FIRE ON THE MOUNTAIN

I just finished reading this book by Anita Desai. And like it is with all her books, I had mixed feelings throughout the exercise. Let me describe the usual ontogenesis of thoughts on her books. Every time I have an Anita Desai on my night-stand, I just let it lie for a couple of days, tingling with anticipation, fringed with some apprehension. Anticipation because I know it would be a delight to my literary senses; apprehension because I know the storyline would be disappointing and I will have to make a supreme effort to “get” the whole “existentialism” bit and chew on it for a while. I can’t help it. I love my Jason Bourne series as much as my Desai collection.

Despite this, after suffering through many South Asian novels about women and oppression, It’s always marvelous to read a Desai book, for I love the strong, de-glam woman characters in her writings. Stripped of all tinsel, they are raw, provocative, yet sublimely suffering, and somehow reveling in it!


The admirable quality in all her works is, Desai does not attribute any ideology to her characters. She is a minute observer, who perceives everything delicately and rather poetically. In particular, she voices the mute miseries and helplessness of women tormented by existentialist problems. She examines their psyche when they are confronted with the absurdity of life. This draws her attention to the darker side of life. She projects a tragic vision in her novels by placing her female protagonists in hostile situations. She simply wants to explore their psychological conflicts and struggles. There is never a word uttered about the oppression that these women have suffered through their lives. The injustices and oppressions are for the reader to derive.

This book is a simple portrayal of three women who have a found a way to live in contented seclusion and the existential angst experienced by the female protagonist Nanda Kaul, an old lady living in isolation. The radical refusal of Nanda Kaul’s previous but exhausted role as a mother and wife, her solitary retreat into an inhospitable Kasauli landscape. It also projects the inner turmoil of a small girl, Raka, who is haunted by a sense of futility. Raka is a most mysterious and unnaturally complicated child character in the entire gamut of Indian fiction. Children her age have typical interests like fairytales, butterflies etc, but Raka regales in ugliness, destruction, danger and despair. Her imagination is weird and she is irresistibly drawn to strange things. Thirdly, it presents the plight of a helpless woman, Ila Das who is in conflict with forces that are too powerful to be encountered, resulting in her tragic death.


Like all her other works, the present novel contains neither any story value nor events that are interesting by themselves. The story element is very thin and there is practically no action except for the tragic end, which itself is so abrupt that you are left wanting more, simply to make the story in your head end!

But Anita Desai’s an exceptional writer with rare sensitivity and perspective. She’s certainly brilliant with her existential themes of solitude, alienation, the futility of human existence and struggle for survival. The imagery in the book is breathtaking. It’s rich with her love for the “prey-predator” imagery. Images of ugliness, loneliness, destruction and annihilation are consistently used to reflect the existential tone of the novel. An atmosphere of solitary introspection is created.


In fact, deprived of its strong imagery, “Fire on the Mountain” would be an ugly skeleton, chilling the reader…..the significant house imagery, the images of plants, colour, atmosphere and moon, the mountain fire, all contribute to the textual density and symbolism of the novel.

NOORIE

A beautiful girl was born to my servant about four years ago. Their first-born. The young couple named her Noorie after the father, Noor Hussain. The servant Asmaan, was herself just about a woman, gentle, her hair a soft black cascade down her back. Noorie came into their world after a late-term miscarriage of a previous pregnancy and many following prayers in their local Masjid. What a precious child she was! I was impressed by the hygiene and precautions that were taken by Asmaan in her daily baby-chores. Fresh buffalo milk was bought for her every morning, from the “officers’ doodhwaala”, as though that itself ascertains its purity! She was always in crisp clothes, warmly nestled in the winters. There was endless talk of Noorie getting good education in the future. I felt satisfied in the knowledge that at last, they (by that I mean, the poor, downtrodden, laborers, strugglers, the servant class, in one word) understand the necessity of educating a female child.


I remember buying a pair of pretty pink shoes for her from lifestyles, for her first birthday. Soon after that my daughter was born, and we moved away.


We moved back into this town recently, and after settling down, just a house away from our old bungalow, I decided to hunt my old maid out and employ her again, vouching for her obedience and gentleness. It was sardonically pointed out to me that Asmaan might not be the same person three years down the line; poverty gets to everyone in the end. I might be in for a nasty surprise.


Well, I was nastily surprised. Asmaan now lives in the white-washed line of servants’ quarters behind our neat row of gardened bungalows. She has had two more babies, in the two years, all girls. My new maid tells me it’s the quest for a son. There’s certain hardness about the gentle Asmaan I remember. Maybe it’s her hair. They seem pulled back and tied too tightly. Every now and then I hear a cacophony of kids and her harsh voice, followed by trademark snippets of slapping and lashing. Noorie is being beaten black and blue for mischievousness.


Noorie……sigh. Noorie does not go to school. She is no longer a prim loved only child who had only buffalo milk.. There are more mouths to feed below her. A bevy of them, another on the way. Thin as a reed, chapped cheeks, unslippered feet scurrying about, soiled clothes (not enough of them, though) I see her playing over her once-doting father’s rickshaw. Her hair is that characteristic color poor children have. An unkempt light brown. One of her jobs is to care for her youngest sibling when mummy’s gone for work. She beats up her young sisters every chance she gets. Maybe there’s an unsaid complaint in her heart. Maybe she subconsciously remembers those long gone hours when her mother cooed softly into her tiny ears. Soft loving words, a warm lap snatched away from her only too soon. Maybe she knows she has seen better days.


