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NOVELS

All for artistic integrity

There’s a distinct, easily identifiable stillness in Amit Chaudhuri’s work that is rarely found elsewhere in contemporary Indian-English writing: a ear for the sort of quiet conversation that family members might have during their relaxed , unguarded moments; little passages that might not appear to be “about” something in the conventional sense of carrying a plot forward, but which reveal things about people and their circumstances through the accretion of little details. His new novel is so understated, so marked in its refusal to be driven by a story, that even “slice of life” can seem like an over-dramatic way of describing it.

The Immortals moves between the lives of three people: a dreamy young boy named Nirmalya Sengupta, who acquires a strong interest in Indian classical music (at a point in his life when he’s trying to decide between economics and philosophy); his mother Mallika, wife to an upwardly mobile businessman and a woman who might — if circumstances were different — have been a renowned singer herself; and her music teacher Shyamji who, being the son of the revered guru Pandit Ram Lal, lives in the shadow of his father’s reputation (“he’s only four annas compared to Panditji,” someone says, not with malice but matter-of-factly).

Through the different levels of engagement of these people (and others) with their Muse, a whole spectrum is revealed — a spectrum that extends from the rigour of Ram Lal’s early life and training to the more superficial interest in music seen among the swish set in south Bombay, where Nirmalya’s family live.

Though this book is specifically about classical music, its disciples and dilettantes, the questions it raises apply to other art forms too, including literature itself. We live in a world where art is losing its exclusivity and being “democratised”, where everyone wants to participate rather than merely observe. At one point Chaudhuri describes a sammelan where Shyamji’s disciples — “from young struggling ghazal singers to businessmen’s wives, hot but bright in their saris, naked ears dressed provocatively in gold, whose husbands had put a full-page advertisement in the souvenir” — are interested not so much in the performances of the professionals as in usurping the stage themselves, to become performers, if only for 15 minutes. In the other corner are those who have come to symbolise an older, faded way of life: people like Shyamji’s brother-in-law Pyarelal, who claims to have danced in Raja Man Singh’s court when he was four years old and who is described as “a jetsam of the old world, part of the coterie of artists that had been disbanded with the palaces… [he had] a bit of the stardust of the vanished courtly life around him”. And, perhaps, people like the now-forgotten music director who gave the young Lata Mangeshkar a memorable tune.

But in a world where the elitism — and the specialisation — associated with the higher arts has been diluted, do meaningful benchmarks for judging the quality and long-term worth of artists still exist? Who are the “immortals”?

There are other questions about artistic integrity. In two key passages, separated by half the length of the book, we get first Nirmalya’s and then Shyamji’s perspective on a conversation about whether it’s possible to dedicate oneself wholeheartedly to art when one has to think about the basic necessities of life. “Baba, you cannot practise art on an empty stomach — let me first make enough money from the lighter forms, then I’ll be able to devote myself to classical,” says Shyamji. “That moment will never come,” replies Nirmalya fiercely, “the moment to give yourself to your art is now.”

Is this the simple-minded idealism of youth pitted against the experience of age and its understanding of compromise? Or is it the hard-edged stance of the genuine artist against the relatively lackadaisical attitude of someone who has given up too soon?

As you can probably tell, this is a book of ideas, not recommended for the reader whose primary requirement is a story with a definite beginning, a middle and an end; The Immortals is all middle, like a fragment of an abstract poem. Chaudhuri’s abundant use of semi-colons, even when a comma would suffice (“She knew she could have been famous; but she had opted for the life of a Managing Director’s wife”), creates poetic pauses in the writing and conveys the sense that there are things left unsaid. The refusal to number or label the chapters has a similar effect, as does the drifting, non-linear structure of the narrative itself. The supporting characters are shadowy presences in the margins of Shyamji and Nirmalya’s lives, coming in and out of the frame. As a result, despite the elegance of Chaudhuri’s prose, this isn’t an easy read — it demands concentration and patience; perhaps it might be said that you need the same qualities that are required for an engaged appreciation of Indian classical music. This is a rich, rewarding book if you allow it to grow on you.

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