The Body Myth by Rheea Mukherjee

My rating: 4 of 5 stars


I finished reading The Body Myth by Rheea Mukherjee few days back and have since been trying to write an honest review for the same. But frankly, this book has me divided in my opinion. While starting with this work, we are advised by the author, or cautioned if you prefer, to take the story as one would take a large pill and rightly so.

The writer’s style is impressive and you can’t help but falling in love with it so much so that the book becomes unputdownable. You start reading and the characters become so vivid that you can almost visualize them, envisaging in your mind the scenes and the dialogues as you read along.

The book starts with Mira, who comes across a married couple Sara and Rahil in a public park and feels drawn to them. She witnesses Sara’s seizure and doubts whether it is real or faked but still feels attracted to the couple. Mira’s husband had died some nine months back and she had stayed at an institution trying to cope with her situation. When asked by Sara how she survived that, she reflects:

“Emotional pain can be so severe, so profound, so soul braking, that it must reflect on the body. But I couldn’t seem to find my scars when I stood in front of the mirror. Perhaps they disguised themselves, moving across my skin like a flea on a cat.”

When we suffer enormous emotional pain, there comes a point when the body functions become almost mechanical, the mind wants to free itself, of pain, of suffering, but a constant feeling of nagging remains, like something hammering constantly at the back of your mind.

She tells the reader:

“You might think it was teaching that saved me from the blunt darkness that comes with the loss of a spouse. It was not. I almost committed suicide, true, but it was Camus, Sartre, Foucault and de Beauvoir who led me back to life.”

Later, she thinks it is the idea of futility of “our perceptions of existence, our grand ideas of hope and reality”, the futility of treating life like it has some greater purpose than getting along the humdrum of our daily lives, that saved her. She had finally come to a point where she found grief bothersome and longed for a kind of normalcy to return to her life.

It is Sara’s suffering that pulls Mira to her. Sara has a mental illness and it reminds Mira more of her late mother, a mother who was a victim of depression and whose memories are at best a blur in her life. I could sense Mira’s pain and could see why she might have been attracted to Sara, who also seemed to be in pain.

I would leave it to you to discover how their meetings turn more intimate and how gradually a poly-amorous relationship is developed. The central premise of the book seems to be the transformation of a dyadic relationship (Sara and Rahil) to triadic relationship as narrated by the third partner and protagonist of the work, Mira. It is about the acceptance of each other as a partner, an acceptance that finally comes as result of a conflict between the body and the mind.

This book does not place itself as a narrative to educate people about polyamory. It just explores a triad relationship with Mira, Sara and Rahil as partners, portraying the dilemmas that they go through, their actions and their coming to peace with their reality, which might not necessarily align with the readers’ ideas.

At certain places, the book is uncomfortable to read because it evokes questions that we might not find easy to answer. Questions like:

Do we know our bodies well? Does our body, in any way at any time, act differently than what our minds ask it to do? Are our minds aware of what our bodies need or desire? Does our mind always follow what our bodies dictate or do they feel conflicted between desires and the accepted ideas of morality?

However, it is not a commentary on the same. Neither does it offer any answers.

Now I would like you to read the rest of the review keeping the above said questions in your mind. To keep in mind that the protagonists perhaps were only trying to understand themselves better, by being aware to the needs of both their minds and bodies so that they could reach a harmony.

The relationship is kept a secret from everybody, even from Mira’s father, throughout the length of the novel. One can understand this because polyamory is considered a taboo subject in most societies. Mira is shown to be very close to his father, discussing almost everything with him. So towards the end, when Mira takes Rahil (her supposedly live in partner as told to her father) to meet her father, she introduces Sara and Rahil as siblings. When I reached this point, something snapped inside me. Not that I can be a judge of human relationships and am as intrigued about the dynamics and mysteriousness of poly-amorous relationships, but I failed to view their coming together as natural. First, it was the downright lie that bothered me, and then their further and more relaxed meetings with her father. Maybe, it was just this dishonesty that got to me. Why did Mira do that really?

The other thing, which did not sit down well with me, was Mira and Rahil’s apparent devotion towards Sara, Mira’s regard of Sara as some kind of Sufi mystique, her idea that both she and Sara shared some purpose in life. Their conversations didn’t seem as elevating as Mira’s own musings at times, which I enjoyed reading.

