Life in the maze of reality

Harvinder Khetal

IT is one of those books that has the stamp of the author in its every chapter. The graphic details are dotted with interesting trivia about trees and flora, reflecting Pratima Srivastava’s interest in the arena as the jacket tells us that she is an officer with the Indian Forest Service. Then, the enthusiastic birdwatcher in her is revealed as she livens up a bulky tree with a bird twittering around or a squirrel swiveling by. A couple of times, her propensity to pen poems, too, comes to fore.

The story revolves around the lives of two neighbouring families of a professor and a doctor in Allahabad bound through a common thread. As the main plot and sub-plots of the story snake in and out around the central character’s life that is teasingly kept minimal till nearly one-third of the book, at times the tensile strength of the common yarn seems to stretch to breaking point. But, much like our long-drawn TV serials and soaps that dramatically strive to keep the viewer’s interest intact, the mystery surrounding the disappearance of a young boy, Udit, from a home inhabited by a loving family, headed by Prof Shashank Joshi, goads one to keep turning the pages. Some clues are offered here and there. Driftwood is used as the metaphor for Udit’s fate: “Jai Maa Durga, please be merciful! Bring him back home! Let him not drift any longer….” A one-liner throws in the bait: “Perhaps, I ought not to have scolded him so badly; after all he had only failed an examination.”

In the process, while one may not have made much headway in the storyline that proceeds languidly, one is rewarded by evocative vistas as Pratima portrays the physical surroundings with vivid imagery. One only wishes that the same depth was applied in delineating the characters who are mostly passing through difficult phases, maybe through the tumultuous goings-on of their minds. For, the people inhabiting the novel are relatable. They are ordinary middle class folks, battling with familiar demons and looking for little pleasures from friends and family. 

In this context, an incident from the lonely life of Dr Arvind Johri and his wife Yashoda warms one’s heart. It is at once poignant and demonstrative of our culture, still prevalent in smaller cities. While doing up a room for the impending visit of their son and his family from London, Yashoda recalls wistfully: “The room had hardly been used in the last four years. Two months back, some guests of Mr Verma, their next-door neighbour, had occupied it for three days on the occasion of his daughter’s marriage. For those three days, the Johris had been cheerful hosts, treating the Vermas as their own guests, gossiping till late in the night and offering tea and snacks from their own kitchen. That had been a welcome change, providing them respite from the overpowering loneliness they felt most of the times.”

So, when the lovable couple suffers harsh treatment from their son and daughter-in-law who see nothing wrong in selling a part of the house to finance a separate home for themselves, it makes you cringe. Similarly, you are drawn into empathising with the Joshis — the father, mother, sisters and grandmother — who, even as going about life stoically, are all waiting for Udit’s return home some day. And, when he does come back finally, you find yourself smiling and sharing their happiness.