Shadow Lines Review by Anita Desai - Read
Shadow Lines Review by Anita Desai - Read
Shadow Lines Review by Anita Desai - Read
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Anita Desai*
Amitav Ghosh won much acclaim for his first novel, The Circle of Reason
(1986). Although unabashedly derivative and almost plagiaristically shadowing
Salman Rushdie's celebrated novels, Midnight's Children (1981) and Shame
(1983), it had about it an exuberance of fantasy, a gusto of the imagination
and many memorable and vivid passages that made one feel that here was a
writer who had unfortunately allowed himself to go astray. Next, there
appeared in Granta a piece that was obviously based on his own experiences as
a student of anthropology researching in Egypt; he chose to be plainly realistic
but showed a wit, humour and sophistication of style that were like the flash
of an original and distinctive gift emerging from the troubled ocean of inter-
nationalism, magical realism and literary borrowings.
In his second novel, The Shadow Lines, Ghosh has abandoned that inter-
nationally popular 'magical realism' and made the more modest, less ambitious
choice of old-fashioned realistic narrative, with only a touch or two, at the
end, of Rushdie's method of addressing the reader directly and weaving his
own experiences into the fictional ones. It is by comparison with his first book
a curiously flat, muted and quiet work but it has qualities that are not imitative
and are entirely his own.
The settings are Calcutta, London and Dhaka, the characters both Indian
and English: much scope for international dazzle, but Ghosh eschews scene-
painting and if he does mention the cotton-man of the Calcutta streets, the
sweet seller of Dhaka or the coffee bars in London, it is because they belong
to his story, and not for their effect. He does not have any interest in painting
different worlds for us-on the contrary, he makes them so similar that one
has scarcely any sense of passing from one culture over the border into another.
Since the theme of his novel is that there are no borders, that lands and
peoples would blend if it were not for history, the somewhat dull monochrome
of his landscape has its reasons.
The narrator's grandmother, originally from Dhaka when it was the capital
* Anita Desai's novel, Baumgartner'sBombay (1988) was reviewed in Third World Quarterly 11(1)
January 1989, pp 167-8.
of East Bengal, has been persuaded to revisit it now that it is the capital of
East Pakistan.
. .. She wantedto know whethershe would be able to see the bordersbetweenIndia
from the plane. Whenmy fatherlaughedand said, why, did she reallythinkthe border
was a long blackline with greenon one side and scarleton the other, like it was in a
school atlas, she was not so much offended as puzzled ... 'But if there aren't any
trenchesor anything,how are people to know?I mean, what's the difference,then?
And if there'sno difference,both sides will be the same:it'll be just like it used to be
before . .. Whatwas it all for then-Partition and the killingand everything-if there
isn't somethingin between?'
Her more sophisticated granddaughter, Ila, who flies regularly from one
country to another, her father being a diplomat, and goes to international
schools in various glamorous capitals of the world, sees differences in the
lands but hardly those that matter; what she notices is that, in Cairo, 'the
ladies is way on the other side of the departure lounge'. The narrator cannot
comprehend such a blase attitude: for him the mere words 'Underground',
'Holborn', 'Brick Lane' contain a sensual delight that he rolls upon his tongue
like toffees or cigarette smoke. He has been schooled in the romance of other-
ness by his older cousin, Tridib, a somewhat enigmatic figure who has travel-
led everywhere and can talk learnedly of 'Mesopotamian stelae, East European
jazz, the habits of arboreal apes, the plays of Garcia Lorca. . .' Unfortunately,
the narrator fails to convey to the reader his compelling aura; we have simply
to take his word for it since Tridib never quite comes to life. When he dies-a
pointless, violent death that can be interpreted as a martyrdom or hushed up
as an unfortunate mistake-he fades out of our minds rather like an old photo-
graph in an album. The Price family in London, who hold such a fascination
for the little Bengali boy in Calcutta, likewise suffer from a dampness that
prevents them from catching fire in our imagination. Their fortunes are rather
improbably linked to those of the Bengali family and Tridib's affair with the
English girl, May, is so vaguely sketched that it hardly stands out as an event
from the surrounding monochrome.
Where Ghosh excels is in detecting and conveying those unspoken, unmen-
tioned concepts on which societies are built and in which they show their
uniqueness. His account of the joint family in Dhaka that is riven in two by
the petty quarrelling and jealousies of the women who 'began to suspect each
other of favouring their own children above the rest, of purloining the best
little tid-bits of food from the common larder, and so on. . .' will be instantly
recognisable to any Indian reader. One sees how accurate, how exact his un-
derstanding of Indian society is in lines such as: 'Among the women I knew,
like my mother and my relatives, there were none, no matter how secluded,
who were free from that peculiar, manipulative worldliness which came from
dealing with large families-a trait which seemed to grow in those women in
direct proportion to the degree to which they were secluded from the world.'
168
ShahrukhHusain
Sare Mare
S K Walker
London: Pandora Press. 1987. 173pp. ?3.95pb
169