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Freedom Song
A boy spends a summer and a winter with his parents in a Bombay high-rise, and spends other summers in Calcutta immersed in the more traditional life of his uncle's extended family ... A young man at Oxford, whose memories of home in Bombay bring both comfort and melancholy, faces a choice between "clinging to my Indianness, or letting it go, between being nostalgic or looking toward the future" ... The members of a Calcutta family are occupied with the task of finding the right woman for the twenty-eight-year-old son who would rather occupy himself with politics... In these three short novels - Freedom Song, Afternoon Raag, and A Strange and Sublime Address Chaudhuri illuminates the surprisingly nuanced intimate worlds of middle-class Indian men, women, and children. The novels brim with the author's evocations of place and time, and his radiant descriptions and subtle explorations of the expected and surprising events of daily life; the effects of family connectedness and separation; the desires and demands of youth and age; the things and events that confirm "how mysterious the world is at every moment"; the hidden complexities of a fully lived inner life. From these elements Amit Chaudhuri shapes mesmerizing narratives, uncovering the remarkable in what might otherwise seem merely quotidian.
198 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1999
68 people are currently reading
619 people want to read
About the author
Amit Chaudhuri
60 books174 followersAmit Chaudhuri was born in Calcutta in 1962, and grew up in Bombay. He read English at University College, London, where he took his BA with First Class Honours, and completed his doctorate on critical theory and the poetry of D.H. Lawrence at Balliol College, Oxford, where he was a Dervorguilla Scholar. He was Creative Arts Fellow at Wolfson College, Oxford, from 1992-95, and Leverhulme Special Research Fellow at the Faculty of English, Cambridge University, until April 1999, where he taught the Commonwealth and International Literatures paper of the English Tripos. He was on the faculty of the School of the Arts, Columbia University, for the Fall semester, 2002. He was appointed Samuel Fischer Guest Professor of Literature at Free University, Berlin, for the winter term 2005.
He is now Professor in Contemporary Literature at the University of East Anglia. He was made Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature in 2009.
He is now Professor in Contemporary Literature at the University of East Anglia. He was made Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature in 2009.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 40 reviews
February 18, 2015
A few quick thoughts about this lovely, lovely, book:
If The Golden Gateis a novel in verse, this is poetry in prose. And just as evocative!
Tinkling sounds came from outside, of hammering and chiselling, as labourers worked like bees, and seven- or eight-storeyed buildings rose in the place of ancestral mansions that had been raised cruelly to the ground, climbing up like ladders through screens of dust. An old mansion opposite the veranda had been repainted white, to its last banister and pillar, so that it lookedlike a set of new teeth. In the lawn before it, a mali in khaki shorts, alone, unaware of being watched, fussed over a row of potted plants. In another sphere altogether, birds took off from a tree or parapet, or the roof of some rich Marwari's house, startling and speckling the neutral sky. Not a moment was still or like another moment.
Chaudhuri is as good at writing about ordinary mortals as he is at laying out the view from a balcony. He also invariably makes you smile:
Suddenly, taking Bhaskar aback, Bhola offered that Bhaskar and Anusuya, for whose sake this rendezvous had been arranged, sit at another table so that they could 'talk amongst themselves'. Heavily Bhaskar got up; lightly Anusuya, though she was overweight, got up; and made for the neighbouring table, as if they would become invisible to the others once they sat there. Bhaskar had decided that he would not, could not, marry this girl. She reminded him of a schoolfriend she used to have, a boy called Anilesh. But he was determined to be polite, as polite as he ever was; and he almost felt a surge of affection for her when she asked the waiter for ice cream. Bhaskar sipped Thums Up non-committally from a straw. They must have grown up simultaneously, in schools not far away from each other; and now they were both in the twilight world of being unmarried. They seemed resigned and happy to be enjoying their orders.
"What do you think?" asked Bhola on the way back.
"What should I think?" said Bhaskar. "We didn't speak. She was busy eating ice-cream."
