The Blue Umbrella

 

 

It’s a wonder how such a small book of barely 30 pages has been so popular among readers and even been made into a feature film, which I intend to watch soon. But then, it's authored by Ruskin Bond, a writer who can invoke a teary smile in your heart and a vivid display in your mind with just a few words.

A smile is a constant when you are reading Bond’s stories. And only he would consider a subjective thing such as a smile that could be lent to someone who was unhappy. As usual, nature forms an innate part of Bond’s world - prickly shrubs to berried bushes, leeches to lilies, teasing winds to bleating rains.

This is a simple story woven around a small village in the hills of Garhwal where a young girl’s constant companion and her reason for joy is a pretty blue umbrella. Within a few conversations and interactions between the characters, you get a complete picture of the life on the hills and how starkly different it is from the rest of the region. And this is what makes Bond’s writing so special – his ability to say so much with so little. As the story progresses so do the seasons. And just as each new season paints a new scene in the hills with its own unique shades, so does the story, bringing out a new dimension in each of the characters. It is amazing to see that, despite this being a novella with minimum characters, all the characters are full of life and relatable in many ways.

Bond describes the life in mountains as subtly as possible. Slowly you see, that this is a place where the food on your plate is from the fields you plough and the milk in your glass is from the cows you herd, where little boys go to school while the little girls tend the cattle, where a shopkeeper is the richest man in the village and where you have monsoon holidays instead of summer vacation, which are spent lending a hand in the fields instead of being at leisure.

This is another one from Bond that will bring a teary smile to your face as you reach the ending. It also contains a sweet message which is delivered in such few words, it’s a remarkable feat for any writer. With something for readers of every age group, this is one of those rare books which one can finish in half an hour and yet, reminisce about it for days.

Farenheit 451

 

Burning books! Oh, the sound of it makes my stomach churn.

The effect of the lockdown, now in its 5^th month, must surely be getting to me, for this is the second dystopian novel I have read in the last 3 months. Though ‎Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 is not as scary as 1984, it is more believable and more likely to happen.

Imagine a time where people drive like maniacs to take out their frustration, kill each other mercilessly to vent out their anger, are constantly plugged-in to the radio or TV shows, students are fed facts and discouraged from asking questions, the masses are more interested in knowing what than why; a place where you are encouraged to do anything that makes you happy from smashing windows to wrecking cars, except think; a world where the walls inside your homes are made up of full screen TVs than bricks, all houses are fire proofed and firemen burn books!

When a small girl triggers a fireman’s curiosity, he begins to see things in a different light, and this sets the ball rolling. He looks up at the blue sky, wondering how many years back was it that had he last done this, he watches the rain and introspects his life, he slowly starts observing his own actions, past and present. And finally, against the advice of his senior, he begins to question everything around him, despite knowing that doing so will only lead him to the prison. From there on, begins his journey, from an ordinary fireman to an awakened warrior to a wanted fugitive.

In a world where people would rather listen to idiot box than to their loved ones, where Shakespeare and Gandhi are outdated, where people talk ‘nothing’ and hardly listen, what happens to curiosity? Is it dead forever? What about imagination? And thoughts? Without philosophy and sociology, without questions and debates, without discussions and analysis, without books, what is left then of the meaning of life? Are we heading to such a place? These are a few of the zillion questions that boggled my mind while reading this novel, and therein lies its beauty. It makes you think beyond books, beyond words and authors. It makes you ponder on how one mere book, a simple writer’s thoughts and views, is connected to bigger things in life. Without a moment’s rest in an overworked world, how would we enjoy nature’s gifts? Without accounted details of our past, how would we look into the future? And without the different shades of books how would we grow? The author’s ability to make you reflect on not only the big and important questions, but also ordinary ones, is commendable. Where would you read if they were no libraries, no parks, no comfy chairs? With whom would you share your thoughts if no one cared to think or listen anymore? Would books still be as enjoyable?