Sometimes my girl goes back there and bullies Noorie. My three year old is treated with great reverence out there in the back…..where our kitchen garden ends and the servant’s squalor begins. Even at this oblivious age, my baby somehow understands she’s supposedly superior to that dark dirty bunch there. How? I watch from my bedroom window. How? I want to know. Aren’t children the same? Gifts of joy from God?


Last week I gave Asmaan some sweaters for Noorie. I have yet to see Noorie wearing them. I wonder what Asmaan has done with them. Sold them perhaps?

DOG-WORTHY

What are we doing wrong? Rather, what are we doing?


When did India boob so wretchedly? This was supposed to be the land of Asoka, Chanakya, Gautam Buddha, Shivaji, Bhagat Singh, Chandrashekhar Azad, Dr. Ambedkar. It's being run by a sorry bunch of asses. Where and when did we cross that line which seperates a progressive, growing nation from a mutative, cancerous one? Was it when Pakistan was born, or when Jawahahar Lal Nehru happened? Or when the LoC was drawn? Was it when Rajiv Gandhi was bombed to death, or when we bombed ourselves into nuclear ignominy at Pokharan? Was it when we learnt the lesson so dear to Gandhi? Put the other cheek forward. Keep getting slapped royally. Souls riddled by bullets, slapped not just by Islamic fundamentalists and extremist terrorism, but kicked in the gut by our own leaders, time and time again.


Thank God Gandhi's not alive to see this day. But look whose preaching Gandhian philosophy to us?! Sanjay Dutt. A criminal druggie shitbag caught with AK-47 assault rifle, who has been tried in TADA court and known to have contact with Dawood Ibrahim !! His two-penny wife is initiating peace-rallies in Bombay. I would have been laughing, if only the joke was not on us.


Abu Salem ( God knows for what reason! ) has still not been hanged to death. His floosy wife Monica Bedi, instead of rotting behind bars, or at least, hiding her shameful face forever, has become some kind of celebrity, and participating in that useless show "Big Boss" after consorting and globe-trotting with Abu Salem for years!! That's the sort of people we Indians have evolved into, we like to accept and encourage crap, when its being handed to us on a golden plate.


The Chief Minister of Maharashtra has the gall to take Ram Gopal Varma in his entourage to Taj, post attacks, to assess damage, and of course, the underlying inspiration and creative-hints to make movies. His loser son Ritesh Deshmukh also troops around in his fancy sunglasses and Armani shirt. How kind and considerate of him to wear black. The Chief Minister of Kerela is so mortified by Mr. Unnikrishnan's refusal to meet with him, he stoops to the level of a street-dog himself. " Not even a dog would visit this house if his son was not a martyr". Well, Mr. CM, not even a dog will piss on your face now even if you were begging for it.


Never before have the polititions of India made a bigger mockery of themselves and our democracy, than they have in the last week. Each one of them is running helter-skelter trying to save his chair. Vilasrao Deshmukh has taken days to resign, when he should have been the first! It's just so unbelievable. How drunk on power these polititions are! How crude, how heartless, how insensitive, how stupid !! They don't have brains, that's a given...but they don't seem to have hearts either!


WHY??why have we chosen these clowns to run our country? Its time now, to change it all. This is our last chance. We have to. Or else they will go down, and take us along with them.

TRUE HEROES

In memory of Late Maj Sandeep Unnikrishnan (10 BIHAR/NSG) who gave up his life bravely fending off a terrorist hostage situation in Mumbai. A tribute also to other men who lost their lives fighting the same battle. You have done our country proud. May you rest in peace.

There have been a million emotions whirl pooling inside me last few days, ever since the fateful night terrorists barged their way into our Mumbai hotels and into the very fabric of our democratic spirit . Anger, disbelief, helplessness, humiliation……then the next day, there was adrenaline pumping as NSG commandoes slithered down the ropes onto the roof of Oberoi…….relief….so much of it ! Utter pride and speechlessness at their bravado. Pure AWE. My chest filled with pride and fear for them as I saw the NSG men do their jobs with such discipline, finesse and patience considering it was a potentially life-threatening scenario. My heart was bursting as I watched Major Sandeep Unnikrishnan’s funeral. Tears streamed down from every eye around me.

It’s been difficult to get my thoughts together. Even more so it’s been difficult to put them in words. I’ve just held back from writing anything on the Mumbai attacks because writing an unbiased observation is proving to be very tough.

The first flash of thought in my head as I heard Sandeep’s name as casualty was his wife. Had she heard already? Was she watching the drama unfold on television? Had someone been kind enough to inform the family before they learnt it on the tele?

It was a relief to learn he was unmarried. My husband too is a non-resident kerelite, from Bangalore and he would probably be among the first to go across the border if a war breaks out. It’s difficult to not be biased. It’s difficult to not be emotional. And pissed. More later….