Book Review: The Winds of Hastinapur*

Title: The Winds of Hastinapur

Author: Sharath Komarraju

Publisher: Harper Collins

Genre: Mythology

It is the season of remakes and retellings, from the looks of it. To be honest, I’m a little wary of film remakes. I mean, why redo something that was already done well? It’s akin to unravelling a perfectly knitted sweater and then trying to do it all over again.

I’m not making any sense, I know. That is what happens when you write after ages. You start to lose coherence. Thankfully, that is not the case with Sharath Komarraju, author of The Winds of Hastinapur.

TWoH is a retelling of the Mahabharata – nothing new here, since there have been quite a few retellings by other authors. What DOES make the book different is the point of view from which it is being told – the women.

“My hair is white and thin now. In a few moons, the Goddess will claim me, and I do  ot  have a fresh young virgin by my side to absorb my knowledge and take my place once I am gone. The Mysteries of Ganga and her Sight will vanish with me, and the Great River will become nothing more than a body of lifeless water... it is my intention, therefore, to tell you the story as it happened, as I saw it happen.”

TWoH retells the epic through the eyes of Ganga and Satyavati, the two wives of King Shantanu, the King of Hastinapur. Ganga, or Jahnavi, a young river maiden, lives in Meru,the land of celestials. At the ripe age of 14, she is sent to earth to set right a curse that the wife of sage Vasishta cast upon Prabhasa, one of the celestials. Thus Ganga goes to earth and becomes queen to King Shantanu, promising him a son who will be his heir and future king of Hastinapur. And bear him a son she does, but not before bearing seven more before him, and killing all seven of them soon after their birth. This was her curse. She soon returns to Meru after fulfilling her duty on earth, but brings her son, Devavrata, the supposed future king of Hastinapur, with her, because she cannot bear to part with him. The second part of the book is from the point of view of Satyavati, also known as Kali, a fisherman’s daughter who goes on to become King Shantanu’s second wife. Her rise from being a mere fisherman’s daughter to becoming a queen, the role she plays in shaping Devavrata’s destiny, etc. forms the rest of the tale.

I liked the fact that the book was written from the point of view of the women of Mahabharata, and that too the lesser known ones, than the men. It gives a very fresh perspective to the epic. It took me a while to get going with the book, because I felt that the first half is a little slow. But it picks up speed towards the second half. But then again, a retelling of an epic is hardly meant to be a racy read, right (the exception being the Shiva trilogy by Amish, maybe)? Do not pick up the book if you have no time on your hands to read. I unfortunately couldn’t relish the book much because I was hard-pressed for time and had committed to review the book by a particular date. I will be going back for a thorough reading soon enough.

A few pointers to the author and editors – I found the text used very annoying. The bold font throughout the book was quite an eyesore. Next time, maybe used a bigger font size and cut out the bold type, please? Also, the cover. Not. Done. Na-ah. It reminded me of some of those tacky mythological adaptations on televisions. It does not do justice to the book at all. Sharath Komarraju is a truly gifted writer, no doubts about that. But I would have preferred it if the pace had been slightly quicker. And the editing could have been crisper, maybe a few pages shorter. But that’s just my opinion. I’ve become a lazy reader of late.

Retelling of epics is a tricky business, I must say. And to stand out amongst a long line-up of writers who have made an attempt at it previously is no mean task. Sharath succeeds in this. Go for it if you are a mythology fan. Go for it anyways, if you appreciate a good book. It is definitely worth your time.

My rating: 3.5 / 5

Check more about the author and his writing here.

*This is an author-requested review. 

P.S:- I forgot to give you guys a very important update. I am a proud aunt to a gorgeous little girl now. She was born on April 9. I have honestly never felt such unconditional affection for anyone the way I do for the little munchkin. She is a beautiful beautiful baby. 

Book Review - Sorting Out Sid by Yashodhara Lal

Title: Sorting Out Sid

Author: Yashodhara Lal

Publisher: Harper Collins

Reviewed for: Indiblogger and Harper Collins

To be honest, the synopsis of Sorting Out Sid wasn’t the most appealing. It sounded like just another coming-of-age-of-messed-up-dude story that we are all too familiar with.

But I’d absolutely loved her first book. So I thought “Why not? Let’s give it a shot”. So I did.

Sure, Sorting Out Sid, in its true essence, IS a coming-of-age story. And it’s not very different from the many others we’ve read. But it’s not the story that makes the book an enjoyable read. It’s how it’s written.