Sara’s illness is supposedly self-imposed, and Rahil already knows that. Mira makes them realize this and help them come to terms with their lives. Still, her almost saccharine allegiance to Sara in the knowledge of that felt too unrealistic, their idea of a normal, happy life together, bit infantile. Besides, since we don’t hear much from Rahil, we have least idea about his love for Mira.

When reflecting upon her conversations and interaction with one of her students, Mira’s thoughts are a delight to read, barring one incident towards end, which to say honestly, really shocked me. But I guess it did shock Mira too. I just wondered about the need of inclusion of that specific incident in the narrative.

Towards the end, their relationship reaches a conclusion in Sara’s departure from Mira and Rahil’s life. It is as if the epicenter of their lives shifts from illness/grief to tranquillity with each of the partners finally reaching an imperative juncture in life. In a sense, the author makes the relationship dyadic again, to provide a kind of closure to the story by confirming to established societal order.

This work might be an uncomfortable read but it certainly is indelible and is bound to leave a mark upon the mind of the reader.

PS: I initially rated three stars to the work but upon reflection, I realized I liked it much better.




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Milkman by Anna Burns
My rating: 1 of 5 stars

I realize I can't torture myself anymore. Another Booker to disappoint after "A Horse Walks into a Bar". My bad I picked them up in a row.


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How I Became a Tree by Sumana Roy
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

“As I removed my watch from my wrist, and clocks from my walls, I realized that all my flaws—and this I now discover I share with many others—came from my failure to be a good slave to time."

Wouldn’t you agree that sometimes when you are reading a work, you come across such sentences which reverberate with your feelings about certain things in life? And that these sentences then help pave the way into a writer’s mind, kind of opening alleyways that lead you to those corners where the thought had first occurred. And that those corners are discovered not only because the writer makes you privy of those thoughts through her writing but also because they are illuminated with a clarity that is alluring. And then you find yourself going deeper and cherishing every moment along the way.

This happened with me while reading “How I Became a Tree” by Sumana Roy. I loved her writing. I loved how she took me onto a journey with her, a journey in the search of a ‘tree time’.

“It was impossible to rush plants, to tell a tree to ‘hurry up’. In envy, in admiration and with ambition, I began to call that pace ‘Tree time’.”

Tired of the way the world moves, Roy wishes to slow down and in order to be doing so, begins to wonder about the lives of trees, about their time. How their world is not affected by the chaos which seems to have engulfed our lives. To correlate the life of trees with that of humans, she starts with planting saplings as a way of beginning. She understands that tree time cannot be equated with our time as trees don’t live like us or have days like birthdays or anniversary days but she realizes that trees can possibly only live in the present. In her journey forward, she reflects upon the ideas like kindness, tolerance, content, silence as could be understood in the realm of trees. She ruminates over the idea of living like a tree, of loving a tree, of having plants as children, of getting lost in the forest or sitting under a tree.

To convey her ideas more clearly she meticulously cites works of writers including poets, essayists, scientists, philosophers and painters as well as anecdotes from her life. So in a sense the work has elements of memoir, essay and even critique which make it much more beautiful. It reminded me of Gaston Bachelard’s “Poetics of Space”, a work I had enjoyed reading tremendously.

I read this work slowly, as it is meant to be. And as I proceeded with the different parts this book is divided into, I realized that they can be related to different ashramas (stages) of life as depicted in Ancient Indian texts, not in a literal but symbolic sense, with each stage the author turning closer to discovering herself in relation to life of trees while brooding over the different stages of human life that we are expected to follow or go through.
The parts include:
I. A Tree Grew inside My Head (Saisava)
II. I Paint Flowers so they will not die
III. See the long shadow that is Cast by the Tree (Tarunya)
IV. Supposing I became a Champa Flower (Yauvana)
V. I want to do with you what Spring does with Cherry Trees (Ghrihasta)
VI. One Tree is Equal to Ten Sons (Ghrihasta)
VII. Lost in the Forest (Vanprastha)
VIII. Under the Greenwood Tree (Sanyasa)
IX. The Tree is an Eternal Corpse (Mokhsa)

In italics are the stages in Indian context as I could grasp. I am not really sure whether these were intended by the author in the same manner or not.

