Twisted by Laurie Halse Andersen

Posted in Uncategorized on June 24, 2011 by Ishrath Farhana

It starts with a note : this is not a book for children.

What’s this, some sort of Lemony Snickett gimmick, considering it’s very much a high school story. That’s before the progress in the sex, violence and language issues.

Nerdy Tyler Miller, “the pimple on the bottom” of the popular crowd spray-paints his high school at the end of his junior year and gets caught. Mandatory community service for defacing public property means hard manual labor with the janitors. Muscles, suntan and a growth spurt later, Tyler starts senior year and catches the eye of  “alpha female”  Bethany Millbury. When naked photos of Bethany are posted after a big party, the police head straight for Tyler, and life spirals rapidly downward.

I highly recommend this book for the parents to take note of the cyberbullying issues.

The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins

Posted in SF, YA on June 24, 2011 by Ishrath Farhana

I find myself drawn to the Teens section of the library these days for the sheer amount of genre-busting, edgy writing.

While I’d always leaned towards SF, The Hunger Games is no ordinary dystopia because of the sheer grit and emotional resonance of its central characters. I was sucked right in from the first few pages, and spent a blissful day devouring this tale. The plot is pitch perfect, the characters are heartbreaking.

Believe the hype.

The Devil’s Labyrinth by John Saul

Posted in Terrorism, The horror on June 1, 2011 by Ishrath Farhana

The only thing that comes to mind as one wades through this offering from  “the master of macabre” is “Jeez, what was he thinking?!!”

It starts ordinarily enough, with a recently orphaned 15 year old Ryan MacIntyre being sent off to the sinister St Isaac’s Preparatory Academy.  In the labyrinthine catacombs of the church school, a dynamic staff member is having some success performing exorcisms on students.

Everybody loves a good exorcism, but then Father Sebastian Sloane has unearthed an arcane scroll that actually causes demons to possess the victims, and apparently, control them. He and his brother, actually devout Muslims have infiltrated the Catholic clergy, and are on a lone path of rampage to kill the present-day Pope to avenge wrongs committed by the Church on Jewish and Muslim families during the time of the Spanish Inquisition in the 1300s. This involves not only  causing demonic possession of unsuspecting students, but also a mundane suicide bombing to be perpetrated by the zombies during the Pope’s mass. There’s also a mysterious crucifix for moral support, and some requisite maggot consumption.

The most appalling thing about the book  is that it is simultaneously insulting to both Catholics and Muslims.  Arabic words and Islamic prayers are used throughout by the priest who is basically engaged in devil-raising. Arabic  is used by the brainwashed children,  the pious Muslim is unbelievably nursing a grudge that’s 6 centuries old. The most offensive thing here is that the Muslim is engaged in enlisting the aid of hell, and that by connotation, Allah is the devil.  Fatwa, anyone?  To add insult to injury, John Saul preys on the worst stereotype of the terrorist by having the Muslim brothers sew bombs into the surplices of the altar boys to blow up the Pope.  The Christ in the secret chapel is a leering, tortured being. The Church is unable to afford any  peace or consolation to the evil inside its very walls, and the benign old priests who run the place are weak, powerless and effete.

In all, John Saul has laid a dud – a revolting, offensive dud, an insensitive dud, and [the greater crime] a literary dud.

A Case of Exploding Mangoes by Mohammed Hanif

Posted in Action / Thriller, Current Affairs, Debut, Diaspora, Dictators, Espionage, Farce, Historical/Biographical, Humor, Military, Mystery, Nobel Prize, Pakistan, Presidents, Satire, South Asian, Terrorism, World with tags , on August 3, 2008 by Ishrath Farhana

A Case of Exploding Mangoes
Category: Contemporary Fiction
Format: Hardcover, 336 pages
Publisher: Random House
Price: $29.95

Many people compare A Case of Exploding Mangoes by Mohammed Hanif to Catch 22, but I don’t recall enjoying Heller as much as Hanif. There are far too many pages where I was snorting and cackling and laughing till my sides ached. To desi readers, the cultural perspective lends exquisite piquancy to this tale of Who killed President Zia ul Haq? Twenty years to the date, it is still anyone’s guess why Pak One fell from the sky that summer, and Hanif steps forward with a multi-starring cast of possible assassins, with their own reasons to hate the dictator.

Underofficer Ali Shigri, the son of the revered and much-decorated, late Colonel Shigri, is our main narrator. He doesn’t believe that the colonel, found hanging by his bedsheet from the ceiling fan, has committed suicide. But he is in worse trouble when his roomate and best friend, Obaidullah goes missing, and he is hauled into interrogation into a Mughal dungeon by Major Kiyani of the dreaded ISI.

