Of Palace Walk and other stories

Although its is highly likely that my disenchantment stems from my inability to grasp the subject matter, the only reaction I could offer the Nobel Prize winning author’s best effort was indifference. In fact if it hadn’t been for my inability to leave a book unfinished, Palace Walk may have been abandoned three chapters in. Admittedly, the writer created an almost tangible reality where his characters live out their lives. However, in my humble and utterly meaningless opinion, that skill alone does not merit a Nobel Prize for literature. A novel has to be about more than the characters in it, there has to be a story there, a plot of sorts which serves the purpose of exposing the characters. In palace walk I found no plot, just several very well detailed character sketches. I do not for a moment mean to say that Naguib Mahfouz is not a good writer, he most definitely is as good as any I’ve ever read, it takes a little something extra to breathe life into figments of one’s imagination through words alone and he is undoubtedly a master at that craft. All I’m saying is that Palace Walk did not make for very entertaining reading. It was mostly bland and humorless, more like a summary of a novel than a novel itself. A very long and tedious summary at that, a summary which has far more details in it than even a novel should possess. I couldn’t help feeling that at several different points during the process of writing and editing this book, the author was compelled to add needless amounts of details just to meet a pre-determined word count. This resulted in me being able to skip several pages in numerous chapters without losing out on anything integral to the plot.
Not that this comparison is warranted or even fair, but just for the sake of argument, lets pit Mahfouz against Marquez and Palace Walk against One hundred years of solitude and see what happens. Both books were written in the native languages of their authors, both were translated and critically acclaimed and both deal with the evolution of a singular family with the world at large being restricted to the periphery of their lives playing an instrumental but clandestine role in the lives of the protagonists. Not to mention that both these authors are almost always catalogued adjacent to each other in any alphabetically arranged collection. Now that the similarities have been mentioned, let’s get to the differences. The most glaring and obvious one is that while Palace Walk is grounded firmly in reality and makes no effort whatsoever to dabble with the world of mystical fantasy, Solitude does nothing but transcend the boundaries of reality to create a mystical world that is as real as it is fantastic. Neither approach is ground breaking, many a writer have done the same with varying degrees of success but these two writers and these two books have been heralded as more or less equally outstanding in their respective genres. Other obvious differences are in the time period and the society where the two stories are set. But the most important difference, in my opinion as a reader, is in the style with which the two stories are presented. While Marquez favors brevity, Mahfouz seems preoccupied with verbosity, thereby taking twice as long to communicate an emotion than Marquez and without as much impact. Why Mahfouz felt compelled to do this can probably be attributed to the social set up he himself belongs to which eschews flights of fancy into the absurd and hence hampers the minds attempts to float free. Marquez, obviously unencumbered by such restrictions, not only permits his mind to go berserk with notions most of us cannot even begin to fathom but by doing so is able to create a cohesive and thoroughly enjoyable experience which both justifies his apparent absurdity to his readers but forces them to allow their own minds to shun the tethers of logic. The end result is that Solitude ends up saying a lot more in a lot less time and with far greater profundity than Palace Walk.
Furthermore, Solitude is a book that I’ve already read several times and have always managed to find new meanings and new imagery in it which could not possibly have made any sense to me during the first read through. I cannot even imagine ever picking up Palace Walk to discover its hidden nuances because of how tedious the very first attempt at reading the book was. With solitude, every reading results in a feeling of loss even though I know every single word of the last paragraph by heart and know full well from the very first chapter how the story will unfold, while with Palace Walk my only reaction to the ending was my inability to empathize with the plight of the protagonists fueled by the indifference I had felt towards them all along.
So in conclusion, what exactly am I trying to say here? Am I attempting to prove that Solitude is a better book than Palace Walk? Or Marquez a better writer than Mahfouz? No, its neither one because how one reacts to a book or a writer depends entirely on ever person’s own preferences. Some people find Mills and Boons the end all be all of literature and in all fairness they cannot be blamed for their opinion for they do not know any better.
My primary intention here is to put something on my blog after a long absence and I have chosen to write about the only activity which I’m indulging in with any really interest these days: reading. My secondary intention is to praise the book (solitude) which I have often wanted to write about but have failed to find satisfaction with anything I write about it because I feel that I simply do not possess the skill to do justice to either the book or my appreciation for it. Which brings me to my third intention behind writing this post: displaying a list of my five favorite books so far in order to have any easy point of reference for the next time I forget the names and have to ask old teachers and old friends to name the book based on the sketchy plot summary I provide.