This, in short, is what happens over the 240 pages of this novel: An old woman recuperates in her childhood friend's house. Someone gets married. A street play is performed. A man works for an ailing public sector company in the twilight of his career. That's it. Not only does Chaudhuri easily hold your interest throughout, he makes you sigh with happy understanding, smile sadly, and feel slightly giddy with nostalgia at every turn of the page.
P.s. This is the perfect book to read on a tranquil early-morning train journey through the countryside. You read a bit, look out the window at cows nuzzling the grass, at villagers taking a shit in their own farm, and you are almost overwhelmed at the beauty in the ordinary.
If The Golden Gateis a novel in verse, this is poetry in prose. And just as evocative!
Tinkling sounds came from outside, of hammering and chiselling, as labourers worked like bees, and seven- or eight-storeyed buildings rose in the place of ancestral mansions that had been raised cruelly to the ground, climbing up like ladders through screens of dust. An old mansion opposite the veranda had been repainted white, to its last banister and pillar, so that it lookedlike a set of new teeth. In the lawn before it, a mali in khaki shorts, alone, unaware of being watched, fussed over a row of potted plants. In another sphere altogether, birds took off from a tree or parapet, or the roof of some rich Marwari's house, startling and speckling the neutral sky. Not a moment was still or like another moment.
Chaudhuri is as good at writing about ordinary mortals as he is at laying out the view from a balcony. He also invariably makes you smile:
Suddenly, taking Bhaskar aback, Bhola offered that Bhaskar and Anusuya, for whose sake this rendezvous had been arranged, sit at another table so that they could 'talk amongst themselves'. Heavily Bhaskar got up; lightly Anusuya, though she was overweight, got up; and made for the neighbouring table, as if they would become invisible to the others once they sat there. Bhaskar had decided that he would not, could not, marry this girl. She reminded him of a schoolfriend she used to have, a boy called Anilesh. But he was determined to be polite, as polite as he ever was; and he almost felt a surge of affection for her when she asked the waiter for ice cream. Bhaskar sipped Thums Up non-committally from a straw. They must have grown up simultaneously, in schools not far away from each other; and now they were both in the twilight world of being unmarried. They seemed resigned and happy to be enjoying their orders.
"What do you think?" asked Bhola on the way back.
"What should I think?" said Bhaskar. "We didn't speak. She was busy eating ice-cream."
This, in short, is what happens over the 240 pages of this novel: An old woman recuperates in her childhood friend's house. Someone gets married. A street play is performed. A man works for an ailing public sector company in the twilight of his career. That's it. Not only does Chaudhuri easily hold your interest throughout, he makes you sigh with happy understanding, smile sadly, and feel slightly giddy with nostalgia at every turn of the page.
P.s. This is the perfect book to read on a tranquil early-morning train journey through the countryside. You read a bit, look out the window at cows nuzzling the grass, at villagers taking a shit in their own farm, and you are almost overwhelmed at the beauty in the ordinary.
February 13, 2014
Three short stories which are connected by all clearly being based on the author's barely fictionalized personal experiences. There's not much plot here, or change, or character development, or any of that sort of thing. At least the writer is doing it on purpose, as he describes early on in the first story:
But why did these houses- for instance, that one with the tall, ornate iron gates and a watchman dozing on a stool, which gave the impression that the family had valuables locked away inside, or that other one with the small porch and the painted door, which gave the impression that whenever there was a feast or a wedding all the relatives would be invited, and there would be so many relatives that some of them, probably the young men and women, would be sitting bunched together on the cramped porch because there would be no more space inside, talking eloquently about something that didn't really require eloquence, laughing uproariously at a joke that wasn't really very funny, or this next house with an old man relaxing in his easy-chair on the verandah, fanning himself with a local Sunday newspaper, or this small, shabby house with the girl Sandeep glimpsed through a window, sitting in a bare, ill-furnished room, memorizing a text by candlelight, repeating suffixes and prefixes from a Bengali grammar over and over to herself- why did these houses seem to suggest that an infinitely interesting story might be woven around them? And yet the story would never be a satisfying one, because the writer, like Sandeep, would be too caught up in jotting down the irrelevances and digressions that make up lives, and the life of a city, rather than a good story- till the reader would shout "Come to the point!"- and there would be no point, except the girl memorizing the rules of grammar, the old man in the easy-chair fanning himself, and the house with the small, empty porch that was crowded, paradoxically, with many memories and possibilities. The "real" story, with its beginning, middle, and conclusion, would never be told, because it did not exist.
