who would want me to train them?" I laughed it off and left.

Later that day at lunch I told some friends about it, I thought they would have a good laugh. 

"Why not?" said Renu. "I think it’s a good idea."

"Ya me too." said Chloe.

"Are you all mad? I don’t look anything like a trainer and I don’t know anything about training. Plus, I am supposed to become a writer." I said.

"So? said Chloe. "Arundhati Roy was an aerobics instructor before she wrote The God of Small Things and became famous."

Well, I thought, if Arundhati Roy did it…and I have been a trainer for almost six years now.

                                              ——————-

My first attempt at reading The God of Small Things was when I was in my 20s. It had gained a lot of attention and appreciation and I thought reading it would be good for my intellectual image. A few pages was all i could get through. Though, I did pretend to have read it through. Now, at 35, it was the right time to take another stab at it. I am a more mature reader, I told myself, and a creative writing teacher. How shameful to not have read one of the gems of Indian literature in English. And one of my huge life decisions was inspired by her, I owed it to her.  

The start was hesitant, but short-lived. Within a few pages her writing had transported me to the Kerala of the twins, Rahel and Estha. Her detailed descriptions, which had bored me a decade ago, enchanted me and depressed me at the same time. ‘I will never be able to create images like this,’ my soul wailed, as I swallowed page after page. The narrative flow must have been difficult in the writing process but its reading is effortless thanks to the author’s ability to stay true the voice whether it is the older Rahel or the younger Rahel. But, more than the plot, it is the images that Arundhati Roy sprung on me with every detailed description, they evoked the exact emotion they were designed to - amazement, disgust, misery, joy, despair collided as the pages turned. The end came too fast.

Below: A picture taken outside Arundhati Roy’s house in Akkara, Kerala. Akkara also gets mention in her novel.