1. One Hundred Years of Solitude (D-uh)
2. Red Earth and Pouring Rain (only for those who can suspend all notions of reality long enough to let the author have his way with their imagination)
3. Far From The Madding Crowd (I understood this book immediately and without apology and will never be able to forget the impression it had on me. This was monumental in determining my perception about life and love and all such meaningless things).
4. Life, Love and a Little Malice (The autobiography of Kushwant Singh, written with such relish by the man who lived the life being detailed here in that a reader can’t help but empathize)
5. Moths Smoke (its not very well written, nor is it very poignant, but it captures the spirit of a life I have known very closely to appreciate the fact that Mohsin Hamid made the effort to expose it)

I’m certain that there are a few books which I have forgotten to mention here, hopefully when the two people who still read this blog share their own lists I will be reminded of them.

Gumbat kay neechay (gulp) Kiya hai?

Even though I belong to a Sunni household my family has always observed the tragedy riddled month of Moharram with the kind of reverence most Sunni families don’t bother to extend towards one of the most horrifying events in Islamic history. I was told that we do this not because we are borderline Shii’a, which I believe we are, but because the grandchildren of the prophet deserve at least that much from his ummah irrespective of who got to wear the Khalifah cap all those centuries ago. Fair enough, I thought and sat through the aashoora majalis with the entire family in attendance, listening intently, crying on cue, visualizing everything from the arrow shot into an infant’s throat to the little girl searching for her father’s corpse amongst the many strewn all over Karbala because she can’t sleep if not by his side.
It didn’t take me long to figure out that a lot of what the Imam was saying was to dramatize the whole thing into a pseudo-Shakespearean tragedy, and I suppose that is acceptable in a majlis since you are congregated there to mourn the death of the grandson of the most important person in Islamic history and also to condemn the cruelty with which the death was dealt unto him and his kin. Granted that the whole ordeal is pretty dramatic without the need of cheap theatrics and fake howls of utter desperation but whatever gets the tears flowing in a crowd is acceptable as long as the line between fact and fiction is intact in the minds of the listeners. The whole self flagellation thing always seemed a bit extreme to me, maybe because I’m scared of pain or maybe because I don’t see the point in spanking myself with a blade, but even that made an absurd kind of sense to me considering how emotional Muslims tend to be about all thing religious, so even this quite blatant violation of the Prophet’s own decree regarding death and mourning somehow became tolerable under the weight of the sorrow which was being felt, even centuries later, on behalf of the departed by their followers. I must admit that the whole thing has a degree of romanticism to it, a certain charm which makes the logical question their own cruelty of nature, their own apathy rather than to question the outrageousness of the unholy rites being performed in the name of religion. Besides, Islam teaches tolerance and I don’t see any point in judging anyone based on how idiotic they can be during an annual bout of mass hysteria, as long as they don’t impose their extremism on me I can ignore them altogether.
But of late, a new trend has come to the surface which, though not nearly as gruesome as the self torture the Shiite submit themselves to is far more disturbing to my sense of respect for a religion even though I have found myself to be lacking in the devotion required to characterize one as anything other than agnostic.
This new method of showing reverence came to my notice while playing monopoly during load shedding at a friend’s place that happens to be unfortunately close to a Mosque. And don’t for a moment think that I’m oblivious to the blasphemous undertones in a sentence like ‘unfortunately close to a mosque’ but with the degree of noise pollution these mosques now produce, living close to one isn’t even in the same universe as a blessing. The sound of the azaan permeating the atmosphere, loud enough to over ride one’s own thoughts is perhaps an acceptable consequence of being a Muslim but I feel a line has to be drawn between what is mandated by the religion itself and what is shoved onto us by the self proclaimed brokers of religion calling themselves maulvis and pretending to be all pious with their unkempt beards and ankle high shalwars. Recitation of the Quran by a group of shrieking children being broadcast over the megaphone loud enough to wake up the dead is not a pleasant sound. In fact it’s probably the most unpleasant noise a human being can be subjected to short of nails being dragged across a black board. Perhaps if they got Iqbal bano to perform the recitation the resulting sounds could be considered pleasing but unfortunately they assume that the recitation of the Quran is such a remarkable benediction that it must be imposed upon all and sundry without any consideration for the sensibilities of the unwitting beneficiaries. But you know what, the Quran is the Quran after all, its written like a disjointed poem, has a lyrical quality to it and even