At least the writing is pretty? But yeah, I pretty much did want to yell "Come to the point!" The first short story is about a young boy visiting with relatives in 1970s Calcutta; the second about a young man who's a graduate student at Oxford and his memories of family in Bombay and Calcutta; and the third is about an extended family and friends in Calcutta in the early 90s (with the very, very minor mentions of Ayodhya in the background). None of them have much action or stuff happening, which makes them hard to review. I suppose if you like very slow-moving, detailed descriptions of daily life, this is the book for you!
But why did these houses- for instance, that one with the tall, ornate iron gates and a watchman dozing on a stool, which gave the impression that the family had valuables locked away inside, or that other one with the small porch and the painted door, which gave the impression that whenever there was a feast or a wedding all the relatives would be invited, and there would be so many relatives that some of them, probably the young men and women, would be sitting bunched together on the cramped porch because there would be no more space inside, talking eloquently about something that didn't really require eloquence, laughing uproariously at a joke that wasn't really very funny, or this next house with an old man relaxing in his easy-chair on the verandah, fanning himself with a local Sunday newspaper, or this small, shabby house with the girl Sandeep glimpsed through a window, sitting in a bare, ill-furnished room, memorizing a text by candlelight, repeating suffixes and prefixes from a Bengali grammar over and over to herself- why did these houses seem to suggest that an infinitely interesting story might be woven around them? And yet the story would never be a satisfying one, because the writer, like Sandeep, would be too caught up in jotting down the irrelevances and digressions that make up lives, and the life of a city, rather than a good story- till the reader would shout "Come to the point!"- and there would be no point, except the girl memorizing the rules of grammar, the old man in the easy-chair fanning himself, and the house with the small, empty porch that was crowded, paradoxically, with many memories and possibilities. The "real" story, with its beginning, middle, and conclusion, would never be told, because it did not exist.
At least the writing is pretty? But yeah, I pretty much did want to yell "Come to the point!" The first short story is about a young boy visiting with relatives in 1970s Calcutta; the second about a young man who's a graduate student at Oxford and his memories of family in Bombay and Calcutta; and the third is about an extended family and friends in Calcutta in the early 90s (with the very, very minor mentions of Ayodhya in the background). None of them have much action or stuff happening, which makes them hard to review. I suppose if you like very slow-moving, detailed descriptions of daily life, this is the book for you!
August 31, 2015
I've read the three short novels included in this volume over the past three year taking my time to savor the author's writing, world-view and his very localized stories, whether they are Indian emigres in America, or still at home. Just completed Freedom Song, the longest and last,and I'm reminded all over again what a terrific writer Chaudhuri is. This is a family saga told in short --sometimes only half a page long--chapters, It has the feeling of a Virginia Woolf novel, oddly enough, or of a Seurat painting, where individual cells of color stand alone and yet relate closely to each other, and then when you pull away reveal a much larger picture; and a surprisingly rich, detailed and comprehensive view of this family. If you have trouble with foreign names or customs then maybe this book is not for you--it is obsessively Bengali-Indian. However, reading is supposed to widen our world and our mid. So go for it.
June 27, 2018
This is the third in the volume of three “novels” by Amit Chaudhuri, though why they would be called novels is beyond me as there is no plot whatsoever.
“Freedom Song” is basically a beautifully written, atmospheric series of pictures, of moments, of brief conversations, of memories, of passing thoughts and feelings, of sights, sounds, smells and small everyday actions.
