Interpreter of Maladies was my first literary journey with an Indian author. The book that caused this so-called addiction that I now have for Indian writers. This Pulitzer, New Yorker and PEN/Hemingway Award winner consists of nine short stories that delve into the lives of Indians living in a foreign land, struggling to balance between their traditional values and the demands of today’s modern ways. A beautiful descriptive insight into what goes on behind the closed doors of these people’s homes. About what they eat and how they decorate their houses. About how they struggle to fit into society but also at the same time try to live up to their own dreams and expectations.

My favourite story is titled The Treatment of Bibi Haldar. The story takes you into the life of a woman who suffers from a strange ailment that nobody can find a cure for. Doctors, therapists, family and friends all tried to end her suffering. They tied her with ropes, sprinkled holy water on her and rubbed different scented oils on her temples. They put various amulets on her body, sent her to temples and martyrs but still her misery continued. She was not able to go anywhere unsupervised, hence was kept locked in a little storage room in her cousin’s house, where she recorded the inventory for his cosmetic shop. Day by day, her cousin’s wife came to hate her more, saying she brought bad luck and ill fate to the family. Until one day, a doctor came up with a remedy for her illness: marriage.

The story ends with a sweet yet unexpected surprise which I will not spoil here. Eventhough all nine stories are all very strong in character and plot, this one remains to be my favourite to this very day. The twists and turns on each page kept my eyes wide awake with excitement and I remember finishing this book in one night, sometime back in 2001.

Her daily occupation consisted of sitting in the storage room on the roof of our building, a space in which one could sit but not comfortably stand, featuring an adjoining latrine, a curtained entrance, one window without a grille, and shelves made from the panels of old doors. There, cross legged on a square of jute, she recorded inventory for the cosmetics shop that her cousin Haldar owned and managed at the mouth of our courtyard. For her services, Bibi received no income but was given meals, provisions and sufficient meters of cotton at every October holiday to replenish her wardrobe at an inexpensive tailor. At night she slept on a folding camp cot in the cousin’s place downstairs. -Interpreter of Maladies, page 159

I finished reading this book quite some time ago back in 2004 and it left quite a deep impact on me and the way I see things. The genre is still historical fiction, one of my favourites, written by a very talented Indian author, Indu Sundaresan. The story takes us to 15th century Mughal India, about the journey of a remarkable woman that would later in her life play a great role in the ruling of one of India’s greatest emperor, Jahangir, or formerly known as Prince Salim. Like most Indian authors, Indu’s skills for describing the most trivial things in great detail has the ability to strike us with jealousy of what she is gifted with.

The Twentieth Wife is a book about fighting for what you believe in. About knowing what you want and making sure you have enough faith and courage to achieve your goal. The story unravels from the day Mehrunnisa was born to the day she would conquer one man’s heart, hence bearing all the consequences that came with it. Mehrunnisa saw Jahangir at his first wedding and at the tender age of eight, was determined that she will one day become his wife. Eventhough she only became his twentieth -and last- wife, it is said that she was the one he loved the most. She proved that anything is possible and that the word “late” doesn’t exist if you truly fight for what you want in life.

Mehrunnisa, later titled Empress Nur Jahan, became the centre of Jahangir’s life and in fact ruled the empire from behind his shadow. She influenced his decisions and policies on state matters and helped shape India’s history. They shared a love story that is so deep, it tickles your inner being. Despite Mehrunnisa’s strong character and influence, India’s history would later mark her less popular compared to her niece, Arjumand, or better known as Empress Mumtaz Mahal. Arjumand is the woman behind the building of the wonderous masterpiece, the Taj Mahal. It was out of her husband’s undying love, Emperor Shah Jahan, that the monument was built as a testament of the great loss he suffered when she died.

I have bought several copies of this book for some close friends and I promise that if you ever get a chance to read it, the orgasmic satisfaction you’ll get out of sucking in this story, is way beyond what you can possibly imagine. Almost 400 pages in length, the book is best read in conjunction with another book on the same subject, equally good but with a different angle, Taj (review to follow), written by Indian author, Timeri N. Murari. My suggestion is that you read The Twentieth Wife first before Taj, simply because of the more comprehensive background The Twentieth Wife provides. The sequel is also available and goes by the title The Feast Of Roses, by the same author. It’s amazing how much you can learn about a country’s history, just by reading a book of this calibre.

