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A lengthy discussion on the importance of the Constitution in the making of the Indian Republic is found in the chapter titled, ‘Citizen and Community’. The section provides critical insights into the complexities associated with the drafting of the Indian Constitution. The process of its drafting has been delineated in detail by the author. Along with underlining the important role that Ambedkar and other members of the Constituent Assembly played in the making of the Indian Constitution,

he pivotal chapters, ‘The Turning Point’ and ‘Behind High Walls: Naxalite Narratives’, mark a significant shift as the author delves into the Naxalbari uprising and the ensuing political mobilization in the twin cities of Naxalbari and Srikakulam during the 1970s. Through in-depth testimonies and case studies, the author brings to the forefront the lived experiences of women political prisoners like Kalpana Bose, Joya Mitra, Rita Banerjee, Rajashri Dasgupta and women guerillas such as Shanti Munda.

The author seems to be too obsessed with Iran and Shias, he looks suspiciously at anything which is associated with Saudi Arabia and Wahhabi Sunnis and this he seems to be doing without caring for facts. His assertion that ‘a message had gone across to global Sunni and Arab communities that the US had snatched Iraq from the hands of true Islam and delivered it to the heretic Shias’

It is unfortunate, but not totally surprising, therefore that some jealous people strove to create a rift between Islam and Tagore. In the poem ‘Kandari Hushiar’, which we have mentioned earlier, Islam used the word ‘khoon’ for blood. This was objected to by a number of writers associated with the magazine Shanibarer Chithi. In this context Tagore also critiqued Islam’s frequent use of Arabic and Persian words in Bengali poetry. He was deeply hurt and reacting to this controversy, wrote the essay, ‘Borar Piriti Balir Bandh’.

Parents influence our thoughts and reactions—and actions—to a very large extent, perhaps much more than we realize, and their respective beliefs of what constitutes life which sometimes may be in conflict with each other, often define our life and enclose it in a figurative pair of parentheses. Although there can be no doubt as to their good intentions regarding their desire to see their child succeed in life, they may both not necessarily envisage the same sort of success. And neither of them might subscribe to the ideas that their child has about getting on in life, of embarking on their own quest,

The book begins with ‘Sukul’s Wife’, a story of vidrohi tevar (revolutionary zeal). While celebrating the idea of a choice marriage between an inter-faith couple, it is traversed by organized orthodoxy—there is much discussion on choti­—the tuft of hair epitomizing exalted caste, female autonomy, gastronomical preferences, the psyche of man-woman relationship, and so on.

The book reads like a collection of salacious and malicious gossip hung from the washline of a drab and nuanceless narrative voice to look like a novella and seductively titled as a ‘diary’. It is neither literary, nor anti-literary. The characters—artists, curators, gallery owners, critics, art dealers, models and maids—are cardboard figures. Only dogs and mice have some life and seem interesting.

Satnam’s ideals are also shaken and tested by his response to the brutal reality he confronts almost daily and the tragic story of the young refugee Krishna and her old Babaji who have lost everyone in the carnage which erupted in Punjab in March 1947. Ironically however, it is Krishna’s views on communal amity and the teachings of the Tenth Guru to ‘recognize all of humanity as a single creed of mankind’, which pull him back from the path of retribution and vengeance.

In a similar vein, the text also serves to convey a merger of the canonical and kitsch: ‘My acquiescence to the belief of these innocent people in the hands of a divinity sending this book for their spiritual solace, got a rude jolt. What the priest believed to be a religious book was in fact a book of pornography!’ (p. 47; translator’s italics). By enacting such reversals, the novel emerges as a specimen of the postmodern critical enterprise that seeks to uncover the ways in which artefacts acquire cultural underpinnings.

