It is safe to say that as readers and the reading community goes, I am perhaps on the less- read side of the spectrum, having discovered the joy of books and words, of stories and lore, a little late in life.
This results in one of these two things - I either shut up when others speak of books or (as I have been going through) am enveloped with such an overwhelming need and urgency to devour every word and story, every written sentence and every thought that was ever put on paper as a letter or book, as a poem or a newspaper scoop.
As the only thing that seems to be happening with any sort of direction in life, I have been reading some varied and brilliant books.
Up first was Saadat Hasan Manto's collected short stories, translated by Aatish Taseer including such beautiful, crisp and fused-with-soul stories as 'Blouse', 'Ten Rupees' and my personal favourite, 'For Freedom'.
As an utopian believer of maintaining the originality of any work of art, I am skeptical as translations go. As a (ironically) not-a-fan-of-English-language, anything that's converted from such languages like Urdu, which have an innate quality of romanticism in every sound, I didn't believe English would do any justice to the senses that Manto's writing would have originally invoked in the readers. While I still cannot compare for myself, it is safe to say that reading the English version did transport me to rainy evenings, protesting crowds, chawls of Bombay as and when the author wished me to. As Aatish explains in his foreword, the crispness and pace of the original stories has not been compromised, neither has he tried to improve on the authors work. And the result is as good as it gets.
What makes Manto's stories a joy are the raw emotions and sensation-inducing scenarios he sets up and their real-to-death characters. In 'Blouse', a boy discovers puberty and the confused joy he feels without really knowing whats happening, is wonderful. In 'Ten Rupees', a child prostitute, obsessed about driving around in cars and not knowing what is it that she does, and not caring either - is depicted with a delicate lightness.
The important thing is that each story has underlying themes like lost love or prostitution, yet at no point do they taken away the quality of 'life' that his characters and his stories possess. Yes, little girls as prostitutes are not probably terribly lucky, yet you cannot help but forget that and participate with Sarita as she feels the sea breeze caress her (like most of her customers might never), anticipate with her the next time she would sit in a car, and feel playful with her as she sings Hindi songs with the boundless energy of children.
My personal favourite remains 'For Freedom', capturing the momentary passions of the freedom movement that fleeted in and out of action and consciousness and the eventual 'murder' of the human body and spirit. Laced with the theme of gurus and abstinence, it is a compelling read.
In 'Khaled Mian' he writes about the desperation of a father who forsees his toddler's death, in 'My Name is Radha', we get a peek into the Film Industry of those times.
All stories share an ability to make you smile and to teleport you into a world filled with poetry, romance, turmoil, anger, frustration, death and the range that makes human life, what it is.
This results in one of these two things - I either shut up when others speak of books or (as I have been going through) am enveloped with such an overwhelming need and urgency to devour every word and story, every written sentence and every thought that was ever put on paper as a letter or book, as a poem or a newspaper scoop.
As the only thing that seems to be happening with any sort of direction in life, I have been reading some varied and brilliant books.
Up first was Saadat Hasan Manto's collected short stories, translated by Aatish Taseer including such beautiful, crisp and fused-with-soul stories as 'Blouse', 'Ten Rupees' and my personal favourite, 'For Freedom'.
As an utopian believer of maintaining the originality of any work of art, I am skeptical as translations go. As a (ironically) not-a-fan-of-English-language, anything that's converted from such languages like Urdu, which have an innate quality of romanticism in every sound, I didn't believe English would do any justice to the senses that Manto's writing would have originally invoked in the readers. While I still cannot compare for myself, it is safe to say that reading the English version did transport me to rainy evenings, protesting crowds, chawls of Bombay as and when the author wished me to. As Aatish explains in his foreword, the crispness and pace of the original stories has not been compromised, neither has he tried to improve on the authors work. And the result is as good as it gets.What makes Manto's stories a joy are the raw emotions and sensation-inducing scenarios he sets up and their real-to-death characters. In 'Blouse', a boy discovers puberty and the confused joy he feels without really knowing whats happening, is wonderful. In 'Ten Rupees', a child prostitute, obsessed about driving around in cars and not knowing what is it that she does, and not caring either - is depicted with a delicate lightness.
The important thing is that each story has underlying themes like lost love or prostitution, yet at no point do they taken away the quality of 'life' that his characters and his stories possess. Yes, little girls as prostitutes are not probably terribly lucky, yet you cannot help but forget that and participate with Sarita as she feels the sea breeze caress her (like most of her customers might never), anticipate with her the next time she would sit in a car, and feel playful with her as she sings Hindi songs with the boundless energy of children.
My personal favourite remains 'For Freedom', capturing the momentary passions of the freedom movement that fleeted in and out of action and consciousness and the eventual 'murder' of the human body and spirit. Laced with the theme of gurus and abstinence, it is a compelling read.
In 'Khaled Mian' he writes about the desperation of a father who forsees his toddler's death, in 'My Name is Radha', we get a peek into the Film Industry of those times.
All stories share an ability to make you smile and to teleport you into a world filled with poetry, romance, turmoil, anger, frustration, death and the range that makes human life, what it is.
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