Fractured Legend: A Book Review

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Fractured Legend is Kranthi Askani’s debut novel. The title, Fractured Legend well represents the broken and ill tendered state of the plot. The book incorporates magic realism, gothic elements as per the blurb piece.

Fractured Legend opens with a statues deliquescing, in the Book 1, “Slave”. The novel is presented in three books. Book 1 is titled “Slave”. Book 2 is called “Manuscript” and Book 3 is “A Very Long Letter”. Book 1, book 2 and book 3 are split into three chapters each. Fractured Legend connects the story of four women in a string of narratives, in which magical realism and gothic elements play a disastrous role, leaving the plot murky, uninteresting and impossible to associate with (intellectually or emotionally).

Two more artistic techniques remain surprisingly traceable in the work. One is absurdism. Absurdity lurches upon you from the first chapter of the Book 1. The non-presence of action is one of the reasons this element of absurdity dominates this chapter. Absurdism, however, does not  seem to be intentional in the craft of the author. The whole first chapter in the Book 1 does not  even start the main action of the story. This chapter revolves around the precincts of the hopeless lives of the characters the narrator fishes out from her memory. This postpones the main action farther, leaving the sense of a lack of purpose extremely evident. It is in this sense absurdity becomes strikingly evident.   

Second is the stream of consciousness. Priyambada, the narrator in Book 1 “Slave”, recounts many of her experiences and it leaves an impression much like it is stream of consciousness. The Book 2 and 3 also are full of details of abstract thoughts presented with least art and full of ambition. These two ideas—absurdism and stream of consciousness—are not elaborated in the blurb, not even mentioned once.

In the eighth page, Priyambada thinks about a man who extols the divinity of the temple. From there her thoughts drift away to the young man, who took her with him to travel all night long to his temple. His flesh too is held in a statue and comes to life only occasionally; much like Priyambada and her companions. Aardya is her close companion, a girl with genuine wits. Priyambada is close to Ardya than any other persons or statues.

Priyambada decides to take a risk with her existence and decides to transform into flesh and continue living a ‘normal’ human life. She is shown as taking this theme forward; however, the extent to which this normality is applicable to her existence is questionable. Priyambada’s life is normal like that you can observe in the conventional ‘normality’ exhibited in bollywood movies and certain daily Hindi soaps.

The Book 2, “Manuscript” is the story of Nandhini. She is a professional in killing people. Her life changes as she accepts the assignment to retrieve a manuscript kept by Ardya, who is reluctant to give away this manuscript. This story follows first person narrative as well. “Manuscript” has a whole different tone from “Slave”. If “slave” is about identity crisis and cliché feminism, the “Manuscript” is about a violent sequence of events that leave the narrator with little room to think elusive and lyrical sentences such as; “We all know that no slave girl ever made it to the end; we know that we are outcasts and are merely seen as amusement pieces, to be cast away like bed bugs,” which we come across in “Slave”.

Book 3 is a long letter written by Pravalli, Priyambada’s daughter, who hates her mother when she comes across the truth that Priyambada was a temple slave once. This story, epistolary in nature, carries no action forward and leaves the readers’ eyes droop with heavy slumber.

Kranthi Askani
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Fractured Legend is published by APK Publishers in 2012 and it costs Rs: 195 only. The printing and lettering of the book give the feeling of reading a compulsory text book prescribed in some pathetic universities.

Askani is a technocrat-turned writer, who deserves some credit for attempting such an endeavour to connect the stories of four women, although as a work of fiction, which is a miserable failure. Askani writes a female centered story, yet the voyeuristic fetish of phallocentrism is quite evident in the petty assertions of naked baths and similar instances.  

Fractured Legend is just another incompetent book on the block of contemporary Indian writings in English. Fortunately it is not a half baked romance.     

This review is a part of the Book Reviews Program at BlogAdda.com. Participate now to get free books!  

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An Indian Commentator Book Review

Coming soon

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Caught

By: Haralan Coben

“Scandal. Suspicion. Murder. It’s child’s play…”

Coming soon on The Indian Commentator, a book review of Harlan Coben’s novel Caught.