It took me a while to understand the author’s style of writing. The flow felt abrupt and disjointed at times. You really need to pay close attention to the words to understand their inner meanings, and what the author is trying to say. Most of what makes the protagonist’s world dystopian is implied and it took me 1/3^rd into the book to really understand this. Guy’s frustration, although understandable, feels too sudden. His breakdown and subsequent awakening happen all too quickly, and you are left wondering if some pages got burnt in between. However, now that I have finished the book, I feel the author chose this ambiguous and haphazard style of writing intentionally to make the readers truly feel Guy’s confusion. You are not reading the author’s version of what Guy thinks, you are reading exactly what Guy thinks.

It was at the junction, between part 1 and part 2 of the book, that I realised how easy it is for man to remember his natural instincts. Our quest for knowledge is embedded deep within us. It is not a physical object and hence, though it can be concealed with years of institutional ignorance, it can never be eliminated. And that gave me hope. Hope that one day, someone in our dystopian world, will develop the courage to break the rules. Someone will uncover the ashes to find the fire burning within. And man’s curiosity will overcome his fear of death.

It is true that books can have contradicting opinions, one tells you to love, another tells you to revolt, and yet another tells you to fear. However, this novel made me realise that contradicting opinions are better than losing the prerogative to have an opinion. All in all, this is a book that should be in every avid reader’s reading list, as a reminder to never take these precious gems of literature for granted.

 

 

 

 

 

The Room on the Roof

This book was written by Bond when he was a 17-year-old teenager, and having read some of his other novels which he wrote when he was older, I am pleasantly surprised at how his writing style has remained the same over the years. It’s simple, eloquent, genuine and heartfelt. There's a calmness in his writing, like a gentle flow of the river and a tenderness with which he expresses his thoughts so as to not startle his readers even as the story takes unexpected turns.

On first glance, Rusty is lonely. His longing and loneliness pour out not so much from the words, but from reading in between the lines. He spends all his time either alone in his room or walking in the woods. But on second glance, you realise Rusty is a dreamer. He is someone who can watch the rain pour, the maina sing, the sun rise, his lover’s smile, until the end of time. He is a poet in his heart, and like most poets feels more and talks less. He is curious and impatient and longing for a chance to grow, to love, to have friends.

Much of the story comes from Bond’s memories of his childhood in Dehra, which opened up a myriad of memories in my mind too. His detailed description of the people and sounds in the bazaar took me back to the lanes of Varanasi, where my friend and I spent a wonderful time, enjoying its chaats, its busy roads, its sounds of conchs and bells; his excitement of playing Holi reminded me of those times in my childhood when our gang would paint each other with colours, laughing and having fun. As the protagonist, Rusty, found and lost his friends, I looked back at the time when a new girl in our class or our apartment caused so much joy and excitement, while at the same time, saying goodbye to old friends, brought out tears and promises to stay in touch. Needless to say, while reading this book I was also reliving my childhood, and my treasured experiences. 

Rusty’s friends come from different socio-economic and religious backgrounds, and together they form a mini India. And it is this vibrant, loud, chaotic India that Bond makes you fall in love with. The land of defiant cows on the roads, chatty street vendors, spicy, oily chats, narrow alleys, bustling bazaars and overcrowded trains; the land of long-lasting friendships, brotherly bonds and passionate lovers. 

What touched my heart is Bond's poetic description of mother nature. His love of the hills and its surroundings shine in story. You can hear the soft whispers of the wind, hum along to the chirping of birds in the breeze, and see the gentle rays of the sun traversing through the valley. Bond makes you fall in love with the wilderness. His elaborate descriptions of the bazaar, the room on the roof, the chaat shop, paint a such a broad and colourful picture in front of you, that your imagination can take a rest. 

Bond’s characters have a depth in them. In just a few words, Bond provides each of his characters a back story, which makes them very relatable. It is people you would meet if you were in that place during that time. What makes his writing all the more unique is that even animals and birds have a back story too. And when u come across a line such as this in a story " the maina was a common sight, but this one was unusual.: it was bald, all the feathers had been knocked off its head in a series of fights” you can't help but smile and marvel at the author's ingenuity.