Sid (short for Siddharth, of course) is 36, works for a toilet cleaner manufacturer, is one of the most promising stars of the company, chugs beer like water, and is an over-all lovable guy. But behind all that, his 15-year old marriage is falling apart. He and his wife don’t talk anymore, and whenever they do, it is to fight. He has good friends, albeit slightly over-interfering ones. And his relationship with his parents isn’t exactly warm. He happens to meet Neha, single mom, artist, and there’s a spark. Is it anything more than that? Is it love? Can Sid and Neha move past their turbulent marriages and give each other a chance? Will Sid and his ex-wife be able to call it a day peacefully? You’ll have to read the book to find out.

Sorting Out Sid is a good read, one of those books that you would pick up over a weekend and finish it in two days. It is well written in simplistic language, which I suppose is characteristic of the author, and that’s fine, because by now, I’ve come to realise that the mark of a good writer isn’t exactly the use of big words and literary language. The characters are well etched out, starting from Sid to his ex-wife Mandira to his friend Aditi, they all have their place in the story and add significantly to the story, instead of just walk-on parts.

I had initially found the character sketch of Sid to be rather clichéd, and was prepared to put up with an annoying hero who is lovable to everyone in spite of having no redeeming quality whatsoever (ala the protagonist from Shuddh Desi Romance. I wanted to shake that guy and slap the stupidity out of him- and out of the girls who keep falling for him for no discernible reason). But due credit has to be given to Yashodhara Lal for not overdoing it and creating a believable true-to-life character (no doubt inspired from real life / lives) who we all come across, or can identify a bit with.

The problem with having a hugely successful book as your debut novel is that it comes with the baggage of expectation. The only area where it fails in this department is the humour. I had found ‘Just Married, Please Excuse’ to be incredibly funny. SOS (Ah...NOW I get it! Clever) isn’t as funny, although it tries to be, sometimes a bit hard. The toilet jokes get a little redundant after a point, but Sid is one those who suffers from foot-in-the-mouth disease, so that provides quite a few opportunities for laughs.

On the whole, a well written book. It’s not going to change your life or give you any life-altering epiphanies. But it WILL make you smile and want to turn the page to know what happens next in Sid’s fucked up life, and whether he gets sorted out or not.

My rating - 3/5

Sunday Morning Sounds

Back when I was studying in HCU, I used to call up home every Sunday morning at around 10:30-11:00. I used to call up to listen to ‘Sunday morning sounds’. The radio playing at full volume, Amma  exasperatedly telling Acha to turn it down, the mixer running in the kitchen, whistle of the pressure cooker, voices of neighbours who had dropped in for a casual chat. If I listened very very carefully, I could even hear the pages of the newspaper rustling as Acha pored over every word, sitting in the cane chair in the balcony with his second cup of tea (well, not really, but you know what I mean).

What is so unusual about these sounds, you ask? Nothing, really. But as a girl who was staying away from home for the first time, these were sounds of comfort. Sounds of familiarity. Sounds that I had grown up hearing, but never really listened to. I would have just finished eating yet another crappy MESS breakfast of alu-paratha (which was like the Bermuda Triangle for potatoes. They always went missing) and tea that never tasted like tea, but was at least edible. I never regretted leaving home. In fact, I was one of the few girls who didn’t even cry when our parents were leaving after settling us down in the hostel. I was excited. I was scared, of course, but I was excited too. I was about to embark upon an adventure, the very first REAL adventure of my life. Away from the sheltered life that I had grown accustomed to. Away from the city that knew me so well. No more hot home-made food waiting when I get back from classes famished. No more clean clothes that get magically washed and dried and ironed without me having to do anything at all. No more maid to clean the room for me. No more of knowing that no matter how late I get, Acha would come and pick me up. The Sunday morning calls were the one thing that I held on to. They helped me get through the rest of the week. Because I knew that no matter what changed, no matter what disaster had happened during the week, Sunday morning would bring back to me the familiar, and would restore faith in me that all is right with the world. Every time the pressure of assignments and studies got to me, and I wanted to just chuck everything and go back home, the Sunday morning sounds were my strength. They were like my ticket to sanity.

But gradually, the Sunday morning sound calls waned. I stopped calling home to hear them. The regular calls happened, of course. But not the Sunday morning ones. Or rather, it stopped mattering to me. Even if Amma did call me on Sunday mornings, which she almost always does, I never bothered to listen to them. I never paid attention to them. Why is that? Was it because I had grown up and grown out of it? Did I not need my Sunday morning sounds anymore? Did I not need that comfort and familiarity anymore? I don’t know. Maybe it’s because once I moved out of the hostel and started living on my own, I got so wrapped up in ‘being independent’ and ‘fending for myself’, that I didn’t feel the need to hear the familiar sounds. It was not a conscious decision. It’s something that happened without me even realising it had.