Here is a bird’s eye view on the book, from the author’s website:

17 year-old Haley McWaid is a good girl, the pride of her suburban New Jersey family, captain of the lacrosse team, headed off to college next year with all the hopes and dreams her doting parents can pin on her. Which is why, when her mother wakes one morning to find that Haley never came home the night before, and three months quickly pass without word from the girl, the community assumes the worst.

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Wendy Tynes is a reporter on a mission, to identify and bring down sexual predators via elaborate—and nationally televised—sting operations. Working with local police on her news program Caught in the Act, Wendy and her team have publicly shamed dozens of men by the time she encounters her latest target. Dan Mercer is a social worker known as a friend to troubled teens, but his story soon becomes more complicated than Wendy could have imagined.

In a novel that challenges as much as it thrills, filled with the astonishing tension and unseen suburban machinations that have become Coben’s trademark, Caught tells the story of a missing girl, the community stunned by her loss, the predator who may have taken her, and the reporter who suddenly realizes she can’t trust her own instincts about this case—or the motives of the people around her.

(Courtesy: Harlan Coben. Published with special permission from the author.)

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The Werewolf

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He lurked in the night,

Under the moon’s gleaming face.

He hid himself not, though,

Instead came out in the moonlight.

The signifier of unknown terror,

Fierce and virile,

His chest rising and falling like a drum,

Belly flat like drum,

Eyes made of amber and ruby serum.

His life once was human,

Then his blood took offence with nature,

In the wild it ran freely,

And his body took its turn surely,

Fangs, fur and his head too,

Grew into a wolf’s.

A song rose from his heart, at times,

In blood’s significant rhythm,

And there was in his eyes,

A gleam and a shadow.

The gleam was love,

The shadow was a woman.

Her hairs floated in the night air,

Penetrating the chill of solemn despair.

The werewolf howled;

Jumped in front of her.

He neither touched her,

Nor his fangs tore her skin.

His eyes gleamed more,

Shading the full moon in the cold.

She looked at him in the eyes.

Her eyes too shared the golden gleam,

And he growled again,

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“I am a werewolf, you must run away,

Or your life’s road

Will take the hell’s way.

I beseech you.”

“I now you and you know me.

My heart’s strings sing for you in glee.

I am yours, give me hell,

If that price could buy peace for me.”

The woman’s words rang in the air,

With the blinking stars’ above,

And the fate so near.

The werewolf moved closer,

His arms bound around her hip.

In a tragic love’s final desire,

He kissed her on her lips,

And his fangs tore into her neck,

With the heat of her blood in his mouth,

And the shiver of her flesh in his arms,

He howled at the moon,

The cruel observer in the heavens.

Deathless the night witnessed,

Hopeless the heavens observed,

The deathless werewolf groaning in pain,

And the stars of his tears-

Glowing in hell.

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The Orphan

Thepromises of a festive season are always many. We nourish the festival and its myth in hope that it will bring into our lives some of those finest moments that we long so  much to have in the present life, as the many people in the stories from past had. When some events take place that shakes us up from the conscious sleep we conveniently choose for ourselves, we say it’s bad. I thought about saying the same when I was asked to help some of my friends to provide groceries and other goods to a home for the disabled. It was under a charity organization run by one of the Christian sects. There were poor and disabled, physically and mentally. There were kids too. One of them had lost his mother just a month back. This poem, perhaps, was inspired from my visit to that home. I would like to add some value to this poem by dedicating it to those children and homeless adults.   

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The Orphan

The intimacy of your tears

With the loneliness of my days

Cannot comprehend why

I am alone in a city of crowds.

The kindness of your words

Cannot mean why my ears go shut

At the music of laughter and

The harmony of gatherings.

The smile of your empathy

Cannot bridge the rupture

Of my redemption and someone else’s

Legacy.

