Solo – Rana Dasgupta

Synopsis:
A man’s half-lucid reminiscence on 100 years of his life in Bulgaria and of forgotten hopes, dreams and passions.

Category:
Words-Wordy, Serious

Genre:
Drama

Favorite Quote:
There is no single quote which stands out in memory, but there are many that made the narrative itself memorable:

“A long time ago, Boris and I had a debate about chemistry. I said it was the science of life, and he said it brought only death. Now I see that our views were simply two halves of the same thing.”

“Ulrich has sometimes wandered is his life has been a failure. Once he would have looked at all this and said, Yes. But now, he does not know what it means for a life to succeed or fail. How can a dog fail its life or a tree? A life is just a quantity and he can no more see failure in it than he can see failure in a pile of earth, or a bucket of water. Failure and success are foreign terms to such blind matter.

“if I could make an Einstein with my failed science, think what will come of my music.”

“The blackness of his obliterated vision has made a fertile screen for his daydreams”

Review:
Let me start off by saying that the duration alone is not enough to compare this book with “One hundred years of solitude”. While they are definitely not on par, both of them did bring a welcome change in an era predominated by recycled content and little originality.
A great book can be written by a writer who believes that he is catering to a very intelligent reader, or one who believes in elucidating every point with factual data. British-Indian novelist, Rana Dasgupta belongs to the former category. His Commonwealth Writer’s Prize winning book Solo carries off a surreal story of a 100 year old Ulrich without stagnating on the details.

Ulrich is disconcerted to learn about the death of a community of parrots which spoke an extinct language thus taking the secrets of the language along with them, and decides to go through a virtual tour of his eventful life in Bulgaria through the years.
During the early rule of the Ottoman Empire, Bulgaria prospered, providing a perfect platform for Ulrich’s father who was a railway engineer and his politically inclined eccentric mother Elizaveta. Ulrich on the other hand was fascinated by gypsy music and then chemistry and decides to pursue the latter in Berlin. He is in awe of the new world opened before him in Germany with legends like Einstein, Nernst and Haber, but is brought out of his reverie when he is called back home after 3 years due to lack of funds. Struggling amidst a mundane job as a book-keeper, political instabilities, personal losses and a failed marriage, Ulrich gets a job to revive an old chemical factory in the post-Second world war communistic era. He retires to a relatively calm life with occasional chemical experiments.
Bulgaria became a capitalistic nation in 1989/1990, by which Ulrich had dried up his pension money and had lost his eyesight in an unfortunate accident making him completely dependent on his neighbors . With the inability to see the outside world, Ulrich depended on himself to create a world of his own and resorted to day dreaming.

My initial reaction to the first section was mixed. Bulgaria is a lesser known country, and its history needed a lot of absorbing to be done. Setting up the story in one of the most turbulent political periods in Bulgaria and the most progressives times in Germany resulted in giving a very rich background to the story, but I felt it was not utilised as well as it could have been. There was no mention of the years for starters, making it difficult to understand which war or what upheaval was being discussed.
After reading it for the second time though (with enough data in hand), Dasgupta’s intentions became clearer. Solo is not meant to be about Bulgaria. It is about a common man’s extraordinary life in the 100 most eventful years in Bulgaria. It was meant to showcase how the ideals, passion, hopes and dreams of a man are affected by surrounding changes.

