Acivil servant posted in a small town in Bengal, a teacher who gets a shot at fame by turning translator and a reclusive man living in a burnt down house in Mussoorie — these are the people around whom revolves the narrative in the three novellas that make up Anita Desai’s The Artist of Disappearance.
The first story — Museum of Final Journeys — revolves round a civil servant on his first posting in a “remote outpost”, caught in the monotonous routine of an eventless administrative life.
He is roused from his state of inertia by a man who arrives at his door, leading him to a most curious existence in the middle of nowhere — a museum of astonishing art works and curios from across the globe, languishing in various stages of neglect and decay.The officer is requested to help get government custody and care for the place and its keepers, as well as for the great beast — revealed later in the story — the only living addition to that incredible collection. Not particularly big in itself, the event — and our protagonist’s response to it — turns into something he’d never forget.
In a similar vein, a single event becomes the defining point in the life of Prema, the protagonist of the second novella — Translator Translated. The teacher had, in her younger years, devoted her energies to the study of her favourite Oriya writer Suvarna Devi, only to discover the futility of researching a regional language writer in a country fixated with the language of its erstwhile masters. So, when many years later she is offered a chance to translate Suvarna Devi’s works, she realises she has found the ‘climax’ of her life. In her zeal, however, she blurs the line between writer and translator, bringing her own alterations in the stories, even editing parts of the plot. Once again, it is the singular act that decides the course for the rest of her life.
In both stories, there is an inherent sense of disappointment. It is as if we are expecting something more heroic and dramatically triumphant at the end, like sputtering for air under water and waiting for the moment when you break the surface. That moment doesn’t arrive. Life continues as it usually does in the real world, shorn of any dramatic change.
The third story, from which the book derives its title, has a man who discovers creation and expression within the drudgery of his existence. Ravi, an orphan neglected by his adoptive parents, grows up into a reclusive man whose only friends are the elements of nature, within whom he creates his world.
This world is unintentionally invaded by a girl from a team making a documentary on deforestation in Mussoorie. The girl discovers Ravi’s art in a glade in the forest and hits upon the idea to use it as a symbol of hope at the end of the movie. But, true to the prevailing theme, here too, the world is not allowed to alter.
The book seems to be a wry glance at, rather than a celebratory description of, human nature. It does dwell on art and the creative instinct — particularly on the dedication and triumph of the non-attention-seeking creator. Ultimately, however, it doesn’t leave you with a sense of triumph, only a gnawing feeling of despair at the non-climax in a majority of mortal lives.
The first story — Museum of Final Journeys — revolves round a civil servant on his first posting in a “remote outpost”, caught in the monotonous routine of an eventless administrative life.
He is roused from his state of inertia by a man who arrives at his door, leading him to a most curious existence in the middle of nowhere — a museum of astonishing art works and curios from across the globe, languishing in various stages of neglect and decay.The officer is requested to help get government custody and care for the place and its keepers, as well as for the great beast — revealed later in the story — the only living addition to that incredible collection. Not particularly big in itself, the event — and our protagonist’s response to it — turns into something he’d never forget.
In a similar vein, a single event becomes the defining point in the life of Prema, the protagonist of the second novella — Translator Translated. The teacher had, in her younger years, devoted her energies to the study of her favourite Oriya writer Suvarna Devi, only to discover the futility of researching a regional language writer in a country fixated with the language of its erstwhile masters. So, when many years later she is offered a chance to translate Suvarna Devi’s works, she realises she has found the ‘climax’ of her life. In her zeal, however, she blurs the line between writer and translator, bringing her own alterations in the stories, even editing parts of the plot. Once again, it is the singular act that decides the course for the rest of her life.
In both stories, there is an inherent sense of disappointment. It is as if we are expecting something more heroic and dramatically triumphant at the end, like sputtering for air under water and waiting for the moment when you break the surface. That moment doesn’t arrive. Life continues as it usually does in the real world, shorn of any dramatic change.
The third story, from which the book derives its title, has a man who discovers creation and expression within the drudgery of his existence. Ravi, an orphan neglected by his adoptive parents, grows up into a reclusive man whose only friends are the elements of nature, within whom he creates his world.
This world is unintentionally invaded by a girl from a team making a documentary on deforestation in Mussoorie. The girl discovers Ravi’s art in a glade in the forest and hits upon the idea to use it as a symbol of hope at the end of the movie. But, true to the prevailing theme, here too, the world is not allowed to alter.
The book seems to be a wry glance at, rather than a celebratory description of, human nature. It does dwell on art and the creative instinct — particularly on the dedication and triumph of the non-attention-seeking creator. Ultimately, however, it doesn’t leave you with a sense of triumph, only a gnawing feeling of despair at the non-climax in a majority of mortal lives.
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