Although I should have known better after reading “A Strange and Sublime Address” and “Afternoon Raag” I was impatient for something to happen in this story and found it hard to stop my mind from wandering and having to ask myself : “now who is Pulu, Piyu, Puti, Bhola, Borda, Mohit, Jochna, Nando, Shantidi… again ?”
I think this is a book that must be enjoyed slowly, in a tranquil, receptive state of mind and I might give it another try one of these days.
“Freedom Song” is basically a beautifully written, atmospheric series of pictures, of moments, of brief conversations, of memories, of passing thoughts and feelings, of sights, sounds, smells and small everyday actions.
Although I should have known better after reading “A Strange and Sublime Address” and “Afternoon Raag” I was impatient for something to happen in this story and found it hard to stop my mind from wandering and having to ask myself : “now who is Pulu, Piyu, Puti, Bhola, Borda, Mohit, Jochna, Nando, Shantidi… again ?”
I think this is a book that must be enjoyed slowly, in a tranquil, receptive state of mind and I might give it another try one of these days.
February 3, 2025
This is three novellas. I loved the first one: A Strange and Sublime Address which is life in a middle class Indian family shortly before the Partition of India into multiple countries. It is mostly from the viewpoint of a young boy. It is about the family's everyday life. The other two are more wide ranging: Indian students at Oxford, related families in Calcutta and Bombay and their lives. Highly recommend.
June 6, 2024
There's a real casual beauty to Chaudhuri's poetics that rise naturally from the prose, several passages rendered beautifully through subtle shifts into future perfect tense. Will be reading more Chaudhuri
August 20, 2017
I'm not quite finished with it yet, but I had to drop by to share a quick WOW. Just WOW. I wish I could say something more descriptive, but this novel (three novellas, actually) has left me completely speechless.
January 15, 2013
Vivid, compassionate, textured and beautiful writing, with only as much "story" as our own lives have.
April 12, 2019
*Mild spoilers ahead
What appealed to me?
The detailed descriptions of the nooks and crannies of ‘90s Kolkata, something that I’d been closely acquainted with, while growing up. The smallest idiosyncrasies of the character. Nando’s sharing an egg with Uma, the newly wed couple holding hands while sleeping, the friendship between Khuku and Mini.
Some of the lines are intricately woven, almost as if those are a series of still lives capturing certain moments in the city and its people’s lives. Like the afternoon clothes hanging from the balcony and the water droplets forming a smile.
Chaudhuri creates a world that flows naturally, like life. Nothing seems forced. In fact, at times, we even forget the writer’s presence as we feel like we’re standing in the front of a house or in a room watching things unfold, like the artificial flowers, or the toy utensils, or the ludo board.
Unfortunately, the praises end here.
What didn’t appeal to me?
The story stands still. It’s like turning the pages of an old album going through sepia toned pictures that bring out memories which were stored safely among moth balls. There’s absolutely no pace whatsoever, at least, that's how it seemed to me. Nothing happens! Literary fiction is not about having a riveting plot and I get that. Most books I read are literary fiction. However, as they say, when you come out of a good book something within you must have changed. I didn’t feel that change.
The paradox is that despite the plethora of descriptions, we don’t know any of the characters at all! Khuku- a lady in her 60s in Kolkata. How do we distinguish her from all the ladies of this age in Kolkata?
Or for that matter, Bhaskar. He seemed to spout everything that his party says. Liberalization is bad, foreign investment is harmful, etc. etc. What are his own original thoughts? I’ve had these arguments with my uncle who is a member of the CPIM party and yes, they do believe in these principles but what makes Bhaskar, Bhaskar, and not for instance, my mama?
Or for that matter, what was the significance of the play?
Or, Khuku’s hating Azaan?
You don't come out of the story with a sense of satisfaction. You read a lot of beautifully sketched details, but after a while, you long to see them lead somewhere but they don't! Most importantly, literary fiction is about the characters and here, despite the minutest details in which the characters are portrayed, you don't get to know who they are as persons or what their relationships with each other is, at all. If you give me two elderly ladies who are friends or a mother and son relationship, I'd portray them different than you. We are unique beings and our relationships are unique. We aren't blobs of paint where our existences are roughly defined by a creator. As readers, we want to know more about these characters, something that distinguishes them from similar people in similar backgrounds. Why should we read a tonne of description but nothing specific about a character? Why should that make us root for that character?
