Arts & Letters 15D

TSATURDAY, DECEMBER 5, 2015

Book Review: The Narrow Road to the Deep North16 Interview: Shirshendu

Mukhopadhyay17 Aid to the crescent moon18INSIDE

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B O O K R E V I E W

nSM Shahrukh

Inspired by both his father’s experienc-es as a prisoner-of-war and the life of Weary Dunlop, Richard Flanagan’s new novel explores trauma and heroism

on the Thai-Burma railway. The principal protagonist of the novel, Dorrigo Evans, is without doubt the war hero surgeon Dunlop, who tried his best to look after the Australian POWs under his charge.

Roger Pulvers summarises the book suc-cinctly and quite accurately in The Japan Times: 

“The time line of Richard Flanagan’s new novel, The Narrow Road to the Deep North, slips back and forth from prewar Tasmania, Melbourne and Adelaide to postwar Sydney, among other locations. Yet there is only one

stark, unrelenting and everlasting present -- ‘the Line,’ the 415-km-long Burma-Thai-land railway that was built between  June 1942 and October 1943 by more than 300,000 prisoners of war under the command of the Japanese. One in three prisoners’ lives was lost on that arch-brutal forced march. Of those who perished, 90% were Asian, pri-marily Burmese and Malayans, but also Chi-nese, Tamils, Thais, and Javanese. Nearly 3,000 Australians were among those killed. Richard Flanagan’s father was one of the lucky POWs who survived.”

Dr Dorrigo Evans, coming from a post-First Great War, poor, and backward Tasma-nia, declares himself a fatalist from the very beginning. We are introduced to his poor family members but he rises to be a doctor. He is engaged to an immaculate upper class

maiden, Ella, for whom his love is fleeting at best. He falls desperately in love, while train-ing for the war in Adelaide, with the second wife of his uncle Kevin Mulvaney, Amy. The two have a stormy affair before Dorrigo final-ly leaves for the Second World War.

From then on the war takes over, especial-ly the goings-on of the POW camp under the Japanese, with inhuman work load demand-ed of soldiers weakened by cholera, ulcers, beriberi, and above all starvation. We meet many of prisoners from Australia. People like the sly Darky Gardiner, the racist Rooster Macneice, the initially indomitable but ulti-mately broken down Tiny Middleton -- a var-ied bunch. Their camaraderie is often quirky and inconsistent but still there. But the hor-ror is beautifully described by Flanagan with operations performed with scant medicine

and equipment, with regular deaths and their cremation, the ultimate questions of the existence of God.

“Beside the funeral pyre of Australian sol-diers killed by cholera, Dorrigo Evans, sur-geon and leader of a camp of prisoners on the Thai-Burma railway, wants at first to burn the sketchbook of one of the dead men. One of his assistants in the camp hospital points to watercolors of atrocities, of torture, and of the everyday life of the camp. ‘Memory is the true justice,’ he says.” 

Dorrigo disagrees: “We remember noth-ing. Maybe for a year or two. Maybe most of a life, if we live. Maybe. But then we will die, and who will ever understand any of this? And maybe we remember nothing most of all when we put our hands on our hearts and carry on about not forgetting.”

The sketchbook is miraculously saved.The Japanese soldiers are portrayed with

a typical Western eye -- ruthlessly in the ser-vice of the Emperor. That’s not far from the truth though. Major Nakamura in charge of the men Dorrigo led somehow escapes the wrath of the Tokyo trials. He flees to Kobe and till the end of his days he found nothing wrong with his actions in the running of the POW camp.

The case of the Korean guard, Choi sang-min, who worked under Japanese instruc-tions as camp guard, is particularly sadly as he is executed by the post war trials when many high Japanese officers were set free.

The post-war part of the book is full of trauma faced by the survivors of “The Line.” The survivors, as can be expected, never could go back to a normal life.

Dorrigo enters a perfunctory marriage with Ella, becomes a father, becomes a famous surgeon but is mostly bored with life. He is now a compulsive womaniser and gradually giving into drinking heavily. During the war, Amy heard, wrongly, of Dorrigo’s death and she became distraught. Her husband’s pub blows up in an explosion and Dorrigo also concluded that Amy, the only woman she had ever loved, maybe, had perished too.