I didn’t realise this had happened, until last a few days back, when, the whistle of a pressure cooker from a neighbouring apartment triggered off the memory in my mind. The memory of Sunday morning sounds. And just like that, a hand clenched around my heart. I had this sudden urge to call up Amma and tell her “I called up to hear the Sunday morning sounds, Amma”. But I didn’t. It wasn’t a Sunday, of course. You can’t hear Sunday morning sound s on a Tuesday morning, can you, silly? So I waited.

And this morning, I called up home. And there they were. The radio playing in the background. Pressure cooker whistle. Acha talking to someone. Amma saying that a neighbour had dropped in for a chat.

And all is right with the world again. J

Do you have any such ritual, anything that you do just to reassure yourself that some things never change? Come on, there’s gotta be something.

P.S1: Happy New Year, folks! Have a great one. 

P.S2: I was in a mood to ramble today. To be honest, this post reflects my earliest kind of writing, when I used to write just for the heck of writing, not to be read. I wonder why I'm not able to write like that anymore. I hope I didn't bore you. 

P.S3: P.S's can be annoying no? 

Kinds of people you see at a concert

We went for an Indian Ocean concert on Saturday evening. It was brilliant. They totally rocked it. But that’s not what this post is about.

The concert was at this place called the Music Academy. It’s a HUGE auditorium, with seating upstairs and downstairs. The upstairs seating is quite a distance away from the stage, to be honest. You can’t really connect with the artistes, you know what I mean? So anyways, there was this one guy who, right from when the band appeared on stage, was so enthused, that his energy was quite infectious. He was this typical HCU-JNU ‘buji’ types, you know? Long hair in a pony, kurta and jeans, spectacles, a metal kada on his right wrist (yes, I have a keen sense of observation, sometimes for the most inconsequential of things). He literally couldn’t sit still in his seat. The band started playing. This guy was in his element. Clapping, shouting, whoo-ing. The rest of the audience was looking at him and sniggering, some of them with grudging admiration. And then, after a couple of songs, he just couldn’t contain himself. He got up from his seat, went and stood in the aisle, and stood there for the following two hours. He was standing there all by himself, but I don’t think he cared two hoots.

One word for him. Respect. I SO wanted to go and stand with him and clap and shout like that. But I didn’t. Why, you ask? I guess I was embarrassed. I didn’t want the rest of the audience to look at me and laugh the way there were at him. Pathetic, I know. I preferred to sit in my seat and be an enthu-cutlet.

And that got me thinking. At every concert, you will different kinds of people. Here are the ones I have observed:-

1)      The Tripper

The guy who inspired me to write this post falls into this category, so do many many others I know. They come to the concert purely for the music. For the experience of seeing their favourite band perform live. For them, it’s not just another evening spent listening to music. They really believe in the music. It is an out-of-the-body experience for them. They will be right in front of the stage (or standing in the aisle due to lack of any other choice) and clapping and shouting. They go into a trance. They know all the songs, and they don’t care a fuck whether they get pointed and laughed at. They didn’t come to make a good impression anyway. They came for the music. They came to trip on the music.

I fall into this category partly. I go for the music. But unless I have the right company, I can’t bring myself to stand in front of the stage or in the aisle (Arun, how I missed you at the Swarathma and Indian Ocean concerts, seriously).

The trippers are an absolute joy to have at a concert.

2)      The London Mondon Statues

And on the other end of the spectrum from the Trippers are the London Mondon Statues. They don’t move a muscle. They sit there like statues and give an obligatory clap at the end of each song. In their minds, they’re probably making plans for the next day – what to make for breakfast, what dress to wear to work, when is the due date to pay credit card bills etc. I cannot for the life of me understand how they can sit still like that when music is playing. But then, I for one will move even to a Himesh Reshammiya song. So I’m no one to judge.

3)      The Updaters

“At Indian Ocean concert- so-and-so checked in at Music Academy”. “Oh wow dude. How is it?” “It is awwwsum!”

How would you know? You’re not even listening to the music. You are too busy letting the whole world know that you are at a concert.

And not because they are excited about it. Nope, they just want the whole world to know that they are oh-so-cool. They spend most of the time at the concert giving live updates. But ask them what their favourite song of the band is, they’ll blink at you. Dude, the people on the stage, they deserve a little more respect.