This poem has also been published in Poem Hunter.com

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Woman

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Sometimes, we find ourselves so aligned with the rhythm of the cosmos that the fluttering wings of a distant butterfly can have its share in helping us experience some of the indelible moments.

Woman’s Equality Day is commemorated each year by the people of the United States of America, on August 26^th. I published this poem on Poem Hunter.com without knowing this specific detail. One of my friends in Facebook told me about this. That was the moment I realized I was attuned with the cosmic music and that my thoughts crossed those living on the other side of the planet, unknowingly.

I would like to publish the comment of my Facebook friend Sabine Schonwalder from Italy at the end of this post. The poem is here for you all to enjoy.

Woman

My long sari,

An overlapping image with my body,

Floats in front of your eyes,

In a luring sensation above and below nakedness,

As if I belong to the world of mathematics,

Always shown for something else:

Suppose X is Y and A is B,

I am a woman and my soul is free.

I dedicate this poem to all women, everywhere in the world. 

Comment:

Sabine Schonwalder: Very nice title for International Women's Equality Day :-)  It creates an image in front of my eyes, so... well done :-)

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The Day before Onam

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A woman came out the house that was the biggest and luxurious on the shore of the national Highway 17 that connected Cannanore and Calicut, just at the junction before the suburban bridge. Vinod, her husband might be in his room preparing his speech to be delivered in front of the judge. Their married life would end today.

It was the month of rain, but that day the sun was bright and that was good. She stood in the sunlight on the terrace.

Smitha worked in the State Bank. Her husband Vinod was a real-estate broker, a term he always disliked to be addressed with. Her only daughter, Priya was in a prestigious school in Mumbai and only son, Prakash was doing his MBA from Harvard. Her husband’s second son though, studied in a much less expensive school in Kerala that taught MBA, the same subject, but included a set of extra curricular activities including student strikes, breaking the glasses of State Buses, and damaging public property. However, He was not a regular visible participant in these activities. His name was Raghu and just once, he was officially ‘caught’ by the law for damaging public property and was put away. Vinod had to spend a lot of money to release Raghu.

He was a scrupulous child. Never again he risked being found out.

Vinod had another wife, Pallavi before he married Smitha. Raghu was the son he had in that marriage. Vinod divorced her when he found Smitha was a better choice for his prudential plans. Smitha was never married before. Her father thought about her secure future and after many considerations he decided Smitha would be happier with this man who knew how to be in the bright side of success. Even though divorced, Vinod still paid for his son, her step son. Smitha never minded it, she never cared about money her husband made, usually, until it all came down like a castle of cards.

Smitha thought about it again, but she could not understand now why she did not dislike or give any particular concern for her husband’s paternal inclination before. Things started falling down the previous year. Even her father had predicted that the real estate business in Kerala would not be affected by economic crisis. Predictions were wronged by some unprecedented influences. She could not understand what. They said it was the ripples of the global fiscal crisis, but she was sure it was something else that happened with her husband’s business.

Thinking deep about the reasons of the financial cripple her husband was now in, she could locate only one cause; his exclusive and unsevered connection with the past. Past if did not let go at the right time, could become a snare that could bind you hard and can take you down…down...real down. And that was what happened, she was sure. He still paid for Raghu, the student revolutionary. Her own son and daughter were lacking the same support from their father.

“I cannot bear this discrimination anymore,” she had said the previous month. He had remained silent to all her questions and that she felt endlessly disgraceful because he seemed not to bother to acknowledge her presence.

“You never loved each other,” her family councilor friend, Swetha had said. For Vinod, it was a solid financial backbone that he expected in marrying Smitha, his previous wife had no job. For Smitha, it was all for her father, her only blood-relative existed upon earth that kept her from being an alien, self-born. She needed to please him and so Vinod was a viable option. For her father, maybe it was the prospect of real-estate and its immunity to the global financial crisis.