This book is a wistful account of the compulsiveness to escape the chaos as experienced by humans in a fast moving world where we have wilfully forgotten the pleasure of living a slow (read ‘unhurried’) life which is the natural disposition of trees and perhaps, of ours too. So the author’s journey to become a tree is more of a journey to rediscover the simplest things in life, things which make us more tolerant, kind and more human.

I must say that it is one of the most compelling works of contemporary Indian non-fiction I have read in a while. Highly recommended.





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A Horse Walks into a Bar by David Grossman
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I ordered this book because it was recommended to me by Amazon when I was placing an order for "Milkman" (probably because both of these are Man Booker Prize winners). When I received both the books, I decided to go with this one first. And only a few pages into the book, I realized this book wasn't for me. I still carried on reading till the end hoping that I might discover something which may make the reading experience worthwhile. So now when it is over, I am glad I am done with it and don't find myself guilty of abandoning it in between.


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Warlight by Michael Ondaatje
My rating: 4 of 5 stars



My reading of Warlight was preceded by that of All the Lives We Never Lived by Anuradha Roy. It kind of feels strange to be brooding over a few similarities that I experienced while reading these works. And no, these aren’t much alike except that both of these works dwell upon uncertainties brought about by wars and how they affect certain lives. Also, at the center is a protagonist abandoned by his mother (Nathaniel is 14 and Myshkin only 9 at the time).

In ALWNL, the mother is an artist whereas in Warlight, she is a spy. In that manner, the war doesn’t have the same bearing upon their lives apart from the void that their absence creates which isn’t easy either to fill or to transcend. And though it wouldn’t be fair to compare the experience of reading these works with each other, because of different stories and narrative styles, I find my mind working otherwise.

In ALWNL, Myshkin is continually in touch with his mother through the letters they write to each other. So, he is not looking for answers to some questions but is only longing for a reunion with his mother. In Warlight, Nathaniel and his sister Rachel have no idea about the whereabouts of their mother and right through the end we see Nathaniel trying to put together the pieces of their lives. Myshkin lives a protected life, surrounded by family and friends. Nathaniel is continuously confronted with strangers, trying to find a sense of belongingness. Myshkin never gets to see his mother ever again, but through her letters is able to understand her. Nathaniel, on the other hand, reunites with his mother, only to find a stranger in her.

When Rose returns to her children after war, she and Nathaniel relocate to her native place for she is afraid of the threat that looms over their lives as an aftermath of being a wartime spy.

In the author’s hand, we find a narrative that is poignant in the description of lives mired in the uncertainties of war, of their carefully guided secrets and of unfulfilled lives. It seems more like homage to the spies of war, whose existence is never acknowledged publicly and sometimes, may not reverberate with the commonly held notions of love and affection by the family. In the hazy war light, when rest of the country gets ready to shed the visage of gloom, even their shadows disappear mysteriously. One cannot help but wonder about the imperceptible magnitude of their sufferings and whether they ever get healed.

It is a notable work in wartime fiction. The only thing that did not go down well with me was the shift in narrative voice at certain places. At some places, where we are made privy to events in Rose’s childhood, the events which no one could have known, the shift from Nathaniel to an omniscient narrator is quite bewildering. Though Nathaniel says that he "knows how to fill in a story from a grain of sand" but the shift left the reader befuddled a bit as it evaded the sense of a much anticipated closure.

Since it was my first Ondaatje, I am not familiar with author's writing style. Perhaps reading of more of his works would let me understand how he works with memories.


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Latitudes of Longing: A Novel by Shubhangi Swarup

My rating: 2 of 5 stars


What can you say of a work which stuns you with the lyrical intensity of its prose right through to the middle and then makes you shift uneasily in your place as you try to understand the wayward course the narrative assumes further thereby letting you suddenly jerk from your stupor and making you want to skip some pages because the prose feels all too repetitive providing no reprieve till the end.

For a debut work, the author's style is worthy of praise. I loved how the writing seemed almost effortless till the middle but as it progressed, the author seemed to ran out of ideas to hold the story together or perhaps it was me who didn't get it. To me the novel seemed a little too ambitious for its scope. But I would definitely be looking for further works by the author.

2.5 stars.