4)      The Record-keepers

They want to take low-resolution videos of the concert from a far distance despite strict instructions that photography and videography is not allowed. Why? How else will they prove to the rest of the world that they actually DID go for the concert? That grainy little video? Yes, that’s the proof. You think I’m being too critical? Let me ask you. This is the digital age. Videos are available all over the net. You can listen to the audio online. Buy CD’s. Why in the world would you want to take a one-minute clip when you can watch several better videos of the same band performing the same song on Youtube? Or is it BECAUSE you want to upload it on Youtube? Ah... ok. NOW it makes sense.

5)      The Pretty People

They come to get their pictures clicked for Page 3. Period.

6)      The Closet-Trippers

Yours truly falls into this category. Given a chance, I would be up there on the stage with the artistes, jumping and tripping on the music. But I don’t do it. Why? I’ll tell you when I figure it out, ok?

So we, as mad as we are about the music, and despite knowing all the songs and the lyrics to them, will not move from our seats. We will sit right there and then proceed to clap and shout and whoo and sway and what-not. We will sing along, we will clap till our hands hurt, we will shout till our throats hurt. But no, but will NOT move from our seats. Go figure.

7)      The Where-am-I-I-Think-I-Lost-My-Way ones

They came in because they had two hours to kill in the evening or wanted to get away from their kids. Oh look! There’s a concert happening! Let’s go! Two songs in, they realise this is not how they wanted to spend their Saturday evening. And they walk out. Well, at least they are honest about it, as opposed to those who come to a concert and proceed to spend the next couple of hours playing Temple Run on their phones.

Which brings me to the next type.

8)      The Tag-alongs

They just came along because someone wanted company. And offered to pay for their tickets. So they thought, “Oh what the hell”. You know exactly who they are because they will be spending most of their time on their phone playing games or reading, will go out every ten minutes to attend “important” phone calls, go out to get things to eat, take umpteen loo breaks, and sometimes disappear for hours and return just ten minutes before the concert ends. They’re harmless, except for when they are sitting next to you, and you’re in the aisle seat, and every ten minutes you have to move back to let them go. You know who they are.

That’s all I can think of for now. How many more do you think there are?

"I miss you" doesn't quite cover it

When people come to know that I’m new to Chennai, the question that naturally follows is “So, how do you like Chennai?” My answer usually is “I don’t, really”. I mean, what’s there to like? It’s hot all the time. You feel exhausted all the time because of the heat. The autowalas will fleece you, given a chance (although it’s slightly better now, what with the meter finally being implemented). It’s a lot more expensive. I don’t have many friends here. I can’t speak Tamil at all. Etc etc etc.

But in my heart of hearts, I know those are just excuses.

The real reason I’m not able to like Chennai is Hyderabad. I miss Hyderabad terribly, like I’ve never missed any person before.

I miss it all the time. Most days, it’s ok. It’s just a fond memory in my mind. A mild longing, more like. It’s been a year since I bid adieu to the place, to my life there. But not a single day has passed when I haven’t thought about those five and a half years, and I let out a wistful sigh. Five and a half short years that gave me a lifetime of lessons and memories. An affair to remember.

But like I said, most days, it’s ok. Just wishful longing.

Then there are days, like today, for example, when the wishful longing makes way for a large gaping hole in my heart. A strong desire to be back there. As though, you know, I need to be there. I need to see the places and people to hang on to my sanity.

And it’s not just a longing for the place. It’s a longing for everything that the place stands for.

Freedom. Adventure. Breaking free. HCU. Midnight strolls around the campus. Love. Life. Passion. Survival. Red FM. Necklace Road station. Uncertainty of life. Heart break. Drinking and tripping on Pink Floyd and Mohit Chauhan and Gulzar and Irshad Kamil... Living alone. Friends. Soul mates. Roommates. Gulmohar Park. Kundan bagh. Old Monk. Coming home to hot yummy food. Endless conversations. Comfortable silences. Orange wall. Knowing that you’ll never be alone and friendless. That your SOS lives just across the street and hovers around you like a satellite. That if you get a craving for biryani in the middle of the night, it WILL be brought to you. I miss being my own master. Not having to bother about what to cook for breakfast, lunch or dinner. I miss reading till late into the night and watching sitcoms back to back on weekends. I even miss the MMTS trains journeys, during which i have made some life-changing decisions. I miss cracking PJs and talking nonsense; nonsense that will be reciprocated with bigger nonsense and not sense and logic. I long to sit on the terrace with Prusty and Pattanaik, watching the moon and singing ‘chand wale gaane’. I miss my comrades and the companionship.

I miss the life that was and never will be again. Because according to some stupid prophet, life has to move on. Whatever.