The Cat's Table by Michael Ondaatje: Like a sea voyage

The most striking thing about Michael Ondaatje’s The Cat’s Table is the effortless quality of his prose, full of vivid and colourful images seen through the eyes of an eleven-year-old. The story seems to sweep you in without you being aware of it. It is as simple as it is dreamlike, weaving in every character with such ease that they seem to already be vaguely familiar.
A Sri Lanka-born Canadian, Michael Ondaatje’s life seems intimately connected with this latest work of fantasy. Its protagonist is named Michael and journeys aboard a ship from Sri Lanka to England — just as Ondaatje himself had done at the same age. Moreover, with the boy growing up to be a writer and migrating to Canada, the book could be easily mistaken as woven round the story of the author’s life, if not for the end note —clearly stating that though it “uses the colourings and locations of memoir and autobiography”, the story is fictional.
The three-week journey aboard the Oronsay is full of incredible images — the wild run of a child left to himself for the first time. Michael and the two boys he befriends — Cassius and Ramadhin — are assigned to the Cat’s table for their meals, which is “the least privileged place”, far from the Captain’s table. For the three, however, this fact is of no consequence as they explore every tiny bit of the ship, collecting images, nuggets of interesting information, and sentences overheard from fellow passengers.
The narration is criss-crossed in places with episodes from a grown-up Michael’s life, subtly revealing the deep effects that the wild 21-day adventure had, not just on him but on his two companions as well. The world of adults and the things occurring within it are presented in a perfectly non-judgemental manner, such that would only be possessed by an eleven-year-old, who, while watching a movie on the ship’s deck, remarks: “The plot was full of grandness and confusion, of acts of cruelty that we understood and responsible honour that we did not.”
In the process, we are treated to images that are astonishing and entertaining at the same time: a man with an entire garden, artificially-lit and unbelievably magical, hidden inside the dark bowels of the ship; a woman who carries birds about the decks in the pockets of a specially designed coat, and the two boys, Michael and Cassius, tethering themselves to the hull to experience the fury of a sea-storm.
Then there are the people whose tales both amaze and influence the children: Mr Mazappa the man of music, who played with the ship’s orchestra and gave piano lessons or Mr Nevil, a retired ship dismantler, who tells them how “in a breaker’s yard you discover anything can have a new life, be reborn as part of a car or railway carriage, or shovel blade. You take that older life and you link it to a stranger.”
One image after another unfolds with barely a ripple, so that when the sudden twists occur, they are least expected. The book is much like the sea voyage it describes; sways you gently and moves you deeply, just as the people at the cat’s table affect Michael: ‘It would always be strangers like them, at the various Cat’s Tables of my life, who would alter me.”

The book loving sensualist

We’re living in the virtual age. Physical forms are beginning to lose their significance, as the world becomes more and more compact — small enough to fit in the palm of your hand, through the display of your smartphone. The need for physical presence, even in relationships, has become minimised, courtesy social networking sites, helped by video chats and video calls — stuff that you read about in science fiction not so long ago. And speaking of reading, we really don’t know how long the book is going to stay around in its actual physical form. What with e-books taking over with a vengeance, flipping through the pages is fast getting replaced by ‘scrolling over’ the pages. The Oxford Dictionary of English defines an e-book as the electronic version of a printed book, but the fact is that books are now being published directly on the web in an electronic version. So you have books that don’t even have a physical form anymore.That isn’t such a bad thing, though, because now you have a hoard of literary loot right there in your pocket, at your disposal whenever you please, without having to lug it around or it getting ruined in the process. You don’t even need huge shelf space around the house to store your treasure.And yet, somehow, having an electronic book just isn’t the same as having a ‘real’ book. It’s sort of like looking at the picture of your beloved, rather than seeing them in person. Perhaps it’s an old-school way of thinking, but can scrolling through a list of names on a web page make up for the experience of sauntering inside a bookstore? The feel of taking in the colours and shapes, walking from one section to the next — exploring at length, letting your fingers slip around the myriad forms and textures… breathing in the woodsy smell of newly printed words on paper… the experience is deeply sensual.Then there are those little nuggets of memory — ‘inheriting’ a cherished book from a parent or a teacher, discovering an old forgotten work in an attic or a storeroom perhaps, or just having ‘the one’ book that we always came back to, which could be counted upon to provide some emotional or spiritual relief — like an old friend that’s always there. There’s also the collector’s joy or the crazed fan’s delirious satisfaction of having all the parts of a much-loved series occupying pride of place in your room.But more than all that, there’s something about the human psyche that places a lot of emphasis on the sense of touch. Think about it — when we see something arresting, intriguing or just beautiful, we are tempted to reach out and touch. It’s that human longing to be able to ‘hold’ what you like; the longing that appears in its raw, unblemished form in infants. They reach out toward whatever it is that catches their fancy. Adults, moulded by civilised culture, restrain themselves; but who can deny the pull? Perhaps that’s why touch screens became such a phenomenon, and that’s also why e-book readers have come up with versions where you can virtually ‘flip’ the pages as you read.The more sensualist you are, the more you’d miss the smell, the look and the feel of the physical form. And I’m sure there are a lot of those out there. So hang on, ‘the book’ isn’t going anywhere in a hurry.

