Dharamveer Bharti, considered one of Hindi literature’s finest and foremost talents, wrote the classic Gunaahon ka Devta (the name of which, incidentally, inspired two Hindi films and one TV series, neither of which was actually based on the novel) in 1949. It was hugely popular when it was first published, especially among Hindi-speaking young urban males. It still is regarded by dozens as one of the best (if not the best) Hindi novels ever.
Which is why I thought it was high time I finally read it.
The story, set in Allahabad just after Independence, centres on a studious young research scholar, Chandar Kapoor, and Sudha, the daughter of his mentor, Dr Shukla. Dr Shukla regards his protégé more as a member of the family than a student, and Chandar treats their home like his own. His relationship with Sudha is one of deep affection and camaraderie, almost fraternal—at least to Chandar.
This state of affairs does not last for long; it soon becomes obvious to Sudha’s nearest and dearest—her friend and collegemate Gesu, and Sudha’s cousin Binti, who has come from the village to stay with them in Allahabad along with her harridan of a mother—that Sudha is in love with Chandar. And, in time, Sudha confesses to Chandar. He does love her, too, but with all the chaste fervour of a devotee at the foot of a deity.
Which is why, when Dr Shukla (unaware of the love between Sudha and Chandar) decides to get Sudha married, Sudha is shocked to find Chandar insisting she marry the man her father’s picked. Because the man, Kailash, is someone Chandar himself has met and knows to be good; because he will keep Sudha happy; and because, after all, honour being what it is, Chandar cannot dare to marry Sudha—that will be taking advantage of Dr Shukla and all that Chandar owes him.
So Sudha gets married to Kailash, and Chandar embarks on a mad journey, from being Sudha’s devta—the ‘deity’ she worships—to being the gunaahon ka devta, the ‘deity of sins’. En route, his relationship with the beautiful divorcee, the Anglo-Indian Pummy, goes from friendship to something much more turbulent, and his relationship with Sudha’s cousin Binti takes a not-unexpected turn. And through it all, swamped by his own growing sense of guilt, his despair, and his frustration with life and love—in all its forms, emotional and physical—Chandar grows.
An interesting premise for a story, and a story, actually, that’s pretty well-narrated. For me, the most satisfying elements of Gunaahon ka Devta were the character arc of its protagonist Chandar; the way the story unfolds, slowly and believably; and the characterizations, which are mostly shades of grey. Both Sudha and Chandar are by turn weak-willed and strong, selfish and generous, self-righteous and self-pitying, naïve and wise.
On the other hand, several things put me off. One was the stereotypical characterization of the Anglo-Indian Pummy as the siren, the woman who lives only for the sensual pleasures she can get out of life. A divorcee, too, and one who—in her more ‘enlightened moments’—admits that Hindu women, whose marital lives are decided by their parents, have it the best. Ugh.
Then there were the inconsistencies between how people were described and how they acted. Binti is described as being somewhat stoic, never crying—but she’s shown crying at several points in the book, even before this statement has been made. Similarly, Chandar is described as being serious and stern, but some of his pranks (for instance, one he pulls on the poet Bisariya, who tutors Sudha and Binti) belie this.
Lastly, the dialogue, which was often—especially when bordering on the esoteric—completely unrealistic. (Oddly enough, there were other dialogues which I admired a lot: Bharti does a brilliant job of putting in the dialects spoken by Binti’s mother, or by the Maharajin, both of which brought them to life).
A good book, path-breaking for its time, but also somewhat dated. And not one I’m likely to re-read in a hurry.