Smitha was about to turn away from the terrace when her attention spilled at the nearby small tile roofed house. In front of the house was a little girl, making a floral carpet. It was the day before Onam. She realized it with an unspeakable pang in her heart. The previous year, her son and daughter were here, celebrating Onam, making floral carpets and making sadhya, the Onam feast. That was when the whole family came together, for the final time. Vinod was there too, even if the business was off track already, he never showed it then. He appeared all excited, helping kids and no one had spoken about Raghu. She remembered that even then the absence of Raghu’s reference made her feel relieved.

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She never actually liked Raghu. Her dislike towards the boy was not just because now her husband was borrowing money from her to help him in his cultural activities, which always involved political leaders and parties, though only once it was the police and the courtroom. It was also because Raghu represented what she displaced when she entered Vinod’d life. And she never even doubted the fact that she had this thought running all through her veins ever since she heard Vinod talk about Raghu, twenty one years back, even when they met for the first time.

It was after the previous Onam Vinod revealed he was bankrupt, but she took it bravely. They had her salary to survive on, which was good money. But then…Raghu had needs too. 

The thought of her son asking her about how they would celebrate this year’s Onam returned to her mind. It was how they parted and he bordered his plane for the US, the previous year. She returned from the terrace to her room, which was in the first floor. The door to Vinod’s room was visible from the stairs and she saw it was not opened and the bottom of the door still had a dark border.

He might not have woken up yet, she thought. Should she wake him up?  She did not feel it unusual to think that way. Today was the perhaps the final day of them together under this roof, if everything went fine. Today they will be granted divorce. Swetha had promised that. And she had also promised Smitha that she would drop her at the court, so that Smitha can avoid the embarrassment of asking the ex-husband a ride to the very ceremony that made him her ex-. It sounded funny when she thought about it.

She saw the land phone sitting on the tea-poi near the sofa in the hall in front of Vinod’s room. It had not rung the whole day, yesterday. She had expected her children to call her… or Vinod. She remembered clearly, how she had revealed the news of their decision to the kids. They hadn’t asked her if there would be an Onam celebration this year. They had just kept silence, both of them.

Smitha heard a vehicle honking outside the gate. At first she had thought it was a traffic problem early in the morning. She looked at the clock on the wall inside her room, it showed 7 am. Then the honking grew consistent. Perhaps an accident, she thought. She considered going out to the terrace again and watching it from there. It seemed unwise, because it could be Swetha asking her to open the gate. Smitha had asked her to arrive as early as possible, but this early was a real surprise. A true friend, Smitha thought.

Smitha opened the main door and found an unfamiliar car in front of her gate. She took the remote control and hit the red button, the gate opened with its regular music. She closed the front door and went inside. Whoever it was, it was not Swetha. So it could be a visitor to Vinod, may be his advocate. But the car that entered through the gate was still unfamiliar. She knew Vinod’s advocate and his car, it was a Hyundai Alto. The car that crossed the gate to the driveway was a Toyota Innova, a taxi.

She went inside and knocked on Vinod’s door. It was the only wise decision she could think of. She was about to go into her own room leaving the guests to her willful negligence when she heard a call; “Amma!”

She turned. The voice was familiar. Her son! “Amma, open the door,” –this time it was her daughter. Were they here? To see the final dramatic act of this play?  

Vinod came out of his room too, bleary eyed and with a bed head. He opened the main door. The two youngsters, the brother and sister rushed inside. They hugged their father one after the other, and walked towards where their mother was, at the bottom of the stairs, stunned at this paranormalscene.

“Who invited you here?” this was Smitha’s first response to Priya, who ran towards Smitha and hugged her.  

“No one mom. We just wanted to see if our parents are capable of making this crucial decision alone. And if you weren’t, I honestly believed we both could help you,” It was Prakash.

“Come on kids, take rest. You have crossed miles to reach here. Tons of fatigue and germs,” Vinod said as if pampering an LKG lad. He knew how to make people enter into deals, she thought momentarily.

Something kept her attention along with her two kids. It was the movement in the verandah. There was someone else with them, she realized. Not just one, but two.

Prakash went out the front door, suddenly, and came back after a moment. Along with him were Pallvi and Raghu.