India: a case of disappearing liberal arts?

India’s growing labour force is already a much talked-about asset, not just within the country but also around the globe. There have been numerous discussions on how the country needs to bring about changes in its education system to properly harness the human capital and reap the demographic dividend. Now, HRD minister Kapil Sibal has stated at the India Economic Summit that India will have 200 million graduates and 500 million skilled staffers by 2020, accounting for 20 per cent of the entire world’s workforce. To ensure employability of these huge numbers, Sibal also said that the government is trying to set up vocational institutes near industry clusters so that industry can give inputs on its requirements. Interestingly, the talk around employment in India mostly focuses on the IT sector and providing skilled labour for it. There has, of course, been some concern over manufacturing too. But IT, with its status of being a key driver of the country’s growth, gets greater importance. While the presence of a skilled workforce is definitely a must for a growing nation, the development of human capital in our country has shown an increasing tendency of being lopsided. There is much emphasis on vocational or technical education, and with good reason. But in the process, the liberal arts are increasingly being pushed into the background. The liberal arts have a tradition of being an integral part of human educational history, since the time of the Roman Empire. At the time Romans used the term liberal arts to refer to the proper education that a “free individual” should receive. It was supposed to be essential for creating a well-rounded individual and was based on the premise that a free man (as opposed to a slave) should have a broader education, encompassing a vast field of subjects. In the developed nations of the western world, there is an essential balance between the study of liberal arts and the imparting of technical education. The youth are equally encouraged to aspire to be researchers, writers, economists or historians, as they are to be engineers or managers. Which is, in turn, reflected in the quality of writers or social scientists that they produce. In India, the lack of names that can claim global recognition in these fields is very apparent. The above-mentioned professions don’t really attract a huge pool of talent, and parental or peer pressure doesn’t help the situation in any way. Professional education, in particular the churning out of engineers and IT professionals, has hogged all the limelight. However, it must be kept in mind that emphasis on the liberal arts is important for the growth of knowledge in a country’s citizens. Rather than mere employability, a country’s education system also needs to deliver broader, in-depth knowledge to its youth, honing their intellectual capabilities. A liberal arts education is designed to help an individual develop rational thinking and intellectual capacity. More than that, it can also be a major growth engine for the economy, for it encourages innovation and forward thinking. Holistic growth in the economy cannot come from just employable labour being provided to one or two sectors. For an economy that is knowledge driven and innovation focused, it is very important that the youth be encouraged to delve deep into the various pools of knowledge and help create a nation that is balanced in its growth.

Anita Desai: The Artist of Disappearance

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.

Amitav Ghosh's River of Smoke

The trouble with reading a tragic novel based on actual historical episodes is that you cannot put the book down with a wistful smile. Knowing that the tragedies and injustices spoken about have actually been inflicted pinches you deep inside, and keeps on doing so long after you’ve turned the last page.