though it makes absolutely no sense to a person who does not speak Arabic I suppose its still something which one can’t really complain too vociferously about out of the respect this divine book deserves as a religious relic. And if the buck stopped at that I wouldn’t even be writing this post but it seems the Islamic clergy, having hit rock bottom already, was hell bent on digging deeper still and managed to find a new low to hit with the kind of shameless gusto most normal, self respecting people can never muster. What they have done is remarkable really, shocking, revolting, but remarkable nonetheless for the innumerable ignorance pills a person must have to take in order to be clueless enough to not only create something completely counter productive to the purpose it is supposed to serve but to broadcast that thing into the minds of the congregated as well as the ears of anyone within a one mile radius and from under the banner of an institution which is supposed to house the very soul of Islam. Barely had we monopoly playing pseudo Muslims survived the vastly amplified clamor of the rocking-while-reading children of faith as it defied all barriers of concrete and glass in its bid to completely violate our auditory sensors, that a nasal, shrill and reverberating voice sliced the silence into bite sized pieces with the kind of hatred one only reserves for ones worst enemy.
Our initial reaction was to burst out laughing at the comical voice, the same way you laugh at American Idol bloopers. But slowly a certain sense of familiarity began to dawn upon us… the kind you feel when the opening riff of a song comes on the radio which you haven’t heard in a while but you know nonetheless. However, while the radio experience is usually a pleasant one, the familiarity we sensed now was coupled with disbelief. There were five of us in that candle lit room and not a single one managed to keep the shock from showing. Open mouthed we stared at each other, laughing in spasms interspersed by declarations of Oh my god as the tune sank into recognition. Not matter how desperately we tried to banish the vague images of scantily clad Indian actresses forming inside our heads, it was impossible to do so. After all, it’s the iconic image of a barely clothed Malaika dancing with an inhuman sense of balance on top of a train that accompanies the unmistakable, upbeat tune of chal chhya chhya, not anything even remotely religious, no not even if you change the lyrics to kar Allah Allah, as the retard behind the megaphone had done. He had managed to compose an entire ode to the almighty, replete with highly emotional and mostly nonsensical verses, to the tune of one of the most popular songs ever to come out of Bollywood. But before we could even manage to get into the reasoning behind using a movie song as inspiration for propagating religious doctrine our sense of propriety was dealt another, far more powerful blow by the next mutated ditty that the entire neighborhood was subjected to. Where the Chhya Chhya song was not overtly sexual in nature and retained a certain degree of literary merit (not enough to warrant imitation, mind you, just a modicum of appreciation), the next one this poetic wunderkind had chosen to convert into an azaan chaser is perhaps the most explicitly vulgar song ever to be composed for a big banner film in the history of cinema. Oh, the words don’t exist which can express the sheer horror which engulfed us as the singer not only mimicked the tune but also the subtle nuances which had been used solely to add that extra bit of titillation to an already risqué composition. In a matter of seconds the ladies amongst our group were blushing more profusely than I had ever seen in the decade or so of knowing them and us men were floundering in the abyss of not knowing what to do. The song he had chosen to serenade the Muslim ummah with was one which we quickly surf away from when we accidentally come across it while watching TV in the company of anyone at all. Not only is it vulgar, it’s also cheap, shameless and excruciatingly insipid and was meant to induce hard-ons not only with the suggestive choreography but also the obviously evocative lyrics. Why someone would chose to use chholi kee peechay kiya hai to base a religious ballad (of sorts) on is the kind of a question which can only be answered through communal conjecture because I doubt that even the person responsible for creating such an abomination can be in a state of mind to provide valid reasoning for it. Perhaps we can blame it on India and call it an effort by them to rape the spirit of Islam and start a brand new war, because I simply cannot fathom under what unholy influence could someone who calls himself a Muslim, and a Muslim who is actually supposed to be an authority on the religion in the opinion of the masses which gather behind him to perform one of the most fundamental rites of the religion five freaking times a day, could possibly have rationalized such an undertaking and then have the balls to broadcast it far and wide. And in case you are wondering what highly profound verse he could possibly have used to cloak the most vulgar song of all time into the guise of divinity, refer to the title of the post and feel free to let your mouth drop open. But whatever you do don’t for a moment dwell on the similarity in the shape of a gumbat and a chholi because, trust me, there is no graceful exit from that train of thought.