Rusty’s journey from the awkwardness of a new friendship to brotherly love is beautiful and sincere. The story is heart-warming and real. You feel Rusty's love, his despondency, his frustration, and his warmth. You feel these emotions as they were your own. Such is the beauty of this book. And the ending is the hope the monsoon rains bring to our country, something to look forward to.

Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine

Fortunately, or unfortunately, the period around which I completed reading this book is when there was, and still is, a lot of talk about mental health and emotional well-being, be it in the media or on our social feeds. This has given me a new perspective to the story and much respect to the author for writing on a topic very few are brave enough to divulge in.  

Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine!

You know when someone announces unasked, that they are fine, that you are definitely going to question the statement’s authenticity. And the more emphatic their assertion, the more you doubt that person. 

Eleanor Oliphant is like that drop of nectar buried deep inside a flower bud, and one of the first striking quality I liked about the book is how the author gently peals one petal at a time, revealing a little more of our protagonist. Very subtly, almost inconspicuously, we learn about Eleanor. Her scars, her fear of her mother’s voice, her haunting memories, her love for crossword puzzles, her workplace, her complete lack of knowledge on an array of things from modern technology to food delivery service, and her routine weekend rendezvous with one bottle of Vodka.

A zillion questions pop in your mind and linger around throughout the book. Why does she fear sirens? How is she familiar with hospital wards when she works as a finance clerk? How does she, a 30-year old woman living in Glasgow, not know the difference between a laptop and desktop? You are impatient to know the answers so you can form a complete picture of Eleanor, however, Gail Honeyman’s smooth and poetic writing counters that urge, calms you down and ensures you that she will reveal the answers when the time is right.   

Eleanor’s behaviour seems strange and unconventional to others, and in her mind, it is the vice versa. When you do think about it, you realize she’s not wrong. In our current culture, we have become so accustomed to eating out of a can or a box, that someone having home-cooked meals all-round the clock sounds abnormal; we have trapped ourselves into complex, absurd social norms, that we look down on people who don’t follow them. Yes, Eleanor is different, and yes, her social skills aren’t up to ‘our’ mark, but then, aren’t we all not up to someone else’s mark?

We have all known that it is the little things in life that matter. However, it was only while I was reading this book during the lockdown, that I realized that those little things could be as meagre as visiting a saloon or shopping for a dress or even surfing the net. The value of these mundane activities is only realized when you are ‘locked up’ in your house for 30 days, or in Eleanor’s case 30 years! For her, these activities are not merely a point on the to-do list, they are a source of joy and excitement, an anomaly in her lonely life.

It is surprising how the human mind dismisses and normalizes abuse and trauma. We so readily accept our past, blaming ourselves for being abused, and move on, without really acknowledging its impact on our present.

As Eleanor’s self-realization sets in, numerous questions plague her mind. Questions we have all asked ourselves at different stages in our lives. Questions that can suck us into a never-ending whirlpool. Only some of us are lucky to find a hand to pull us out of the shrinking black hole. This part of the book is where the story truly comes alive and you finally begin to see the actual Eleanor Oliphant. The intensity of Eleanor’s emotions reflects her mental health. And while the strong ones in our circle might feel that there is nothing new in what Eleanor feels or thinks that each one of us hasn’t felt or thought at some point in our lives, we must remember that that exactly is the key difference – feeling it at some point is vastly different from living in it every single moment. As a reader your only hope is that our dear Eleanor is lucky enough to find the light at the end of the tunnel.

To be honest, there were times in the story where I couldn’t connect with Eleanor completely. There were times I was rather annoyed by her and felt her actions were not entirely justifiable despite her circumstances. Looking back at those parts, I realise I was looking at Eleanor from my privileged point to view and had let my ego of being on the moral high ground take over. Re-reading those parts with the light of mental health shining, I empathize with Eleanor, even though I cannot understand her.