Amitav Ghosh’s River of Smoke, the absolutely brilliant second book in the Ibis trilogy, continues to explore the world unleashed by opium, grown by Indians — against their will — and traded with, or rather inflicted upon, the Chinese by the British. The story here begins with Mauritius and grows to its full pace in China — Canton, or fanqui-town, as the trading hub was then known.

There are three most remarkable things about the book, which make it a bibliophile’s delight. One: perhaps no other literary work offers characters so diverse — from the Raja-turned-fugitive-turned-munshi Neel; the British botanist cum plant-trader Fitcher; the spirited French-cum-Bengali plant-lover, Paulette; the Gujarati-Parsi opium trader with a conscience, Seth Bahram Modi; the American who fights a lone battle, Charles King; the elusive and powerful Lynchong aka Ah-Fey, the illegitimately born Edward Chinnery aka Robin — an “effeminate” man with artistic talents… the list is as diverse and mind-boggling as the pot-pourri of languages they converse in. For someone who has read the first book, the language isn’t so baffling, perhaps because you have become familiar with the characters and their idiosyncracies. And even the new ones do not seem to be strangers; you just flow along and grasp words that aren’t even remotely familiar.

The second distinguishing feature is the detailed, spell-binding descriptions of scenes of action and each object located within that frame. The immense research that has been poured into the book swamps the reader, but not in a tedious, scholarly way. Rather, you will be treated to vivid word paintings of the flowers of Canton, the ships moored there, the ‘Hongs’ where the foreign traders resided and worked, the Maidan all abuzz with activity, the Pearl River Nursery, the wilderness of the island that was Hong Kong…image after image floats before you and you are transported to the land of trade, smuggling, opium, and contrastingly, flowers, paintings and love. Of course, not to be forgotten is the appearance of Napoleon Bonaparte! Two of the principal characters actually get to meet the general, and the interaction, with Bonaparte’s curiosities and reflections on China, is one of the best episodes in the book.

Finally, the third unique thing is the complete absence of the author. In most books based on issues affecting society, you can sense the author’s invisible presence, through sentences reflecting ideology and little telltale details. Here, however, the author is like the puppeteer whose hands control the action, but the story and the characters are so captivating that you forget there is a hand holding those strings. All reflections are conveyed through the actors, not through the narrative.

The last line of the novel, spoken by Neel, aptly conveys the cruelty of history and the tragic destruction of the liveliest of trade hubs after the opium war: “The picture cost more than I could afford, he said, but I bought it anyway. I realised that if it were not for those paintings no one would believe that such a place had ever existed.”

I, lalla: The poems of Lal Ded

When you think of mystic or Sufi poets, how many women Sufis can you recall? There are few female names in the realm of mystic poetry, and fewer still that are well known. There are, however, certain names that form an integral part of the culture and oral literary tradition — not to mention folklore — of specific regions. Kashmir is one of those regions that take their poetesses seriously, with several female names in the literary tradition, which even children are familiar with. Lal Ded is one of those.

To merely call Lal Ded — or Lalleshwari, the name used by Hindus and Lal Arifa, the one used by Muslims — a poetess, would be an insult to her huge following and oral traditions handed down over generations. One way to introduce Lal Ded (literally meaning Grandmother Lal, or Lal the womb) to the uninitiated is to draw a parallel with Kabir, the poet sage claimed by both Hindus and Muslims as their own. Lal Ded belongs very much to that category — her writings a confluence of Shaivite and Sufi mysticism.

The latest book of translations of Lalla’s poetry, I, Lalla: The poems of Lal Ded, rendered by the poet, cultural theorist and curator Ranjit Hoskote, beautifully presents Lalla’s writings for what they truly are, and Lalla for what she was—or ra­ther, the different fo­rms that she holds. The introduction wo u­ld be extremely fascinating to the pe­rson who wishes to know about the origins and compilation of Lalla’s utterances. Called ‘vakhs’, Lall­a’s poems are the earliest known man­i­­festations of Kash­m­iri literature and co­ntain a mix of Sa­nsk­rit terms and ph­rases from the Hin­du-Bu­ddhist universe, along with smatterings of Arabic and Persian, mirroring the Islamic effect. More precisely, as described by Hoskote, it is the confluence between the Yogic and Sufi traditions.

