The Hungry Tide - a Review

‘A fascinating, moving novel of one man’s ambition against the forces of nature’.

This one-liner appears on the cover of the book but I beg to differ from it. This is not a story of one man or for that matter, any man (or woman). The protagonist of this book, I feel, is its setting, the Sunderban or “the beautiful forest”.  Yes, it is the story of Kanai and Piya, Fokir and Kussum, Nirmal and Nilima but their stories exist only because of the Sunderban or the ‘tide country’.

The Sunderban is 'a complex ecosystem comprising one of the three largest single tracts of mangrove forests of the world. Situated mostly in Bangladesh, a small portion of it lies in India'. (Source: Wikipedia). This natural wonder is explained in great detail by the author in the very beginning, "A mangrove forest is a universe unto itself, utterly unlike other woodlands or jungles. There are no towering, vine-looped trees, no ferns, no wildflowers, no chattering monkeys or cockatoos. Mangrove leaves are tough and leathery, the branches gnarled and the foliage often impassably dense. Visibility is short and the air still and fetid. Every year, dozens of people perish in the embrace of that dense foliage, killed by tigers, snakes and crocodiles".

Where there are people, there are stories and in this bleak and somewhat scary landscape there is a story of refugees, massacre, women trafficking, and tiger attacks, folk-tales and superstitions. The principal characters of the novel are Piya, Kanai and Fokir. Piya is a young cetologist of Bengali heritage who has come from USA to conduct a survey on the marine mammals of the Sunderbans. While in search of the Irrawady dolphin she meets and befriends two completely opposite men, Kanai and Fokir.

Kanai, a translator by profession based in New Delhi, comes to Lusibari (a fictional village)on the request of his aunt Nilima. Nilima, or Mashima, runs the Badabon Trust in the village. She wants Kanai to look into the contents of a sealed packet which her late husband Nirmal, Kanai’s uncle, left him in his will. The sealed packet contains a diary which describes in detail, among other things, the incident of Morichjhapi or Marichjhanpi, which is mostly remembered today for the massacre of 1979. (For more details of the actual incident read here).

Fokir, on the other hand, is a local fisherman. Illiterate and simple, Fokir is one with the mangrove forests. Unlike Kanai and Piya who have come to the tide country to seek something, Fokir belongs to this land. Both Kanai and Piya are dependent on his knowledge for their survival and are connected to him, Piya more so as Fokir is her guide and it is he who rescues her, leads her to the dolphins and saves her life. "Love flows deep in rivers" and Piya does develop feelings for the uneducated fisherman who is both married and a father. Language does not act as a barrier but draws her  closer to him for she believed"..speech was only a bag of tricks that fooled you into believing that you could see through the eyes of another being".   

The author has divided the book into two parts; The Ebb and The Flood. The flow of the narrative follows these two words to the letter. The first part drags a bit in places where there is a lot of scientific details about the dolphins (some of the details are fascinating though). The pace of the book is faster in the second part where there is more action due to interaction among all the characters. 

Woven into the story are a lot of rich details of life in the mangrove forests. How the wildlife, especially the tiger, affects the lives of the people. This is a land where even the mere mention of a tiger is considered an ill omen. As the author said in an interview (read the entire interview here): ‘The mangroves are so thick you can’t see the tigers but the tiger is always watching you’.

At the heart of this book is the search for identity. It is more obviously stated in case of the Morichjapi settlers who demand from the authorities at one point, “Who are we? We are the dispossessed”. Nirmal is also haunted by questions of identity which is obvious from the notes in his  diary, “Who was I? Where did I belong? In Calcutta or in the tide country? In India or across the border? In prose or in poetry?”  

The tide country affects both Kanai and Piya and at the end of the book both characters change considerably from the people on the train station in the opening chapters. The only person who remains unchanged is Fokir, a man who belonged to the Sunderbans; body, heart and soul. 