I went into the book with a lot of hope, thinking that I'll pick up the other two in the trilogy after I'm done with this one. But I think I'm done. I recently re-read Jhumpa Lahiri's Interpreter of Maladies and she too describes things in the tiniest details. But her stories lead to some place from where you come out in awe of the writer's views on life, asking her to tell you more stories in her unique voice. Since, both these books have their settings in West Bengal and deal with the Bengali community, the contrast between what these two set out to achieve and how successful each of them has been, comes to mind.
Last night I finished this exquisitely beautiful book called White Oleander by Janet Fitch. Almost every sentence is like poetry in that novel, but the writer doesn't stop to simply marvel at her writing skills, rather she goes forward to tell a story that leaves your insides churned. That's what I look for in a book. Unfortunately, Freedom Song isn't such a book.
What appealed to me?
The detailed descriptions of the nooks and crannies of ‘90s Kolkata, something that I’d been closely acquainted with, while growing up. The smallest idiosyncrasies of the character. Nando’s sharing an egg with Uma, the newly wed couple holding hands while sleeping, the friendship between Khuku and Mini.
Some of the lines are intricately woven, almost as if those are a series of still lives capturing certain moments in the city and its people’s lives. Like the afternoon clothes hanging from the balcony and the water droplets forming a smile.
Chaudhuri creates a world that flows naturally, like life. Nothing seems forced. In fact, at times, we even forget the writer’s presence as we feel like we’re standing in the front of a house or in a room watching things unfold, like the artificial flowers, or the toy utensils, or the ludo board.
Unfortunately, the praises end here.
What didn’t appeal to me?
The story stands still. It’s like turning the pages of an old album going through sepia toned pictures that bring out memories which were stored safely among moth balls. There’s absolutely no pace whatsoever, at least, that's how it seemed to me. Nothing happens! Literary fiction is not about having a riveting plot and I get that. Most books I read are literary fiction. However, as they say, when you come out of a good book something within you must have changed. I didn’t feel that change.
The paradox is that despite the plethora of descriptions, we don’t know any of the characters at all! Khuku- a lady in her 60s in Kolkata. How do we distinguish her from all the ladies of this age in Kolkata?
Or for that matter, Bhaskar. He seemed to spout everything that his party says. Liberalization is bad, foreign investment is harmful, etc. etc. What are his own original thoughts? I’ve had these arguments with my uncle who is a member of the CPIM party and yes, they do believe in these principles but what makes Bhaskar, Bhaskar, and not for instance, my mama?
Or for that matter, what was the significance of the play?
Or, Khuku’s hating Azaan?
You don't come out of the story with a sense of satisfaction. You read a lot of beautifully sketched details, but after a while, you long to see them lead somewhere but they don't! Most importantly, literary fiction is about the characters and here, despite the minutest details in which the characters are portrayed, you don't get to know who they are as persons or what their relationships with each other is, at all. If you give me two elderly ladies who are friends or a mother and son relationship, I'd portray them different than you. We are unique beings and our relationships are unique. We aren't blobs of paint where our existences are roughly defined by a creator. As readers, we want to know more about these characters, something that distinguishes them from similar people in similar backgrounds. Why should we read a tonne of description but nothing specific about a character? Why should that make us root for that character?
I went into the book with a lot of hope, thinking that I'll pick up the other two in the trilogy after I'm done with this one. But I think I'm done. I recently re-read Jhumpa Lahiri's Interpreter of Maladies and she too describes things in the tiniest details. But her stories lead to some place from where you come out in awe of the writer's views on life, asking her to tell you more stories in her unique voice. Since, both these books have their settings in West Bengal and deal with the Bengali community, the contrast between what these two set out to achieve and how successful each of them has been, comes to mind.