The utterances, true to form, deal with self-knowledge and a convergence with the divine, as opposed to ritualistic observances:

“Neither you nor I, neither object nor meditation/ just the all-creator, lost in His dreams. / Some don’t get it, but those who do/ are carried away on the wave of Him”

The vakhs reveal a very simple and straightforward approach to spirituality, which can be a delightful — “ The Lord has spread the subtle net of Himself across the world/ See how He gets under your skin, inside your bones / If you can’t see Him while you’re alive, / don’t expect a special vision once you’re dead”

The vakhs abound with references to the soul as the abode of the divine, emphasising the futility of searching in places of worship, or going on pilgrimages. There are several ‘companion vakhs’ too, wh­ich are the continuation of a single stream of thought.

“I, Lalla set out to bloom like a cotton flower/ The cleaner tore me, the carder shredded me on his bow / That gossamer: that was I / the spinning woman lifted from her wheel / At the weaver’s, they hung me out on the loom.First the washerman pounded me on his washing stone/ scrubbed me with clay and soap. / Then the tailor measured me, piece by piece, / with his scissors. Only then could I, Lalla, / find the road to heaven.”

Pick up this one if the mystic and the divine attracts you, if poetry beckons to your soul, or if you are simply curious about the ‘matron’ saints of Indian Sufi tradition!

Paulo Coelho's Aleph: Not quite the masterpiece!

Ever known the feeling when you’re reading a book and it seems like the author is speaking directly to you? Or, when you’ve finished the journey from the front cover to the back, you let out a great sigh and want to start all over again? In short, ever known that feeling of reading a story you’d like to revisit again and again? I’m sure you have.
Most of us have that favourite book that we like to read when we’re down in the dumps, which has pages worn down with being turned over and over, one that somehow perks us up every time. Paulo Coelho is one of those authors whose words have acted as companions in gloomy times for a whole lot of people around the globe. If you’re interested in books, I’m sure you know at least one person who holds some book of Paulo Coelho in the category just mentioned above. So, it’s just natural that when the author comes out with another book, presumably about his own journey — or pilgrimage, as he puts it — many of us would be waiting to lap it up. Here’s another one to add to that ‘comfort reading’ list, right? Not this time, though.
Aleph can definitely not be called one of Coelho’s best. The plot seemed to have infinite possibilities — a journey across Russia aboard the trans Siberian railway definitely spells adventure. Of course, since it’s not just a story — it’s an autobiographical episode — you can’t complain that it isn’t juicy or spicy eno­ugh. But, all said, it does make you feel a bit tired of the same old stuff. The spiritual quest to get in touch with your real self… going into a past life to clear out the dark spots that haunt your present… now where have we read that before?
Granted, there are bits that would catch your interest — like the symbolism of the Chinese bamboo, which grows downwards for the first five years, spreading its root network, and then suddenly, in the sixth year, shoots up to a height of 25 metres. Or the discovery of Coelho’s past life and his role in the hideous tortures inflicted during the Spanish Inquisition.
In true Coelho style, there are also those little life-truths that make you stop and think a bit, wondering at the simplicity of the fact and its ability to hold things in a new light.
“…Conflicts were necessary for humanity to be able to evolve…” the writer tells Hilal, the volatile, unpredictable woman accompanying him on his journey. “The motto of the alchemists was Solve et coagula, which means ‘separate and bring together’.” He goes on to illustrate — “This morning you and my editor quarrelled. Thanks to that confrontation, you were each able to reveal a light that the other was unaware of. You separated and came together again, and we all benefited from that.”
As for the Aleph itself — the magical ‘point in the universe containing all other points’, well, you will either be rather bored or rather fascinated, depending on whether you’ve read earlier works that contain much the same thing stated in a different manner. Then there is the ring of light exercise, quite tempting to any reader, precisely because it is so simple and comes with that delicious tag of being ‘warned about’.
At the very least, you might enjoy the book. But you certainly wouldn’t bother to come back to it.