It is a moving and very well researched novel and its simple prose makes it a pleasing read. Reading about the mangroves inspired me to conduct a little search on the mangrove forests of the coastal areas of Sindh. WWF has a detailed research on the condition of our mangroves which is available on their website. It is sad how we are destroying (and have destroyed) this amazing ecosystem but in a country where not much value is put on the lives of humans, there is very little hope for both the mangroves and the wildlife which inhabits it.

Book Cover: Google Images

Note: Excerpts from the book are in italics.  

Chérie formelle est-ce?

The other day I was told my blog was ‘too formal’.

‘Explain please’, I asked in a sort of nonchalant manner while my entire defence mechanism started working double-time.

‘It lacks masala and the style is too formal and it’s almost always about books’.

It is in moments like these when I unleash my thunderbolt wielding, Greek goddess alter ego.

‘If you want masala, watch television'. (or read Fifty Shades of Grey!) 

Sights & Sounds of Karachi - Morning scene

The city of Karachi was, once upon a time, known as the city of lights. At present, it is the city of no-lights, and almost no-delights.

As the sun rises and its rays penetrate through the grey smoke which permanently hangs over the city, all Karachi’s faults are exposed. Ours is a plain city; blemished and tarnished by years of abuse and neglect. And at no time is this more prominent than in the mornings when the entire city, with its sins, is bathed in golden rays of sunshine.

The look of the streets in the morning varies according to your location in the city. In some residential areas the streets bear the same look every day. Sweepers, their dark complexions in complete contrast with their bright orange jackets, sweep (or pretend to) the dust from one corner of the street to another. The milkman (an almost extinct species in the more affluent parts of the city) and the newspaper boy make their daily rounds.  Birds chirp merrily in the trees, crows circle around some burnt garbage and there is the occasional barking of a stray dog. Nothing seems out of the ordinary on this rather typical bourgeois street.

Change your location to the opposite end of the city and the morning scene is a complete antithesis of the above. Sunlight might reveal a few bullet marks in your courtyard wall and maybe some bullets, too, thanks to the wedding in your neighbourhood the night before. There is no electricity because the transformer caught fire during the celebratory firing in the wee hours of the morning. The street outside your door is filled with remnants of the wedding; chicken bones, paper plates, tissue papers, golden tinsel and condoms. Stray dogs and cats are all over the place, gnawing at the bones and fighting with each other. Nothing seems out of the ordinary as long as you and your family are alive.  

In case your house is located on the same street as a school, regardless of your geographical location, you will be under house arrest till the school starts. Every nook of the road is covered with school vans playing loud Indian music, honking at pedestrians and other drivers to find a spot right in front of the gate. Unless the school is slightly upscale, you might find the road blocked a little longer as the van drivers take their breakfast in the nearby local tea- shop and compare notes about fares.

There are some streets in this city which are blocked to public thanks to embassies and politicians. There are other streets where the rich drive by homeless people; the former in their shiny cars while the latter are curled up in tattered blankets. Here, also, you will, occasionally, find body bags behind garbage dumps in the corner of the street.

Most streets in the city are broken or encroached. The latter are occupied by all sorts of people; vegetable vendors, card readers, quacks offering a cure for all diseases known to man, book sellers, stalls of social workers, masons, carpenters, beggars and even lawyers. The street is their office, their source of livelihood and in some cases, their entire world.

There are blood stained streets during Eid-ul-Adha, and betel stained streets throughout the year. Some streets have pavements while others are barely paved. Some house the rich and famous while others wound through shanty towns. Each street is different but the sun rises for all and its rays illuminate the world for all living creatures in the city, regardless of which side of the bridge their street is.

I wrote this piece for a competition by British Council to celebrate the birth centennial of Charles Dickens. Inspired from his work, Sketches by Boz, the piece was titled Streets by Morning. I am, and this is pretty ambitious thinking on my part considering my recent period of inactivity, planning to do some sketches of Karachi - of the people, the places & generally, mundane events. 

Where I was...

