Book review: Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman

purplemistwrites Book reviews

blind willow sleeping woman I unashamedly admit it. I’m a fan of thriller novels. Right from Dan Brown, David Baldacci to the lesser known Clive Cussler, I’ve read them all. Recently however, while reading the blurb on yet another thriller novel, I found the following descriptions: ‘riveting’, ‘page turner’ and ‘edge-of-your-seat suspense’. I found myself wondering… Aren’t thrillers always described like this? And then it dawned on me. I had been reading the same stories retold in different ways. There is the protagonist, usually male. Then there is the CIA/ FBI/ some such intelligence agency. And there is a powerful antagonist, rich beyond comparison and he is somehow pulling the strings to achieve his means which may entail nations going to war, or even the end of the world. And our poor hero is racing against the clock and is the only one in the whole wide universe who can set things right.

Mind boggling? But yet, this is the basic premise on which most thrillers are based. It is easy to distinguish between a thriller and a book that is considered to be serious literature. Just look at the book jackets. Shadowy figures? Definitely thriller. An artistic cover with birds or trees in bright colours? Definitely non-thriller.

I suddenly found myself overwhelmed and looking for an opportunity to try a different genre… And that was how I came across Haruki Murakami’s short stories- Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman.

I have always believed that a writer can either master this form of storytelling or fall flat. But it depends on what the reader is looking for. Short stories also offer the writer opportunities to redeem himself if one story doesn’t hold the reader’s attention but the next one completely blows his mind. In that way, even if half of the stories in the collection are above average, the book overall seems to be a good buy.

The book is a collection of 24 short stories. Murakami is a highly imaginative writer. While reading his short stories, one gets the impression of entering his mind while he’s dreaming. His stories are full of unreal situations and they all seem to be building up towards something big and substantial but always end abruptly. Murakami seems to lean towards endings that are open to interpretation.

This may not go down well with all readers. If you are the type who doesn’t enjoy dream like sequences or the non existence of a traditional twist at the end of a short story, you are bound to be disappointed.

But what can one say about his writing style? I can just find two words to describe it: Pure Genius.

Consider the following lines from various stories in Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman:

”…. But that is what death is. A rabbit is a rabbit whether it springs out of a hat or a wheat field. A hot oven is a hot oven, and the black smoke arising from a chimney is just that- black smoke rising from a chimney”

“… In the kitchen, the after-image of some great thing was holding its breath. He often felt the presence of this after-image when he was with her: the after-image of a thing that had been lost…”

“… A few bees buzzed in from somewhere to lick the jam a previous customer had spilled on the table. They spent a moment lapping it up, then, as if suddenly remembering something, flew into the air with a solemn hum, circled the table a couple of times and then- again as if something had jogged their memory- settled once more on the table top.”

Brilliant descriptions like these have stayed with me, despite not knowing what any of the stories actually meant.

All in all, there is the sweet fragrance of a story well written or a heady confusion trying to figure out what the writer intends to convey to his readers. Either way, you are left feeling giddy.

My rating: 4/5

Miraj Diaries- 1

purplemistwrites Memoirs

I stared out of the tamtam that ferries passengers between Miraj and Sangli, two sleepy towns that exist on the lower border of Maharashtra. A tamtam is basically a larger version of the ubiquitous Indian auto rickshaw. The body is wider to accommodate up to four passengers sitting next to each other. A much larger version of this can carry upto eight passengers; an unfortunate four are made to sit rather unceremoniously on two smaller seats which can be accessed only by climbing over the aforementioned seat. I cannot explain the seating arrangements in a better way. Some things are better understood when visualised.

What possessed me to come here to this part of the country, I cannot say. Was it an uncontrollable urge to escape from all things familiar till that point in time? All I can say with certainty is that it was definitely not an adventurous spirit. Some folks embrace all things new with a sense of unbridled enthusiasm. I have never belonged to that category.

Miraj, though a small town seems to be filled with professionals belonging to the medical fraternity. There are two medical colleges with hospitals and plenty of health care centres. Every alternate building has a sign indicating the services of a doctor. The road that connects Miraj with Sangli is no different. There is one general hospital, one cancer hospital and even a mental health care facility. The doctor: patient ratio here must be one of the highest in the country. One wonders how such a small area can have so many sick people!

The number of doctors could only be rivalled by the number of potholes on the road on which we are currently travelling. Enterprising young students of statistics could derive all sorts of abnormal ratios; which are also well above the national average: ‘potholes per square foot’ or ‘the percentage of the road that can be termed as dangerous terrain’. The size of each individual pothole is also quite alarming. At times it is impossible to say where when pothole ends and the next one begins. They all seem to be coalescing into one another creating a giant formless crater filled with stones, rubble, and muddy water during the monsoons. During these times it must feel like driving through large ponds; inside heavy duty vehicles in slow motion like the ads that are shown on TV.

Faraway

purplemistwrites Poetry

Shortsighted I fled from
a familiar nest
I look back wistfully
at the things I miss the most…

The coolness of the breeze
The sweetness of the language
Vessels of stainless steel clattering
against red oxide floors
Freshly ground spices, coriander
and curry leaves in
buttermilk that quenches my thirst
like nothing else..
A laidback city
The friendly smiles
But most of all…
a family, my staunch support
away, a thousand miles.

The sky here is the same cobalt blue
but the clarity blurs
The raindrops are not caressing dollops
but splinters that pierce
Or maybe, there is nothing wrong with this place
and everything is wrong with me.

I was feeling very homesick today, much more than usual. I saw the dverse prompt- ‘sad and beautiful’ and I said to myself, “Sounds like my mood”. This poem was not meant to be very lyrical, but just about anything that came to mind about missing my hometown.

A Secret..

purplemistwrites Poetry

Into a bottomless ravine I plummet
Blackened hope, unseen thorns
pierce my every facet…
Talk is cheap and so is a promise
not kept, I weep
and bleed, the droplets
like reddened garnet.
Dazzling meteors enchant
But gone in a glance,
they fade like colours on my palette…
Your face is garish, your touch
unbearable, why did I think
it was velvet?
Pile on the misery, but it’s my turn
I cannot believe
you were my favourite!
You’re out of my orbit now
Yes, stay that way,
locked away in my locket.

Talk

purplemistwrites Poetry

Glossy talk, sleek and smooth
Shiny, a lonely heart it soothes.
Sweet smelling like a scented candle
Talk it is, coated with caramel
For all it’s worth, the memories churn
Sweet it is, yet it is burnt.
Thoughts swirl like flames in a furnace
I can’t forget you,
you’re name I carve in pumice.

Distance

purplemistwrites Poetry

Bazaar streets mixed

With a heady fragrance of incense sticks

Giddied jasmine woven

In long garlands interspersed

With the occasional rose petals

Incense fumes invoke

powerful blessings. Distant

Temple bells ring mixing with the

haggling women’s chatter.

Spiced potatoes fry

In bubbling oil

Laughter erupts from the school boys

Splattering each other with coloured balloons

Cows pass unheeded, yet revered

Dazzling trinkets, aroma of spices

Vermilion smeared pictures

of mighty goddesses.

Smiles unhindered

Loud cheers from the gully cricketers

Angry words from the owner

Of the broken glass.

Tinkling bangles in myriad colours

Shining in the evening light.

A 90’s Bollywood song

blasting from an old radio…

 

He is oblivious to all that he will miss

As he flies above in a sleek aeroplane

Away from home

To a distant land.

This post was written for Sunday Scribblings