The second section is the story of three characters of Ulrich’s imagination– a musical prodigy called Boris, a mentally scarred wife of a tycoon, Khatuna and her poet brother Irakli. While the three stories initially seem disconnected from each other, and indeed from the first half of the book, the connections start coming across. There are many parallel references to Ulrich’s life in these day dreams. For example, Boris’ obsession with gypsy music, Boris’ grandmother writing obituaries and hanging it on trees, his practising music in a chemical factory, Khatuna’s mother selling off family heirlooms to sustain the family and so on.
A chance encounter brings the three together, and Boris and Irakli form an instant bonding. Khatuna’s possessiveness of Irakli, coupled with Boris’ ignoring her makes her hostile towards their budding friendship. However, Boris’ success makes Irakli feel inferior and depressed, and he finally commits suicide.
The cross linking between reality and dreaming happens when Ulrich visits Boris and advises him to take care of Irakli. On his loss, Ulrich ends the encounter with these words - I lost a friend once and I know how it goes. He’ll find his way inside you and you’ll carry him onward. Behind your heartbeat, you will hear another one, faint and out of step. People will say you are speaking his opinions or your hair has turned like his…. Gradually you’ll grow older than him and love him like your son.

The second section is more subtle and tastefully done. It is almost as if the first section provided a richly colorful palette for painting Ulrich’s imagination in later years. The stories of the individuals in itself were interesting, and any surreal coincidences could be attributed to them being day dreams. Of course, the justification of the characteristics of these individuals through his final talk with Boris was a final masterstroke.

Verdict:
Therefore, the verdict is difficult to give. The book is full of hidden meanings and undertones. The book is not recommended for a light-hearted summer-time read, even though the story is simple. The pieces don’t fall into place here. They have to be meticulously assembled by the readers themselves. The book expects an intelligent reader who can think along with the story and not just read the words.

The disappearing line between privacy and facebook

We are "all" narcissistic to a certain extent. Part of us wants to express how intelligent/socially conscious/good/pretty we are through blogs, facebook, twitter or google buzz. It can be in the form of write-ups, copied quotes, random song lyrics, uploading our best photos (or tweaking existing ones with photoshop), publicly displaying one's events calender, or sharing worldly issues. But I draw a line at facebook entering our personal lives. Consider the following examples:

1. The following conversation between a 30-something attractive couple with their son was overheard during a boat-ride for parasailing:
Dad: Mom is very angry with you.
Son: Why?
Dad: You forgot to bring the camera. Now how will we take photos?
Son: It was not my mistake!
Mom almost in tears: We will never have a photo with us doing it.
Finally they persuade another couple in the boat to take their pictures and mail it to them.
Mom : Please send it ok? Otherwise we would have missed something very important.
Dad (To the para sailing trainer): No, all of us would go individually. We want separate photos.
Boy: Now I can upload it in facebook!

2. Updated status messages via facebook mobile at:
06:15: En-route to goa for a fun-filled weekend.
09:15: Just landed! The weather is just perfect for some masti!
11.15: At baga beach - it is so wonderful!
12.30: Jet Skiing in Baga beach - awesome!
23.15: Getting ready for the night life, yipee!
00.00: Having so much fun in goa!

3. Stumbled upon the following exchange in FB:
Girl: Hey I am doing well. How is your wife? I haven't talked to her in ages.
Boy: Hi girl1, this is his wife. Will you be my farmville neighbor?
Boy: I also need --some random famville terminology which I don't remember--

Except for the second one (which is exaggerated to a certain extent), the rest two are real enough.
While I can attempt to understand the wifey preferring to have a random girl as a virtual neighbor than a real-life acquaintance, I cannot fathom the other two instances.
I am sure that an absence of an FB update or a photographic evidence does not make the memory itself null and void. The incessant need to let the world know about every activity, interesting or otherwise is, to a certain extent, worrying. I mean, I have seen examples of girls sitting with me typing furiously in their mobile, only to realise later that they were uploading, "with friends - having so much fun!!" in buzz and FB. Frankly, if you have time to update that, clearly, you are not having fun enough.

The common corporate parasite

Ethics in a company is like a parasite that passes on from one level to another. While it is true that being ethical is up to an individual, the implementation in professional life is strongly influenced by the characteristic of our immediate manager and not the company. Do you really believe that a company has a written rule saying: “lie to the customer” or “ Tamper your data as long as you get the money”?