“I am sorry if I am causing a disturbance to you. I am also sorry for not asking your permission to enter into this house… yourhouse, Smitha,” Pallavi said.

Smitha and Vinod stood aghast, staring at Pallavi and Raghu. Walking towards Smitha, Raghu bent and touched her feet, as a gesture of politeness. “We are not here to give you trouble,” he said, standing up in front of Smitha. “We are here because Prakash and Priya invited us.”

Pallavi smiled. “I already know what is happening between the two of you and what the importance of this day is in the life of this family. I won’t say this man; your husband; deserves any respect. He left me for money and social security, which he felt you, could offer him. But today when these kids came to me and I saw their tears, I could not deny their request.”

“Can you leave us alone, please,” Vinod said, his voice sounding hollow.

“I can. But I don’t want these two kids to have the same fate as my Raghu. I did not marry anyone else after our divorce thinking Raghu might never get the same love from any other man. And you as his father always met his demands, never even thinking if your wife would like your generosity.”

“I know this very well aunti that the previous time it was your money that pappa gave me. He didn’t tell me, however. I knew about his business being down and I also knew he could not have trusted anyone else at this time of downfall to borrow money from,” Raghu said. “Smitha aunty, I know you never liked me living like a parasite feeding on your husband’s money… yourmoney, now. It’s over… I don’t want anything else from him, except just one final request.” He said and turned towards Vinod.

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Raghu spoke again; “They say one must trade whatever one has to celebrate Onam. Can you trade love with egotism, just this once and let this family be together once again?”

Vinod looked at Raghu, with beads of tears on his eyelashes. Prakash was facing the front door, his right hand over his face. Priya sat on the sofa and blinked off her tears, hard.

“You are not just making a decision here; you are giving your children a new life,” Pallvi said.                 

She looked at Raghu and they both moved towards the main door. The car was waiting outside. There at the door, Swetha appeared. “Am I late?” she smirked and glanced at Smitha, beamingly. “I hope you are going to give that judge an off day today.”

It had started to drizzle slightly, though the sun was still shining and the beaming pearls of rain created a floral carpet in those dry minds that were in their journey back to togetherness. Pallavi stopped and smiled at this and said; “Happy Onam.” 

    

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Crimson

R.I.P. Rajesh Khanna (1942-2012)
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Dear reader, this is my latest short story. I dedicate this story to the acting phenomenon, late Mr. Rajesh Khanna, the evergreen superstar of Bollywood.

“Crimson,” I called the earthworm. It didn’t look up, though. Of course, it might not have learnt it that I had given him a name, yet. “Crimson,” I called it again. This time, he stopped and with what seemed a strained move, raised his long head up. “Me?” he asked. I was not shocked. Of course, I am not lying. Just because I want this story not to be about the astonishment and shock in discovering a talking earthworm, which I named “Crimson”, I wouldn’t lie. Naming him Crimson had other reasons too. His skin colour was the last of them. It was a rainy June day, but that morning, rain clouds came only after the sun rose crimson and thick. It was an off day since it was the Day of the Departed Souls for the Hindus.

“Did you call me?” the earthworm asked once again.

I was a bit nervous thinking if it would be a problem just naming an earth worm on random instinct. I was crazy. It was my intention to float on my imagination and creativity to survive the whip lashing of reality. However, I was not at all imagining the pleasant voice of the worm. It wounded rather pleased.

“Yes, I am sorry if the name offended you…friend” I hesitated.

“It’s a very good name,” said the earthworm. “You are blessed by the muse, I can see that!” it added merrily.

“Please don’t take me in the wrong way. Do you have a real name?”

“Yes, I do have, but you might not be able to understand if I say it. It makes meaning only in the earth-worm-language. I am sorry.” It was strange, wasn’t it? I had a name for someone I met only a moment before. And I was not even sure if we would meet at any time in the future, either. After some time, he would dive deep into some secret caverns in the soil and I will retire to my den.

