-How to Trap a Memory in Pages-
Review of 'Our Friends in Good Houses' by Rahul Pandita
Quote Alert
"𝐍𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐞—𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞, 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐞, 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐞𝐥𝐛𝐨𝐰𝐬. 𝐈𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲-𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐡, 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐫𝐛𝐢𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐩𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨. 𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐭𝐮𝐬, 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐟𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐚𝐭 𝐘𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞."
In Our Friends in Good Houses, emotional violence and (thoughts/memories of) physical violence are peppered throughout the narrative. It's as much an ode to exile as it is a yearning for the birth soil. The protagonist Neel is like a memory trapped in pages, leaving his imprints on every new land he goes. He lives everywhere but he struggles to belong, not really rooted to anywhere. Like a kite struggling to stem the wind tearing through the holes that have rent not just its fabric but it's very soul. It's coming undone string and spine.
The multiple refrences to movement and leaving and going back, returning and departure are strewn across the story. Have a look:
"Annie, too, he thought, was aware of their impermanency. But they never brought up his impending departure. They talked about their lives, their families. And the more important things, they expressed through raw, physical love. Neel wanted to be like that bicycle, not leaving High Street ever. He imagined getting buried next to Augur, and Annie would visit him, bringing cigarettes and coffee and Laphroaig, and bread from her Italian friends."
Pandita's prose thrums with a humane energy. It is like a river and a boulder sitting amidst the flow. Motion and pause. Control and impulse. His story has a beating heart that adds an affection to the story. Have a look:
"And then, the time had come to return. He did not resist the return; he knew it had to happen. His life was in India; it was here, over the last two decades, that he had witnessed things ordinary men only learnt of from the newspapers or remained oblivious to all their lives. It had taken grit and a persistent fight against the whale of fate trying to swallow him and make him stew in its dark belly of ordinariness."
The writing, in many passages and pages, flickers like a flame, words burning themselves upon my reader's palate while I try and not let my wings singe like a common moth.
Thick with drama of real emotions, the story imitates life. The lines about love are something I can frame on my wall and look at them every day:
"For him, love has two components. One is the miraculous phenomenon through which all the beauty of the world converges on the face of the beloved. There may be other faces he also finds beautiful, but here, in the person he is drawn to, everything is in place-the face is the garden of paradise, and it is only with this person that a physical (external) garden of paradise-what home really feels like to him-can be built. The beloved is the one who has the power to prevent dread from returning after everyone has left the party. It is the assurance of her, the warmth of her body, that makes the tundra of the universe bearable. It is her face for which he feels like growing flowers. It is this person for whom-if she is the first to die-he will put a gun in his mouth and blow his brains out."
Pick it up this week.