Last night I finished this exquisitely beautiful book called White Oleander by Janet Fitch. Almost every sentence is like poetry in that novel, but the writer doesn't stop to simply marvel at her writing skills, rather she goes forward to tell a story that leaves your insides churned. That's what I look for in a book. Unfortunately, Freedom Song isn't such a book.
May 8, 2024
In Freedom Song, Chaudhuri brings together three medium-length narratives. I will focus on the middle one, Afternoon Raag. Chaudhuri works like a jeweler to produce sentences with a quietly compelling mood and music, a hypnotic rhythm and tone. These seem to suggest both a psychological stance of the self in taking in the world fairly and observantly and a manner of bringing out a deeper metaphysical sense of reality itself as it emerges for our viewing. Our noticing of such qualities in his prose is supported by Chaudhuri’s own narrative. We observe an Indian student at Oxford moving among the streets and classrooms and courtyards of the university. Yet at the same time we keep returning to that student’s youthful experiences in India and especially to his training in Indian classical music. (His music teacher has recently died.) He tells us that even in India an important feature of this music is being lost: its ability to suggest historical distances, a slower-evolving rhythm of life, and an inarticulable darkness beyond our conscious experiencing of the world. When the music is done well, the singer’s voice seems supported on the musical output of the classical instruments in the way an individual in a culture is supported by the unspoken richness of a long-evolving tradition. Chaudhuri, so it appears, tries to capture, even in his descriptions of the Oxford scenes, something of that sense of a deeper, slower, upwelling cultural style that can express itself quietly and confidently in the movement of the individual across the English landscape and in the movement as well of the line of prose. Chaudhuri is different in this respect from another Indian writer, Salman Rushdie. The latter moves happily into an energetic, international postmodern space and leaves behind what Chaudhuri has found in the experience of Indian classical music: an underlying cultural style that was a strength of past cultures and that India itself is losing today as it modernizes. “That world, of gestures and wonder, existing in the wise, silent margins of the land, is gone now. All has been named and brought to consciousness, the colours, the words and their meanings, but Sohanlal is one of those few people who remember the darkness of what was there before, the old language and its life.”
For further writing on topics and books like this one, see my Substack page: https://frankbfarrell.substack.com/
For further writing on topics and books like this one, see my Substack page: https://frankbfarrell.substack.com/
June 3, 2021
all 3 novels are more focused on establishing character and atmosphere than developing or advancing any real kind of plot, so at the end of each novel it almost feels like you've read an excerpt instead of a finished piece. there are also moments where you can tell chadhuri intends to sound profound but there's not enough context or just material in general for these moments to hit the way they're supposed to (as with the birds (?) at the end of the 1st novel). these are very nice little slice of life character studies, but it does feel weird that all three of them are so...aimless, even in terms of character growth.
January 20, 2024
DNF DNF DNF
Book Rating: ✨
I Did Not Finish this book as it was such a drag. I was 60 pages in forcing myself to like the confusing characters, weak build up to the main storyline and still not knowing what it was, overly descriptive and just plain boring. One of my new 2024 ins & puts was to stop forcing myself to like a book (that I was really looking forward to) and just call time of death. I’m intrigued as to where the story was going, but not intrigued enough to carry it on I’m afraid. Please let me know if you’ve read it and whether or not you liked it to convince me to pick it up again from my imaginary lit fireplace where it will be! 🙂
Review for Instagram book acc: @emonmiahh
Book Rating: ✨
I Did Not Finish this book as it was such a drag. I was 60 pages in forcing myself to like the confusing characters, weak build up to the main storyline and still not knowing what it was, overly descriptive and just plain boring. One of my new 2024 ins & puts was to stop forcing myself to like a book (that I was really looking forward to) and just call time of death. I’m intrigued as to where the story was going, but not intrigued enough to carry it on I’m afraid. Please let me know if you’ve read it and whether or not you liked it to convince me to pick it up again from my imaginary lit fireplace where it will be! 🙂
Review for Instagram book acc: @emonmiahh
March 21, 2020
Once I realised that Freedom Song was not a typical story with a beginning, middle and end, I happily allowed myself to get lost in Amit Chaudhury’s lyrical prose and became absorbed in the mundanities of the family life in Kolkata. Having got to know the city well over the years, I felt myself transported back there by the depth of the writing and when the book ended, I felt the same sadness that I always feel when my trip is over and it is time to go home.