The most  engaging parts of the book are undoubtedly those that depict Zia, whose years of power have left him “fattened, chubby-cheeked and marinating in his own paranoia.” His piety is a chilling contrast with his violence, much like the opposing directions of his slightly cockeyed gaze. The man who breaks down during his prayers is the same despot whose prisons are full of dissenters. His frequent consultations of the Quran for meaning doesn’t mean he won’t order the stoning of a blind rape victim for adultery.  Was he a pious Muslim controlling what he saw as Pakistan’s moral decay, or an opportunistic leader who manipulated Islam to remain in power?

However Hanif also presents Zia sympathetically. There is something childlike about his need for attention from the First Lady, and his dependence on his ambitious and treacherous inner circle. His security chief “has done such a good job of conducting him  through the milling crowds, General Zia had started to think of himself as a man of the people.” America had made him into a hero in their proxy war against the Soviets, one of the 10 men standing as a bulwark between Communist expansion and the free world, so that he fancies himself as a receipient for the Nobel Peace Prize.

It is hard not to feel sympathy for the slightly henpecked husband, squabbling with his wife. And how can you really hate a President who is forced to prop his chin on the national flag while having a taciturn doctor giving him a rectal exam?

Hanif makes brilliant sketches of the coterie surrounding General Zia. The information minister is “a devious bastard with a fake MBA, making his fortune by ordering useless books that never arrive for military libraries.” Military officers are the kind of men “who pick up a phone and a bomb goes off in a crowded bazaar.” And famously, The only person who voiced his thoughts was General Akhtar, a former middle-weight boxer, a clean shaven man of tribal origins, who was packed with so much dignity that he could have been born in any country in any of the five continents and he still would have become a general. His ability to carry himself with martial grace and his talent for sucking up to superiors was so legendary that according to a joke popular in the trenches, he could wipe out a whole enemy unit by kissing their asses.”

Mohammed Hanif exploded on the literary scene suddenly, putting Pakistan on the map, and the deceased dictator firmly into our collective consciousness. By now we have all heard about how he trained as an Air Force pilot, pounded the beat as a journalist, then moved to London to become the head of BBC’s Urdu Service. However, nothing one can say about Mohammed Hanif beats what Hanif has to say about himself, “Once upon a time, when I was 18…

If a book can make a wave, A Case of Exploding Mangoes has been creating turbulence ever since it arrived. It is not being published in Pakistan, where it may have ruffled a few feathers. Of course, there are omnious parallels with the present situation in the country – the war in Afghanistan, Americans running all over the place and another General as President. The powers-that-be do not like to be reminded of their blatant hypocrisy or deep-rooted insecurities. It has also made it to the Man Bookers Longlist this year, and I am rooting for this book.

Then there is that intriguing first line, “there is an ancient saying that when lovers fall out, a plane goes down.” I was reminded of Faiz Ahmed Faiz’s words about Pakistan’s souring love affair with America. They have  been  rendered immortally by Noor Jahan here:

Booked

Posted in Tags on July 14, 2008 by Ishrath Farhana

Right. To fulfill her predilection towards prodding [yours truly] lazy arses, Extempore has tagged me. The rules go thusly

  1. Pick up the nearest book.
  2. Open to page 123.
  3. Find the fifth sentence.
  4. Post the next three sentences.
  5. Tag five people, and acknowledge the person who tagged you.

Am reading Mohammed Hanif’s excellent, excellent, a veritable pyrotechnic debut A Case of Exploding Mangoes, which everyone who knows what’s good for them should read. However, between having houseguests parked here for three months and misplacing the book twice, I cannot post the lines just yet.

Here are the lines from another inciendiary and marvellous book that I am reading, and likewise, anyone who wants to do his soul a good turn should / must / will read. This is Indra Sinha’s Animal’s People, and let me tell you – by the end of this book, you will not only know too much about Animal “I used to be human once” – but you’ll love him too. And screw page 123 – there’s jucier stuff just above it. :P 

‘Don’t be disgusting,’ I say. ‘She’s like my sister.’

‘Some sister,’ says he. ‘Kuala Lumpur Police Department.’

‘Fuck off.’ Kuala Lumpur Police Departmentt, which in turn is a way to say Khade Lund Pe Dhoka, or the deception of the standing cock, c’est a dire, a pricktease.

 And I pass the buck on to
Amar Akbar and Anthony.
Dushyant.
Dhakashohor.