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All the Lives We Never Lived by Anuradha Roy

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


The only thing that makes life possible is permanent, intolerable uncertainty: not knowing what comes next.” ― Ursula K. Le Guin


The only constant in life is change; the phenomenon that drives those wheels which move our life forward. Though being shaped by our own decisions or choices, the trajectory is difficult to ascertain. For, being a part of an ephemeral (also chaotic) world, much that we go through or are faced with, is also influenced by our circumstances, largely the familial ties and the socio-political environment we inhabit. Now this also means that not much in life is certain.We may go to bed making plans for next morning or for the distant future and the very next moment may unfold events which turn our life upside down.

This uncertainty, however intolerable, perpetually holds life and perhaps also at times, dictates our perspectives - making us plunge, without reconsideration, into things unforeseeable and unknown.

What if this plunge leaves us aching – for things we left behind, for that which we always took for granted instead of feeling ecstatic with happiness even if what followed was much better? What if it makes us pine for all that life could be, for all the lives we could have lived but never did?

Roy’s novel takes us onto a journey encompassing the lives of a mother and her son, separated by uncertain turn of events but united in their wistfulness for times they could have lived together.

Gayatri Rozario is an Indian woman, a mother (in the late 1930’s) who leaves her family and her only son because her creative and independent soul feels stifled in her marriage - a scandalous affair in pre independent India which leaves her son confused rather than angry. Though he doesn’t understand why his mother doesn’t take him along as she said but even the passage of time is not able to diminish her absent presence in his life.

Gayatri feeds on the pursuit of arts and pleasure rather than embracing the fervour of nationalism by engaging in struggle for independence.She has a mind of her own and feels smothered by the expectations of her abstemious husband Nek Chand who believes that it’s only worthwhile to engage in such higher pursuits like fighting for freedom. In carving out Nek Chand’s character, Roy skilfully shows the conflicting nature of a highly educated liberal Professor of a college who has little regard for the personal interests of women in his life and who thinks the place of women (if it is not for ‘higher pursuits’) is within the confines of her household. So when Gayatri, who once dreamt of going to Shanti Niketan to learn arts, is visited by Walter Spies, whom she had once met in Bali on a trip purposely planned by her father, she becomes desperate to get rid of the shackles her marriage had imposed upon her.

Gayatri’s departure followed by that of her husband Nek Chand and then his subsequent return with a wife, has a bearing upon nine year old Myshkin who feels her absence acutely. It is somewhat conciliated by the letters he receive from her where she tells him about her new life and how she wants him to be with her sooner. But as he grows older and begins understanding his father and other things around him like the Indian struggle for independence, he accepts her absence. It is only when he , much later in life, gets hold of a packet of letters written by his mother to her friend Lisa, that he comes to know more about his mother, about the events which unfolded between the times when his mother reached Bali till its occupation by the Japanese during WWII. These letters further emphasize how difficult it is to determine the outcome of one’s actions when one is living in uncertain times. Nothing happened as Gayatri had planned out or as her son had thought. It can only be said with certainty that she was at peace with herself while indulging in painting.

Roy’s incredible writing style is augmented with her ability to create realistic characters within an ambitious framework also dealing with history, historical facts and real artists. She deftly portrays the plight of her characters facing as difficult times as freedom struggle and WWII spanning across India and Bali. In fact, it is the uncertainty of times that loom largely over the lives of her characters, directing their actions and deciding their fates. Depiction of artists like Rabindranath Tagore, Walter Spies and Beryl de Zoete not only help us understand the artistic prospects of those times but also Gayatri’s character better. I loved how real life events associated with these artists were incorporated with fiction to create a convincing storyline.

The narrative is exquisite and mesmerizes the reader throughout the length of the novel. It is so riveting that I did not find even a single dull moment while reading it. The author’s writing style, attention to detail and ability to churn out credible characters reminded me of V.S.Naipaul. The book was also shortlisted for JCB prize for literature this year.

To end this review with my favourite quote from this novel:

For as long as they are alive, trees remain where they are. This is one of life’s few certainties. The roots of trees go deep and take many directions; we cannot foresee their subterranean spread any more than we can predict how a child will grow. Beneath the earth, trees live their secret lives, at times going deeper into the ground than up into the sky, entwined below with other trees which appear in no way connected above the ground. Had we been trees – my father, my mother, Brijen, Lisa, Dinu, my grandfather and I – which direction, I wonder in idle moments, would our roots have taken below the earth?




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