January 20, 2019
The first part - "A Strange and Sublime Address" - was beautifully transporting; I didn't want it to end. However, I found the second section and much of the third section dry and monotonous, in strange contrast to that first section.
May 18, 2023
It would be wrong to call this novel plotless, but to be fair, the plot is minimal and largely irrelevant. What you get is a set of interwoven snapshots of life in three Calcutta households. The writing is highly evocative, and I'm left wishing I could read more about these people's lives.
June 28, 2024
We live in the everyday, our thoughts in the mundane that create worlds of their own. Amit Chaudhuri captures this while providing us insight into the depths of people’s thoughts and conversations in a cultural and historical context of Calcutta in the 90s.
June 10, 2018
Slow paced but colorful book
September 28, 2019
A middle-class family in Calcutta going through post-retirement blues. A bit dull.
September 3, 2020
4.5. A gorgeous short and rich novel, beautifully written, a whole world teased out with great skill.
May 29, 2022
This volume contains three short novels. Each of the three is more about "atmospherics" and less about plot. They mostly describe the environment and lives of the principal characters.
October 19, 2022
I enjoyed these novellas as they took me home.
July 1, 2024
Had a hard time getting into it but I think that’s more to do with my current attention span than the book. Quite slow paced, not much happens, but nicely written!
August 3, 2024
A master at work.
Read
April 5, 2025kaju replace madeleine, a glass of chai too, the billow of the fraying kurta revealing more than the summer’s hot wind
July 19, 2025
I like this least of the three Chaudhuri's I have read so far. Though it did a good job of painting a life. I just found less poetic passages as compared to the other two.
July 4, 2022
It is an experience. The novel is like an evening walk: encountering the new in the familiar. It flows without a set destination. Beautifully written, evocative.
Read
December 14, 2020Just the title track.
September 26, 2016
First story was by far my favorite, beautifully captured the feelings of being a child in an upper middle class family living in Calcutta. It felt like I was back there on my family vacations. Lovely and languid prose that illustrates the most ordinary of events poetically. However, eventually the lack of a discernible plot (and the self reference of this fact in the 2nd story) did wear on me.
May 22, 2015
I picked up this book and was treated to 230 odd pages of unassuming yet masterful prose that floated poetically through the quaint alleys of Calcutta. Amit Choudhuri reveals subtle idiosyncracies of otherwise ordinary characters with, what seems to me, his characteristic effortlessness.
The Freedom Song is a blend of 3 serene nouvellas that entwine together and then drift apart while still keeping a touching distance. They may not have pulsating plots, but that was never what the author was going for anyway. It almost seemed like he just built the characters and then allowed them play to play for themselves.
Rather than a book to be read, it is a collection of elegantly crafted lines that you will glide through. It's unfortunate that I did not get a hard cover version since I'll probably read it again.
The Freedom Song is a blend of 3 serene nouvellas that entwine together and then drift apart while still keeping a touching distance. They may not have pulsating plots, but that was never what the author was going for anyway. It almost seemed like he just built the characters and then allowed them play to play for themselves.
Rather than a book to be read, it is a collection of elegantly crafted lines that you will glide through. It's unfortunate that I did not get a hard cover version since I'll probably read it again.
May 21, 2013
I read the first of the three but can't get into the second and third at this time. The stories are beautiful tone poems, almost musical compositions, filled with sensual details and wonderfully rendered atmospheres - which I do like, but can't seem to concentrate on when my plate is full of kitchen remodel tasks, conversations, details, upsets, etc. I need something more narrative at the moment but may well come back to Chaudhuri's dreamy books in another season.
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