In the ‘70s, false ceilings were all the rage for living rooms, bedrooms and even bathrooms. They were especially popular with the film fraternity and filthy-rich industrialists. Intricately carved designs on the moldings and vivid combinations of colours made for an attractive façade but behind all that lurked a certain rot. Broken and smashed in by Income tax officers, the false ceilings laid bare the putrefaction they shielded, the decadence of black money in the form of currency notes, stuffed behind them.
This duplexity of splendour and squalor finds evocative portrayal in the cover of Amit Sharma’s debut novel, “False Ceilings” even as the title partitions the rotten, broken down, peeling structures from the ephemeral, soul-stirring snow-topped mountains, glistening in the light of the rising sun.
This novel, nay, this family saga that spans almost 130 years (reminiscent of the 80’s TV serials, Humlog and Buniyaad) like the marauding income tax officers of yore, seeks to lay bare, the inevitable decline and disintegration of “relationships in her (Lipi’s) house, with the subtle flow of hatred, which flew beneath everyone’s skin.”
The story, though, begins with love:
Within the mountainous lap of Himalayas nestled Dalhousie, a hill-station and the home of Kanshi Ram, who became wealthy building houses for the “Gora Sahibs”. It was an exhilarating moment for him when his beloved wife, Kusum delivered a cherub whom he named Shakuntala, the apple of his eye and his reason for living after the untimely demise of his wife.
But the novel does not begin at this point. It opens with Aaryan’s fascination with Mathematics and If-Else statements’ similarity to life which at one time engenders his father to observe “Imagine collecting all the possible if-else statements of someone’s life and feeding it to a robot. You could make it cry.”
This is one of the many delightful sentences in this saga which is the story of the pampered Shakuntala who “on her wedding night in 1946 is gifted a secret to use wisely when the time comes.”
This is also the story of hatreds:
• Mothers-in-law hate their daughters-in-law and then deny the charge when it is thrown at their face.
• Children, instigated by a grandparent, detest their parents and indulge in tale-telling to undermine their authority.
• Wives hate their husbands for their inability to understand the unspoken expectations of their wives.
• A child turns into a misanthrope when he sees a sight that no-one should ever have to.
The hatred is so all-pervading that it prevents Shakuntala’s secret from being revealed and those times it is unveiled, it only births fear and deaths before it is hurriedly hidden away after being termed a curse.
Disruptions and Making New Connections:
What is this secret? The reader turns the pages of this pacy narrative in search of the answer. But it is not easy-going for the reader. No, siree. The reader of this tale cannot be a passive one. This is a narrative which teases with its disruptive flow, even as it zig-zags its way from the past into the future and then into the present.
The reader is introduced to Shakuntala and then re-introduced to her through the eyes of the other characters. And it is an unsettling re-acquaintance because the picture of Shakuntala, the sweet girl, who studied in a convent and is well-versed in many other arts and crafts is a far-away memory from the present-day Shakuntala in her moping-mother but unrepentant mother-in-law avatar, “a dipsomaniac who was trying to give up alcohol but always needed a bottle of whisky in the house, not to drink but just as an assurance in case it was desperately required.”
The author provides the same treatment to all the other characters too and it becomes a game in which the reader happily connects the dots between the characters and their inter-relatedness as well as their pasts and presents. This is reflected in the disruptions and separations in the lives of the characters as they are uprooted from their comfort zones and plonked headlong into strange and sometimes hostile situations; making new connections.
The City, entwined with the Characters:
And it is not just restricted to the human characters. We get a glimpse of the Delhi of a former era,“Delhi was a strange amalgamation of humanity those days” and what it has metamorphosed into now, “By the time lines started appearing on Vinod’s face, east Delhi was teeming with millions of humans and had turned into a concrete urban jungle with no signs of the past” and also some fifty years later (no, the scenario is not any less grim where the environment is concerned).
Delhi was harsh and unfamiliar for those who came to it from the mountains because one did not have to “press her toes to walk uphill or walk at an obtuse angle with the ground to run downhill.”
False Ceilings traverses the full spectrum of generational changes, not just emotionally, but physically as well as technologically (in the 2060s, dusting of houses is done by remote-controlled cleaner pods, yayyy. AND, no communicating through mental telepathy, yet).
A Vast Canvas:
Amit Sharma’s canvas is expansive and he begins well. In a voice that is refreshingly bold and new, he brings to life Kanshi Ram and the era he lived in, with intricate details that draw us into the web of the characters lives and make us not want to leave it without knowing more. Along the way, the enthusiasm seems to flag intermittently as the narrative tends towards the journalistic mode which the author employs to ‘tell’ us the story. But that is easily forgiven because this story which could easily have become a saas-bahu sitcom, becomes instead, a peek into the psychology of hatred and compassion.
The reader experiences the story in tones of grimness and grittiness of a contemporary age alternated with the subtle coolness and elegance of the one in the future.
The wit is acerbic and biting especially when Sharma describes a character having a “diameter greater than Jupiter”, or one in death throes,“he was lying on his bed, panting and frantically holding the remote in one hand, as if afraid that his wife would change the channel while his heart raced to a stop” while one does a double take at “He looked like a Jew in a concentration camp, starved and short on any hope.”
The author has in subtle ways brought into the forefront the social issues faced by some of the female characters. What is frustrating is that often the men in their lives are either clueless about them or else too entrenched in social mores to even think of going against them. At these times one is reminded of Camille Paglia’s quote: Patriarchy, routinely blamed for everything, produced the birth control pill, which did more to free contemporary women than feminism itself.
This unbridled spectacle of love, hate and, all other emotions in-between, falls foul of one of the most important aspects of a book. The book stumbles at many, many places on account of the grammatical mistakes that cannot be overlooked because there are so many of them. Run off sentences with the inevitable mismatch of tenses occur too often. At some places, it is the incorrect usage of a word (vows for woes, for example, pg 226) and at others, unsuitable prepositions (sitting on the desk instead of sitting at the desk), that mar the tale. One gets the impression of an editor who ignored the use of a fine-toothed comb at the time of editing this work.
This, alas, drags down a book that is a riveting read and could be much more.
Note: The author was kind enough to provide an autographed copy of the book for review.
This review was written for The Book Club.