Unccustomed Earth by Jhumpa Lahiri

Posted in Diaspora, India / Indian, Literary fiction, Short Stories, South Asian, Women on April 29, 2008 by Ishrath Farhana

 

With this book, we become conscious that Jhumpa Lahiri is not an immigrant. She is a child of immigrants. In Unaccustomed Earth, she writes with simple grace about the burdens of these children – the weight of their ethnicity, and the weight of their immigrant parents’ dreams and expectations.

In “Only Goodness”, a stroy about a family trying to deal with their son’s alcoholism:

That’s the problem with this country,” her mother said. “Too many freedoms. Too much having fun. When we were young, life wasn’t always aout fun.”

Sudha pitied her mother, pitied her refusal to accomodate such an unpleasant and alien fact, her need to blame Amerca and its laws instead of her son… Her parents had been blind to the things that plagued their children: being teased at school for the color of their skin or for the funny things their mother occasionally put into their lunch boxes, potato curry sandwiches that tinted Wonderbread green. What could there possibly be to be unhappy about? her parents would have thought. “Depression” was a foeign word to them, an American thing. In their opinion their children were immune from the hardships and injustices they had left behind in India, as ifthe innoculations the pediatrician had given Sudha and Rahul when they were babies guaranteed them an existence free of suffering.

This is a book that will wind up on everyone’s summer reading list. Lahiri’s characters are familiar and endearing, and their stories will tug at your heartstrings.

Lahiri sometimes gets criticized for choosing the same milieu and the same class of Ivy League privileged Bengali families in the US. She responds to criticism about her Bengali-American centered subject matter:

 ‘Is that all you’ve got in there?’ I get asked the question all the time. It baffles me. Does John Updike get asked this question? Does Alice Munro? It’s the ethnic thing, that’s what it is. And my answer is always, yes, I will continue to write about this world, because it inspires me to write, and there’s nothing more important than that.

           Jhumpa Lahiri, reading for International Readings at Harbourfront, Toronto.

She read marvellously from “Hell-Heaven”, the 2nd story, and arguably the best one, from this beautiful collection. 

The Toss of a Lemon by Padma Vishwanathan

Posted in Brahmin, Canada eh?, Caste Relations, Current Affairs, Debut, Diaspora, Historical/Biographical, India, India / Indian, Prejudice, Racism, Southeast Asia, Untouchability, Women, World with tags , on April 11, 2008 by Ishrath Farhana

Hardcover, 640 pages

Random House Canada

Price: $34.95

In her debut novel, Vishwanathan tells the tale of Sivakami, a child bride in the 1950’s, and her early widowhood. She is married to Hanumanthrathnam – an astrologer with a reputation for healing, with an unconventional friendship with siddhas. Hanumantharathnam dies promptly on the date he predicted, leaving Sivakami to care for a daughter, Thangam, and their son, Vairum.  

Sivakami’s oddessey extends into several generations of children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

One expects The Toss of a Lemon to seize the issue of caste relations in its teeth, because there is simply so much to say about the recognition of caste injustice in Tamil Nadu, the formation of a Dravidian consciousness, the backlash against Brahmins. However,  Vishwanathan prefers the minute day to day activities of a Brahmin household and describes everything with rigorous and relentless domestic detail, and glides over the larger issues of the day, quite a feat in 600 odd pages.  

With Bapsi Sidhwa’s Water, we are sensitized to the plight of the widows, but one finds it extremely hard to feel sympathy for Sivakami because of her extreme orthodoxy. It is difficult to look upon her as a victim, because her caste and her harsh observance of its tenets gives her a sense of inviolable superiority over everyone.

From an anthropological point of view, this is a detailed day to day chronicle of Brahmin life. The most uncomfortable aspect is the whole idea of how every other thing “pollutes” you, how touching even her children during daylight hours pollutes Sivakami’s madi state, sipping chai from a cup will pollute you, putting lips to tumbler is polluting, the shadow of a lower caste person will pollute you, and if someone throws somethng as unchaste as a slipper at a Brahmin, he is positively uncasted.  

One does not know what a reader who is not from India will take away fom this book, but an Indian will struggle for  objectivity. A non Brahmin, and possibly Brahmins from our generation will have to contend with the distaste that the apparent racism-as-a-way-of-life that this book generates. Perhaps one will be forced to recall old indignites at Brahmin friends’ homes, where an aunt or a granny may have barred one from the kitchen.

It is a tough book to read, and bitter to swallow. However in the way it deals with such issues it is a book that simply does not live up to its promise. The promise of a fresh and exciting new voice to the firmament of Indian fiction. The promise of sinking one’s teeth into the touchy subject and pernicious continuity of caste injustice in India.