“Who are you, beautiful lady?”
Mehrunnisa looked up, startled. Salim fell headlong in love with a pair of surprised blue eyes. Mehrunnisa rose hastily, splashing water on Salim. A deep flush spread over her face and neck as she stood before him, slim and proud, her back straight.

Salim looked her over from the top of her head to her feet, the nails painted red with henna and still wet from the pool. His gaze moved slowly up, skirting the pleats of her long ghagara, spangled with shimmering white stars, past her waist hidden under the folds of a white chiffon veil, over the curve of her shoulders. Blood rushed to his ears as he saw the pulse fluttering at the slender throat partially hidden under a shroud of hair.

“I beg your pardon, your Highness,” Mehrunnisa said in a low voice, so low that Salim had to strain his ears to catch the words. The musical tones enchanted him even more. He reached for her hand, but she pulled away from him, turning her face as she did so. -The Twentieth Wife, page 85

I have just finished reading a super delicious book about books, written by Spanish author, Carlos Ruiz Zafon. It’s one of the most intriguing books I’ve come across so far and has been put in the same league as Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s One Hundred Years Of Solitude, Umberto Eco’s The Name Of The Rose and Victor Hugo’s The Hunchback Of Notre Dame. Eventhough the plot became a bit “funny” nearing the end of the story, it’s still overall a wonderful read. Below is an excerpt taken from the early pages of the book:

A blue-tinted gloom obscured the sinuous contours of a marble staircase and a gallery of frescoes peopled with angels and fabulous creatures. We followed our host through a palatial corridor and arrived at a sprawling round hall, a virtual basilica of shadows spiraling up under a high glass dome, its dimness pierced by shafts of light that stabbed from above. A labyrinth of passageways and crammed bookshelves rose from base to pinnacle like a beehive woven with tunnels, steps, platforms, and bridges that presaged an immense library of seemingly impossible geometry. I looked at my father , stunned. He smiled at me and winked. “Welcome to the Cemetery of Forgotten Books, Daniel.” -The Shadow Of The Wind, page 5

“The desert wants the rain so it may be refreshed, sweetened and admired but the desert needs the sun to know it is a desert. Your mother was the rain in your father’s life but I was the sun. She made him look beautiful and brought out the best in him, but he needed me. Anyway, he knew where to find me.” -The Rice Mother, page 556

After two full days, I finally finished reading Rani Manicka’s debut novel, The Rice Mother. So intense is the storyline, I found myself clenching my fist and gritting my teeth from time to time as I breathed in the wonderful storytelling. Love, betrayal, anger, sorrow, hope, denial, happiness, longing, despair, deceit, infedility, honesty, pain and a thousand other emotions are spun and woven beautifully in this 580 page work of art, spanning a period of 85 years over 4 generations. It’s been a long time since I last read an intense gripping book and I’m glad I brought home this title from the bookshop not so long ago. Highly recommended, this title will surely chart in my all-time favourite list from now on.

I really can’t put this book down. Last night I drowned in it until way past midnight. Here’s an excerpt that until this day, is still embedded in my head:

“Every person has a heart, but we’re not always lucky enough to get a glimpse of it. And every heart, even the hardest, has a fragile spot. If you hit it there, it shatters.” -Sister Of My Heart, page 73

It’s a rarity for me to come across a book that has the ability to turn my emotions upside down and keep my eyes wide awake with enthusiasm. The author’s descriptive eye for details is so amazing, you will really find trouble putting it down. A story about two cousins, Anju and Sudha, growing up together in the same household. Their lives intertwine at the very root of their existence, like a tangled betel plant.

This book carries you through their personal relationship with one another, the sufferings and pain they went through, as well as their interaction with other characters in the book. The structure of this book is built as such that we get to see both protagonists’ point of view onr after the other. The storytelling will open your eyes about how in the end, we all must surrender to our destiny. That we can all make plans but to actually live up to them is another story altogether.

This book quenched my thirst for a good read and would later prove to be the reason why I fell in love with Indian authors. Truly highly recommended, this one is a must-read!