Changing houses is a good exercise to take stock of life especially if you’re like me and have chronicled your life through possessions. Sifting through the stuff while moving house recently, I came across ‘relics of my past’; books, picture frames, letters, toys, diaries, broken crayons, scribbled pages, forgotten knick knacks. And that’s where I was these past two months, in other places, other times, pouring over the stories of my possessions. 

Books and more...

I almost stole a book, once, from a library in Rawalpindi. It was a beautiful copy of Dombey and Son; I’ve never seen one like it again, with paper almost silk to the touch. I had kept a track of the book for months – it was never issued, except by me. It won’t be missed, I thought, and the theft will only come to surface when a yearly audit happens. Who knows where I’d be by that time? I held the book for a long time, justifying my action and finally walked out, without the book.

It was my first and last attempt. Do I regret it? Well, I have mixed feelings but if I speak in all honesty, I do. And please don’t start on the ‘others-will-read-it-too’ lecture because I’m sure it’s still at the bottom of the shelf, dust gathering on those silken pages. People hardly read Dickens (in this part of the world) and most of the ones who do usually read the more popular titles. A case in point is yours truly, who read Bleak House ten years after first reading Dickens only to realize that this was his best book.

The memory of the unsuccessful theft came a few days back when I was dusting my shelf and took out my, rather boring, copy of Dombey and Son. Of course when it comes to books, looks hardly matter. Yet over the years I have managed to accumulate numerous copies of the same book, owing to the cover, and at times, the cover alone. Mostly I am a sucker for first editions and sometimes, one finds these gems, lying under a pile of dusty books, in old book bazaars. It is hard to describe the rush of joy on finding such rare treasures. Open display of joyful feelings is best left for later if you desire a good (read: lowest) price. Among the many gems in my small library is a copy of The Brothers Karamazov (first edition by The John C. Winston Company, 1949) with an introduction by Somerset Maugham. I snatched this book from the hands of another customer with the pretext of having a look, turned around and bought it. I have no shame when it comes to books. Besides, I did him a favor.....(evil laugh). 

The power books wield is grossly underestimated. It’s not just an avenue of entertainment but a time portal which, at a turn of a page, can transport you from Mount Olympus to Mr. Wonka’s chocolate factory. But very few are willing to take the plunge from one world to another via the written word, opting instead for re-runs on television and/or throwing birds at strange contraptions. (Although I must admit, quite sheepishly, that I too, fall victim to the allure of killing green pigs).

But seriously, when was the last time you read a book? A book which made your heart race or one which had you rolling on the floor, hysterical with laughter? When was the last time you carried a book with you everywhere? And that one book, which you read slowly, because you didn’t want it to finish, ever? The book which inspired you to write or the one which made you suffer an inferiority complex? Maybe there was one which had you stay up late, because putting it down was physically painful?

Are books a part of your life?

[This post was  for World Book day, April 23^rd, but the visit of an un-expected and unwanted guest delayed it]. 

Prelude

The brief hiatus in my writing was brought about, partially, by a visit from Miss Procrastination, an old acquaintance. Though she pretends to be a friend, nothing can be further from the truth. She does everything in her power to keep me away from my writing work and I must admit, succeeds at it too. Even though she loves to take all the credit, she owes her success to me for it is my own fear which prevents me from putting pen to paper. My own fear being fear of failure and it is, at the moment, the biggest demon in my life which I cleverly avoid by keeping the company of the accursed Miss Procrastination.

This fear is so great that whenever I sit down to write it is with this conclusion in mind that the finished product will be mediocre. Since my mind is made up the result, also, is never good. I have provided my fear with complete access to my mind, heart and soul and in doing so, killed my self-belief and replaced it with loathing. So that everything I write, I hate. This was especially true over the last month and in the search for an escape from this fear I came across this.

‘Until you know who you are you can’t write’ – Salman Rushdie

Questions started pouring into my mind. Who am I? As a person and as a writer? Are they two different beings or one? Am I an honest writer? Is there any other fear which has me in its grip? Should I write with the blue pen or the black one? Do I finish the incomplete projects even though the new ideas are more exciting? Will I ever be able to produce a good work of writing? Why am I afraid of going through the process of creation?