However, I still felt there was something in us that was common. We both would engage without knowing what lies ahead of us in the secrets of the world we exist; I with words and mind, he with his slithering body and pointed head, which he now rested back on the surface of the laterite stone that lined the courtyard of the house I took as my vacation residence.

An abyss, one foot deep was ahead of Crimson. Probably he could manage to find some short-cut through the porous stone into the earth below towards the direction he was cruising. One quality in him was in stark contrast with mine—he knew how to keep going after a moment of pause.

As I was about to move on with the impact this earthly lesson was bearing upon me, something—a movement near Crimson—invited my attention.

Ants!

Crimson was about to bump into a troop of ants marching into a hole in the stone. Or perhaps they were coming out of it.

And he didn’t see. “Crimson! Be careful!!” I shouted.

But that was perhaps too loud a voice for Crimson, the earthworm to hear. I saw a small fifteen centimeter, half an inch PVC pipe lying near the stone pavement lining the courtyard, the very stone upon which a merciless assault would soon draw ‘the end’ curtain to the life of my latest acquaintance.

I took the pipe and placed it in front of Crimson, in an attempt to make him crawl inside through the mouth of the pipe. I knew he couldn’t move over the slippery surface of the pipe. Therefore, I did not try it that way.

As his pointy head touched the pipe, he drew his flowing muscular movement to a pause. He raised his head in a disdainful swing and asked me, “What in the world are you doing?”

“Watch out! Ants!” I cried.         

“What!” he said in a sudden and indolent tone in his voice. “This is not the way to deal with it. Come on! You human; you have no idea!”

Now that was offensive! It was pure racism.

Crimson changed his route with a turn rightward from the pipe. I put the mouth of the pipe in front of him again; this time with a silent agitation, but with genuine interest to save him. He swiftly swung his body again. This time, however, the ants were close. So close that one of the ants’ antennae touched Crimson in his head—a moment of shock, silent astonishment and destiny. Predator and prey, eyes in eyes.

Even though, that was a moment that might take away my racist friend forever from me and I might be destined to witness a wild conflict for survival and existence right in front of my eyes, I felt a sort of grandeur associated with it. It was when nature revealed one of the most intriguing of its secrets close at hand. Killing to survive. No bar, no judiciary. The only rule was the rule of existence and survival.

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I didn’t know what to do next. Crimson might be killed and the ants would take him to the deep caverns of unending storage. That was good for them, but I felt it unjust against my short time acquaintance. The ant opened its tentacles and moved closer.

I closed my eyes, but suddenly opened them as I felt something rubbed against my arm that was extended towards Crimson to offer him the mouth of the pipe. It was a black fly with a pair of silver wings.

As I watched, the fly sat on the ant that was touching Crimson with its antennae and opening its tentacles. When the fly rose in the air, there was no ant. I didn’t know that flies eat ants. This fly did. It was a big one and was decidedly hungry. But I knew the curtain of end was still imminent. There were ants, by this time, on the slithering body of Crimson. And that made him swirl his body more.

Hope has a mysterious nature. It arrives when we least expect it and even at times when a huge storm had nearly devastated our belongings. Sometimes, I felt, hope was an element that the air is made of.

Two more flies, black with silver wings flew down and landed on the earth worm. They had trouble balancing themselves on the swinging Crimson. But they did.

When hope condenses on the grasses like snow, the best thing we can do is to give a hand-stretch of help. I had made my mind. I dropped the piece of pipe and picked Crimson using my bare fingers and dropped him on the soil below the lining laterite stones.

The swarm of ants spread across the stone. The flies were hunting their lunch too. Crimson straightened up and raised his head to look at me. There was contempt and frustration in that look as if I had intervened into a superior event that my human stupidity could hardly grasp in meaning and dimension. I knew he was part of nature, but without me, nature would never fulfill its destiny; I am part of that same nature too. I wished I could have the magical gesticulations of Rajesh Khanna, the seventies superstar of Bollywood, with which I could have somehow managed to keep Crimson calm. But it was wishful thinking. Rajesh Khanna was dead, unlike Crimson, who hurried into a hole under a swell near the place I dropped him.  

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