The brilliant presentation of contemporary life through anecdotes, especially, the one that narrates the incident of the madamma (white/foreign woman) who took a dog on rent for a week (pp. 197-198), are noteworthy for their wry humour and earthy witticism. Also satirical is the recounting of the event of the prophesying Mathiri Valyammachi (great-grandmother) who after having learnt the letters begins

Qadeer delves into the complexities of labour pain and pregnancy which mostly go unannounced, through Jeelani Bano’s ‘A Day in the Labour Room’, translated from the Urdu by Zakia Mashhadi. The story explores the intricacies of external authority over a woman’s body, which is subject to experiment and surgery, sometimes beyond the purview of her consent. The modern technology of advanced medical imaging has rendered the inner corridors of a woman’s body naked to investigative eyes.

We couldn’t linger. ‘There’s so much more to see,’ urged Pradeep as he led me away. ‘Let’s meet Potty’, he said, with what I thought was a mischievous smile. The captivating aroma of really old books wafted around the corner…and there sat Solomon Pottesman, alias Potty surrounded by mountains of lovely antique books. ‘I am an incunabulist’, read the legend on the back of his chair.

The novel uses the classic archetypal Gothic trope of an abandoned and deteriorating establishment inhabited by a paranormal entity. Of particular interest is Khan’s portrayal of Sana’s twin sister who is dead but continues to haunt the protagonist throughout the story. Further, Khan presents a poignantly eerie tale of Sana and her evil-spirited sister being born with conjoined hips and how the latter dies after the operation that attempts to separate the two. With efficacy, Khan renders Sana’s recalling of this moment as she lies unconscious on the operation table with her dead sister in the lines:

The Preface of the book informs us that 400 years ago, Tulsidas wrote this prayer in Awadhi, an older form of Hindi. It also provides a succinct summary of Rama’s life, linking it with the festival of Diwali. In the next pages it provides a line of Hindi/Awadhi and below it, a transliteration in English.

Bansal skilfully makes and un-makes a mesh of actions and their reactions. While Lipika’s intuitive sense of foreboding sets the mood very early in the novel with her intense dislike of Rahul: ‘How could she expect him (Kartik) to understand, when she herself knew not why she detested him?’ (p. 21), the novel comes alive with a host of other narrative devices such as images that emerge and turn metaphoric. For instance, Lipika’s virulent rashes. Kartik finds them so shocking that he consults Rahul.

The stories are dealt as allegories that offer didactic elements. They question the moral scruples that are encountered by most humans now and provide a resource to try to undo their negative impact by creating an interface of collaboration through empathy. Storytelling since aeons has had the transformative power of regeneration through this empathetic approach. Ganguly, too, by painting the various mise-en-scènes in a delicate manner, has harnessed the power of storytelling through sensitive acuity.

The tragedy of the glorious Achilles who is a pawn of history, an Icarus whose fatal flight is immortalized in a Renaissance painting by Brueghel, and the boy David battling the giant Goliath are all taken out of their textual, monumental existence into a visceral world of imagination and reified there. Further, different civilizational ethos coalesces in a beautiful description of Buddha’s

Dream Machine’s menacing quality lends itself to the realization of Hugo’s potential to tread an ethical path. He meticulously considers the implications of his actions, even at the expense of time with Anna. At this juncture, AiDA becomes more of a constant in his life than his wife. His reliance on AiDA correlates closely to his own sucking into the world of power and a willing dependence on machines while ‘Realeyes’ might be keeping a watch on him. But all is not lost yet as Hugo turns out to be a multidimensional character.

A notable feature of Maitra’s translation is that most of the animals and birds acquire the names of their species in Bangla as a proper name, e.g., Tuntuni (tailor bird), Beral (cat), Chhagolchhana (baby goat), Bagh (tiger), Kumir (crocodile). These improvised proper names give an immediacy to the context and contribute to a fluent reading. But why are only the buffalo and the cow referred to by the common English names of their species?

The illustrations in the book are contextual, but in my view, they could have been better. For a book that is about an artist, the illustrations are bland. They could have further extended and enriched the theme of the book. Mehar’s illustrations should have found more place.