FICTION
Subtle and understated
ZERIN ANKLESARIA
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Despite ups and downs, the novel reveals an independent mind.
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The Suragi Tree; Prabhaker Acharya; MapinLit, Rs.395.
A STURDY independence of mind is evident in Prabhaker Acharya's debut novel in which, publishers would say, there is little that is marketable. There is no noisy espousal of a cause or causes, no bedroom or boardroom sex romps and the style is subtle and understated. Further, though digressions and literary allusions are considered passé, he uses them freely.
The Suragi Tree begins as a Bildungsroman, a traditional genre that traces the early life of the hero and his growth to maturity against the social background of his time.
Large timeframe
Going beyond this, however, the novel covers an ambitious timescale of 60 years. N. Sudhakar Rao spends his childhood in Nampally, the tiny village that gives him his first name and a strong sense of who he is. The life of the community is centred in his family mansion, large enough to house 100 people. Here, as the only boy in a joint family, he leads a charmed existence with a gaggle of female relatives, an aloof and strong-willed father, and his uncle, a deeply religious man, who nurtures his youthful imagination with mythic tales and stories from the Sanskrit epics.
As Sudhakar leaves Nampally, first to go to school in Kanteshwar and then to college, the family disintegrates, and he moves to Bombay where he studies further, holds a number of jobs, and finally settles down to teach English Literature. His life here is one of constant change. He keeps moving house, has a failed love affair, lives through the horror of the bomb blasts and the communal riots, and lands in hospital after an accident. He then decides that, though his ties with Kanteshwar have been tenuous at best, he will move there after retirement.
In a novel of this length the achievement is bound to be uneven. The early years in Bombay are the least inspiring. The narrative control slackens, with too many happenings, and contrived situations that stretch credibility. The characters are not well rounded and the intrigues of Sudhakar's students to propel him into the arms of Dakshi are unconvincing.
Evocative portrayal
In contrast village life with its pujas and festivals, its superstitions and animistic beliefs, is evocatively recreated through symbol and metaphor, and colourful descriptive detail. Sudhakar's 500-year-old ancestral home, originally built as a matha or ashram, resounds with bhajans at sunset as the women circumambulate the seven vrindavans built over the remains of swamis long gone. And he spends hours every day in the shade of the suragi tree reading, telling stories, and dreaming away his childhood. The house and tree are mysterious presences integral to his inner life, and when one lies empty and derelict and the other is cut down by his own hand something deep within him is violated.
The characters here are living people even when they are mere cameos. There is the domineering father whom he once idolised but whose influence Sudhakar must shake off before he can find himself, and the uncle who gives him the unconditional love that only a childless person can give. Three female cousins live with them after failed marriages — one of whom, Varijamma, was wedded at the age of eight. The groom, unknown to her family, was mentally deranged and, taking fright at the noise of the festivities and the popping of fireworks, ran away, never to be seen again. Other characters, like Lakshmi (Sudhakar's nurse) and the nymphomaniac mother of Little Ramu are outlined with deft touches.
For the author childhood is a special place. In Harshad and Urmi, to whom Sudhakar is an adored Uncle, he has captured its charm and naiveté and its uncomplicated loyalties. Sometimes these portrayals slide into sentimentality whereas that of the boy Sudhakar, done with a surer hand, is true and complete.
Original metaphor
The rural milieu provides the author with a fertile source of original and felicitous metaphor. Memories of past happiness long buried in the subconscious mind float suddenly to the surface "like butter churned by the gopis for little Krishna to steal"; and moments of ecstasy are as fleeting as Godhooli, that magical moment when the dying sun turns to gold the dust raised by the cows as they come home. Analogies like these are movingly eloquent and leave a lasting resonance in the reader's mind.
The novel ends on a note of quiet satisfaction. As a fresh sprig emerges from the roots of the old suragi tree, Sudhakar, free at last of remorse for its destruction, returns to his flat in Bombay and to Harshad and Urmi, and begins a new life as a writer. Though not rapturously happy he has achieved an inner poise, and has learnt at last, as all of us must learn, to move in measure, like a dancer.
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