A House for Mr. Biswas

He thought of the house as his own, though for years it had been irretrievably mortgaged. And during these months of illness and despair he was struck again and again by the wonder of being in his own house, the audacity of it: to walk in through his own front gate, to bar entry to whoever he wished, to close his doors and windows every night, to hear no noises except those of his family, to wander freely from room to room and about his yard, instead of being condemned, as before, to retire the moment he got home to the crowded room in one or the other of Mrs. Tulsi’s houses, crowded with Shama’s sisters, their husbands, their children. As a boy he had moved from one house of strangers to another; and since his marriage he felt he had lived nowhere but in the houses of the Tulsis, at Hanuman House in Arwacas, in the decaying wooden house at Shorthills, in the clumsy concrete house in Port of Spain. And now at the end he found himself in his own house, on his own half-lot of land, his own portion of the earth. That he should have been responsible for this seemed to him, in these last months, stupendous.

A House for Mr. Biswas (1961) is V.S. Naipaul’s third novel and deals with the life of Mohun Biswas, an Indian settler in Trinidad and his struggles to have a house of his own. Born the wrong way and considered to be unlucky by his parents, his prank leads to the death of his father. His mother and the four children are separated, Mohun taken into the care of his aunt Tara and her husband Ajodha. To earn a living, he works as a painter of signs and falls in love with Shama of the Tulsi family.

The Tulsi family is a joint family with the mother Mrs. Tulsi, her two sons, her sister and family, her fourteen daughters, their husbands and children, all living under the same roof. He longs for a house of his own and builds two, one of which blows off in the storm and the other catches fire. His struggles to have a house of his own that be “unaccomodated and unhoused” is the theme of the novel.

After years of poverty and humiliation, Biswas gets a job as a news reporter and his fortunes change. He saves money and when his son Anand is humiliated by Owad, the present Tulsi patriarch, he buys a house and takes Shama and his four children there. The house has so many faults that he did not notice but then it is his own and he dies there.

The novel portrays the lives of Hindus in the West Indies and the joint family system is humorously portrayed especially the nicknames that Mohun Biswas devises for his mother-in-law and his brother-in-laws. At the same time, there is pathos in the rootlessness and humiliation that a poor migrant has to suffer in an alien land. A House for Mr. Biswas combines both laughter and tears to depict a man’s attempt to find his self and his own "privacy and space" as Naipaul himself says in his BBC Interview.

Under the banyan tree

Under the huge banyan tree
Who loves to sit with me,
And sing his soulful songs,
Watch the tender leaves flicker-
Come here, come here, come here!
Here we shall live
With no worries
All through this summer.


Our dreams soar sky high
Forever in the sunshine
Happy where we are
Happy with what we have
Come here, come here, come here!
Here we shall love
With no fears
All through this summer.

Green Again

A bit of bright blue sky to sing aloud;  

A pelt of rain to sleep comfortably;
A bit of thunder and lightning to look
And feel brave and happy at times.

The swooping  airshow by the kites;
Caught by the eye and not on the lens,
The evening palettes in hues of blue,
That brings back some thoughts of you.

Like a chorus in a song, you play nonstop,
While I watch the skies and the rain,
Look at the fresh green banyan leaves
Turn wan in the summer sun like me.

The tiny heart-shaped leaves will flicker,
And our hearts will turn green once again.

Recompense

For every word of harshness that you hear,
There is equally a word of love somewhere.
For the darkest hours of the wakeful night,
At the end of which is a beautiful dawn.

For the loss of innocence of childhood,
There is the growing maturity of years.
For the loss of a life near river green,
There is lot more sunshine to equal.

For the trenches that this life fell into
There are the new scales that it climbs.
For the years lost in search of dreams,
There are these words on a virtual page.

Which brings in daily, strange comfort,
For every friend lost, that of strangers.

Songs of Sunshine

When the heart chose its path

And burnt all the other roads,

Reason was silent and sore,

But the heart hoped and loved

More than everything else.

In the days of radiant sunshine

Free and uncensored thoughts,

Effortless talk with smiles,

Laughter, kisses and love,

No bitterness was foreseen.

Now the sunshine is gone,

Replaced by the rainy days

Just like the pre-sunshine age

Each day after the other

Again an uneventful life.