So, how does the worm of unethical operations spread from a single person? What if a strongly righteous person is caught in the middle of it? I believe it can all be explained with a simple flow-chart:

Depending on how ethical a manager is, the thought processes of his sub-ordinates and future leaders spawned are determined (unless they leave the company). Either they successfully convert an analyst, or force them to leave the company.

This is precisely the reason why any consulting firm cannot be called unethical or bogus. Every company has hard-working analysts who struggle to provide more than the expectations of their customer. They are unfortunately overshadowed by the majority of consultants sweet-talking the clients into buying a summary of google findings.

I have had the fortune of working with people belonging in the former category, and hence have a very high opinion of consulting and market research.Generalising a consultant’s Modus Operandi based on a few disillusioned forced-to-be-unethical analysts seems very illogical to me. But I am curious to know if you have a different point of view on this!

Yadav ji

With my odd timings in office, I had come to know the night guard, Yadavji, pretty well. With an ever-smiling face, he never went beyond a "good night madam", and few general pleasantries (except once, when he gave me advice on leaving early and how unsafe the city is).
After his 2-month vacation to his village, it was nice seeing him back at his desk yesterday. Our conversation though, longer than usual, was far from what I expected.

"Chutti kaisi thi Yadavji?"
"Acchi thi madam. Par Jaldi aana pada. Teen maheene ki lee thi, do mahene me hi waapas aa gaya."
"Fir phi, do maheene! Mazaa aaya hoga."
"Haan wo to hai. Puri family gaaon mei hi to hain. Mata, Pita, Biwi, Bache.."
"Biwi bhi? Saal mei ek hi baar milte ho unse?"
"Haan, to aur koi chaara bhi to nahi hai. Saal mei chutti ek hi baar milti hai."
"Arre, to unhe Mumbai leke aao na?!"
"Kharcha bahut ho jaayega, aur rent bhi to kam nahi hai. Yahaan ki night duty or subah ki housing complex ki duty ke beech usse time kahaan de paaonga?"
"Aap abhi kahaan rehte ho?"
"Kaheen nahi. Raat yahaan pe gujaar leta hun, phir subah housing complex duty karne chala jaata hun."
By now, I was gaping with my mouth open.
"Aapko ajeeb lag raha hai naa? Ab to aadat pad chuki hai. Dus saal se yahi kar raha hun."
"Par aap sote kahaan ho?"
"jab time milta hai, do-teen jhapki maar leta haun."

(Translated version)
"How was your holiday Yadavji?"
"It was good Madam. But I had to come back early, and shorten it by a month."
"Two months though, must have been fun!"
"Haan, it was. My whole family is there - Parents, Wife, Kids..."
"Wife too?? You meet her only once a year?"
"What else can I do? I don't get leave."
"Arre, bring her to Mumbai then."
"It will be too much of an expenditure. And between my night duties in this office, and morning duties at a housing complex, I won't be able to devote time to her."
"Where do you stay?"
"I don't have a house here. Nights here, and mornings at the complex."
By now, I was gaping with my mouth open
"It must be shocking to you. But now, I am used to it. I have lived like this for 10 years."
"But don't you need sleep?"
"I catch a few wink here and there."

I cannot imagine a life without a home to go to. Its not about the physical house with all the comfort and the cooked food. Home is what anchors us at the end of the day right? This guy doesn't have an anchor for 10 months in a year, and tries to make it up in 2 months.
I wonder what he looks forward to at the end of the day. Some time alone in an office full of tables to catch a wink?
More than that, I wonder how he can still keep an ever-smiling face?

The Bane

Of all the banes in the world,
the writer's block is the worst,
for, how can a writer survive,
if he can't feed his creative thirst?

A near-physical steel door
blocks any views, good or bad.
all attempts end in torn pages,
and it makes one so mad!

the writer finally becomes desperate,
and sews words with a forced feeling,
Thus, such poems are formed,
with neither rhyme nor meaning.