The last question was my Eureka moment. I am running away (sprinting it seems) from the actual physical pain of writing which involves isolating myself not just from the external environment but from my non-writer self (which tempts me to play Angry Birds Space). I am running away from re-writing and editing, from spending days on a single page or chapter, from finding the right words which will lend expression to my characters’ feelings, from abandoning an attempt at a story even though it has an awesome title, from sleepless nights and feverish anxiety…and above all from discovering the truth -do I have what it takes?

There was no relief in this discovery – only a sense of shame and guilt, followed by anger.

This mixed plate of feelings helped me overcome my fear and I have banished the demon from my writing kingdom. With the demon gone, Miss Procrastination, too, has become redundant. She packed her bags and left a few days back to inhabit, I’m guessing, the dwellings of some other artist.

It’s very quiet around here now and although no writing revolution has come into my life yet, I have managed to put pen to paper.  

And Then There Was Lawn

It is that time of the year.

The time when outdoor signage companies, lace sellers, tailors and dyers make a lot of money.

Yes, it is that time of the year.

The time when women all over the country go into frenzy over lawn suits which, at the end of the day, is mere cloth. Nothing is more important than the acquisition of this mere cloth and  mind you, buying it is no ordinary matter. It requires courage (to make way through throngs of women), physical strength (for pushing others), good voice projection (to make yourself heard at the counter), and consistency (to display the same physical and mental prowess in each exhibition).

Step outside your house and your eyes will feast on (besides the usual trash in Karachi) beauties on all shapes, sizes and manner of billboards. Each beauty, local and foreign, is trying to exude charm, style, sensuality, originality and a solution to all life’s problems. Their awkward and some very suggestive poses have made lawn suits the equivalent of Victoria’s Secret. The prints, too, are mind boggling. A lot of them can be used for camouflage, especially against bathroom tiles. Others can merge effortlessly with minibuses. Some remind me of Lollywood films; a bit of everything and still not worth it.

The prices of these suits is another story altogether. This item of everyday wear is priced exorbitantly, prices range from Rs. 2k to Rs.5k, and yet there is no dearth of buyers. Is this need fulfilment or are these exhibitions fuelling the monster of materialism? Women want more variety, more brands, and more clothes in their wardrobe.  Inability to buy or wear a particular designer print earlier than others leaves them bereft. If an alien species landed on this part of the planet to study human behaviour, they won’t have much to write about the majority of women in Pakistan. Show me a woman who doesn’t love clothes – I, too, love adding to my wardrobe but there must be a balance between need and desire. Over the past few years this balance is tipping, at an alarming rate might I add, which speaks volumes about the nature of our society.

But my grievance doesn’t end here. This influx of designer lawn is also the death of creativity. They have assumed the role of Big Brother (and here I’m referring to Orwell’s 1984) and dictate the details of the dress to the last stitch. With the shirts come inadequate yards of ugly lace or satin strips. Unlike the West, where one can buy separate pieces of an outfit in a catalogue, here the whole three piece suit is a mandatory buy. The nightmare actually begins once the outfit is bought, stitched and ready to wear. Women live in perpetual fear of spotting a clone once they step out of the house in their so called ‘exclusive’ lawn outfit. Oh, the irony of it all!

There is no doubt that lawn is a must for surviving the searing, sweaty heat of the summer months.  And as more and more designers and textile mill owners step into the game each year, this lawn phenomenon is only going to get bigger, wilder, and crazier. Expect lawn prints based on television dramas (I can’t believe nobody has come out with a Humsafar theme yet!), truck art, city themes, Mughal art and wild animals. And if anybody decides to do that, I’d like some lawn designs inspired from literature, both English and Urdu please. A lawn print inspired by Tilsm Hoshruba – now that will be worth every penny!

P.S: Don’t stifle your individuality by following the herd even if it is that time of the year.