The clock has been turned

Back to the mixed times,

Bittersweet and mundane,

Where no dark clouds were,

It is raining incessantly.

The days of sunshine are over,

With no hopes of coming back,

Angry words and accusations,

No daily downloads of news

Only spite and seething anger.

Yet this heart that forgot itself,

Became rougher and tougher

Day after day remembers,

The melodious tunes it knew

In the days of bright sunshine. 

On Air

The way your memory creeps up before my eyes
The way you croon your favourite songs and mine,
The songs that have stayed despite the long years
Playful, naughty, sad, philosophical or just pleasant.

The songs that bring you back to me wherever I am
Wild dreams of being one with you body and soul
Spending endless hours in embraces like creepers
Despite the long sad years of absence and longing.

Though I long for our lost days with a heavy heart,
Those days of endless sunshine that were so perfect
Your sweet voice singing your favourites and mine
During all seasons and all times, every single day.

The songs that I listen on the radio this morning
Brings back a smile in this era of infinite longing.

Daily

Let me watch the stars with you;

The warmth of a lovely sunrise;
Let me travel with you once again
To a home near the River Green;

Let us play in the shallow waters
Like always in a lost sacred childhood.
Let me stand with you near a grave
Lost in renovation and forgetfulness;

Let me find love once again with you;
The lost beauty of love and smiles;
Let me sit beside you in a snakeboat
As it floats across the blue waters.

Let me colour this circle of life again
With a spot of red from your hands.

Pic: ndtv

SOS

I didn't run for shelter before the storm
But kept wandering with a sinking heart;
Meanwhile you slipped out of my fingers
Nor did I get back to the real destination.

After roaming around for years, here it is,
The same crossroads and the bittersweet,
Memories of a good life lost in the long run
While a hand that offered solace is now gone.

Now the roads stretch too wide and far
Nightmarish bleak turnstiles without you
You never knew the mirage of temptation
Or how the signs I followed have led me astray.

Finally, I find courage to write these words
For the winds to carry, before I drown again.

Global

 

Dan Brown's Inferno

Dan Brown’s Inferno (2013) is quite unlike his earlier books in that here the author turns an environmental activist in that he constantly reminds the reader of the global ecological crisis and the problems of overpopulation. It reads more like GB Shaw’s plays that carry some social message or the other.

Though in the earlier novels, it was possible to suspend disbelief at the kind of code-cracking that Robert Langdon practiced, this time it becomes a little bit tedious with the population problem that is part of the discourse of the novel. He makes use of the character of a slightly eccentric scientist Bertrand Zobrist to offer a solution to the overpopulation problem and this is by creating a virus named Inferno that has got serious consequences to the entire humanity.

The apocalypse is near and the scientist being a fan of Dante has written all the codes in poetry. The allusions and history reveal a lot about the culture and heritage of art work as usual, the fun element is replaced by a seriousness quite unlike Brown. Like all Brown heroines, Sienna Brooks is also quite smart and independent but she turns mushy and cries on Langdon’s shoulder. 

Déjà vu

Monday brought its blues

The pull between dreams

And the bitter reality

When you had to face

The same music, in the past

The fear of an ending

When there’s no beginning,

Without anything to say

Except a few bitter words

And as you say my lies

What can I say except

That you have no clue

What mess you will be

When all this finishes

Because I know well

Sometimes the heaven

Offers some warning

Some strange signal

For the weary traveller

To run away for life

There are no endings

Nor any beginnings

In a love like this

Only a pervading sense

Of our seamlessness

Skeletons in the Cupboard

There is nothing left in the cupboard

Except the daily household items,

Coffee, sugar, bread and tea,

A few broken loves from the past,

A dysfunctional family of inferno

In time replaced by another

While time is spent in words

A precious gems that began

A few songs of silence followed

A few songs of remembrance

A purple riot that ran and bled

And the silence that it brewed.

Days of humdrum and misdom,

Always balanced by fantasies,

In colours of midnight blue

That brought out all old stories

The years that buried the dreams

And no secrets left except you.

Sprout

You are the sprout that demands my pelting rain of affection, my tiny green whose footsteps fill me with pride with words that come right from the heart.

You are my sprout that loves everything green and creeps over all these broken walls of old houses and old loves and broken dreams.

You are my sprout that cuts through words, flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood, born out of a green dream of having a name to leave behind.