Tag Archives: Fiction

At the centre of Oberoi’s novel is the voice of a dead young mother, for the most part housed on an old torn suitcase in a dusty little storeroom containing cupboards full of her now unused things: fine saris, jewellery, knickknacks and baby clothes. Her narration of small events, tidbits about her two adorable daughters’ infancy and childhood is interrupted by mournful visits from the now grown-up elder daughter whose grief is compounded by a falling out with her younger sister.

The identity of the blacks and the browns on the Matilda is distinctly diasporic West African. The women on the lower deck whisper about Juju, and Aster’s friend, Giselle, sharply asks her as she writes down a list if it is juju. Juju, a form of spiritual power in African belief systems, often involving the mediation of spirits, ancestors or deities, was an integral part of the lives of enslaved Africans.

The cyclical and dehumanizing nature of violence is a central theme in the collection. Structural violence refers to the ways in which social structures harm or disadvantage individuals by preventing them from meeting basic needs. In ‘Sin and Retribution’, Goswami revisits the 1983 Nellie massacre from the perspective of a perpetrator, unravelling the layers of dehumanization that lead individuals to commit acts of extreme brutality. The story critiques the inherent futility and moral erosion of communal violence, emphasizing how both victims and perpetrators are trapped within the structures of hate and fear perpetuated by historical injustices and political opportunism.

This debut novel veers on a fairy tale, sinuously curving at times into the half-real, half-surreal feel of a folk story, allowing the extravagant to hover around the real. The description of the medieval gadi (a fort-like mansion, in which live members of the Deshmukh family) and its expansive grounds that merge into endless undulating emerald fields stretching in all directions is spectacular. As is the detailing of the opulent grandeur of the mansion within: the carved wooden furniture, colours of the textile furnishings, the clothes that this Zamindar family wears and the lavish food that it is served at every meal.

It is set in the 1920s, a time when young people began to question the social structures that sought to confine them. Their rebellion, subtle though it may be, is a significant aspect of the story. Today, many of the issues they faced might seem trivial, but in their time, these were revolutionary ideas. The merging of the inner and outer worlds, of personal desires versus societal norms, has been beautifully depicted. But the struggle to forge an authentic identity, one that grows and evolves with time, is never easy. The tension between what one wants and what is expected of them is portrayed with remarkable sensitivity.

The addition of a character like Nilima Gandhi also enriches the narrative because the frustrations of a housewife are also expressed. Even though Nilima comes from a middle-class family and has domestic help, the urge within her to be seen and validated for all she does for her family is strong and the author is empathetic to that need. She is also portrayed as a woman with patriarchal principles but that doesn’t hinder her capacity to bond with other women. The third protagonist is Dinitia (Dini), who is a social worker and a single mother.

The human protagonists of the story are a pair of iconoclastic fifteen-year-olds, Asha and Zeb, who protest against the stifling system through illegal graffiti (the author mentions the British artist Banksy as an inspiration in the Afterword). Things escalate when the young rebels witness the callous murder of a word mid-transport by security forces during one of their furtive getaways and are eventually scapegoated as criminals.

Constrained by the chicken-pox and trying to deal with it during the summer holidays, Paromita and her fellow chicken-pox afflicted neighbouring teens—Sunidhi, Agastya, Darius, and Nihal—decide to solve the mystery that has scarred all of the denizens of The Orchard.

The story circles around a hidden sandalwood grove near the Sahyadri Range. The sandalwood trees are in the middle of a change of guard with the young Siah taking over from her mentor Bhuja when they come under the shadow of traffickers. To rescue her clan, Siah is willing to go to great lengths and even follow the forbidden paths. The story carries an element of speculative fiction at its core. Who set the fire that left Samr half burnt? What happened to the little girl who died mysteriously? Several parallel narratives seem to be unfolding simultaneously, making the plot pleasantly challenging and complex. All the threads converge in the climactic chapters and the ends are tied up neatly.

Nationalism, a recurring motif in the novel, is presented as both a unifying ideology and a vehicle for violence and marginalization. Through the lived experiences of his characters, Islam interrogates how nationalist discourses justify systemic exclusion, displacement, and cultural erasure. It also reflects how even such a unifying force could not cut across social boundaries like caste.

‘Strangers in the Park’ unveils the story of fifty-something Sudha, widowed for a decade, who befriends a stranger on her evening walks in the Lodhi Gardens, and much to the consternation of her large joint family—a mother-in-law, a daughter-in-law and sundry aunts of her late husband—decides to go for a holiday to Europe with this new-met friend! And no, he didn’t ask her to marry him.

Maya Nagari is a celebration of Mumbai’s vibrancy and resilience. The anthology captures the city’s unique ability to embrace and transform those who come to it. Each story is a testament to the indomitable spirit of Mumbai, a city that continues to thrive despite its challenges.

The LGBTQIA movement in Assam has taught people to think about gender and sexuality in a new way. It is through this movement that people within this spectrum have gained the courage to live fearless and dignified lives. Editor Banamallika gives people of all genders the opportunity to share all kinds of personal experiences (painful or hopeful).

Suryabala, just like her name, is described as both bright like the sun and with a childlike innocence that refuses to be controlled and corrupted by the social norms imposed on her by her family, misleading lovers, and exploitative men in power.

Further, set at the turn of the twentieth century, the novel also captures well the many questions and anxieties that haunt the middle-class consciousness of the country in the contemporary period of economic and social restructurings.

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 Sufi’s Nightingale by Sarbpreet Singh is beyond the mere retelling of the blessed bond between Shah Hussain and Madho Lal. It is a journey into the nooks and nuances of a sublime relationship between the murshid-mureed, as the re-defining of loss, longing and love in 16th century Lahore.