Owing to Dorrigo’s fame as a war hero, Amy gets to learn that he was still alive but Dorrigo sees her one day at the Sydney Har-bor and is astonished that she is still alive. For some reason, Flanagan does not make any attempt to rekindle the romance. Maybe he tried to make the point that Dorrigo has reached a place where he doesn’t care an-ymore about anything. The trauma of The Line triumphs.

It’s an interesting book with plenty of use of haikus and poetry but the construct is dif-ficult and the author deals with too many as-pects. But a very readable book nonetheless.

Note: The Japanese did not like the trans-lations of the haikus by Kobayashi Issa used in the book. No surprises there. l

SM Shahrukh is a freelance contributor.

Arts & Letters16DT

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 5, 2015

2014’s Booker winner wields a complicated narrative on the Thai-Burma railway

The horror is beautifully described by Flanagan with operations performed with scant medicine and equipment, with regular deaths and their cremation, the ultimate questions of the existence of God

I N T E R V I E W

nJunaidul Haque

On November 25, I had the chance to meet my favourite West Bengal novelist thanks to poet-editor Ran-ju Raim. I had been invited to meet

him before but this time, I had the chance to talk to him for a much longer time. And when Ranju Ram offered me the opportuni-ty, I grabbed it.

I’ve written on a lot of favourite writers (Rashid Karim to Gabriel Garcia Marquez) and teachers (Prof Kabir Chowdhury to Khandaker Ashraf Hossain) after their deaths. But I always wanted to write on Shirshendu Mukhopadhyay and Syed Sham-sul Huq while they were alive. Perhaps this is the beginning.

Ranju Raim called me on November 22 and asked me for a few questions he would like to ask Shirshendu Mukhopadhyay. Why me? I have been a lover of Shirshendu’s fic-tion since 1973, since my Dhaka College days. Mohammad Rafiq, the poet who taught us English, had told me to read him. I read everything he wrote -- once, twice, thrice. 42 years of love.

Rushed to a Sector 4 Uttara Hotel at 8am on Tuesday, November 25. Seeing him, he appeared a man completely at peace with the world and at peace with himself. And he looked so familiar. As if I had seen him so many times before. He seemed to take a lik-ing to me and asked me questions.

He turned out to be the person I had al-ways imagined him to be -- affectionate, ut-terly pleasant, wise, and young at heart. He had maintained himself well and looked at

least 10 years younger. Never got tired and enjoyed answering my questions. I found out he is a vegetarian. And a happy disciple of Thakur Anukul Chandra of Pabna.

A few words about his childhood in My-mensingh: They were from Bikrampur but his grandpa was a popular “Mukhtar” in My-mensingh. The Mukhtar pampered him. His mother was his favourite parent. “My life revolved around her.” Loved the sentence. “I had a heavenly childhood in Mymensingh. Simple but beautiful.” Had almost a nomadic life as a boy, a young man. Father had a trans-ferable job in the railway. Went to six schools in West Bengal, Assam, and Bihar.

Was quite naughty as a child. I found it dif-ficult to believe. Often got beaten in school. Was good in sports. Difficult to believe again.

He looked such a “softie.” Mother recited a lot of Tagore poems to him while putting him to sleep during childhood. He still remem-bers those poems.

Later read Bankimchandra and Michael Madhusudan Dutta. He began to write. Wrote in the higher classes of school. Wrote in col-lege and university. The weekly “Desh” pub-lished his first story and first novel. They invited him to write a story for their Puja is-sue when he was 26. That was recognition of some sort. Fell in love with Rabindranath in his early youth and it continued all his life. Worked first as a school teacher, then for Anandabazar and Desh. A journalist for a long time like Marquez and Sunil Gangopadhyay.

He was never a popular writer at the be-ginning. Till the mid-70s, until his 40th year, he was liked by a certain class of readers only. They consisted of a few important personal-

ities, who read him, liked him, and praised him. Two of them were named Buddhadev Bose and Satyajit Ray. Bose recommended him to Sagarmoy Ghosh and advised him to make Shirshendu write regularly for Desh. (I smiled and told myself that Bose never failed to discover jewels.)

Satyajit Ray vividly remembered his sto-ries and inspired him. Invited him and Sunil Gangopadhyay to his films’ premieres. I sug-gested the mid-70s as the period when he began to rival Sunil Gangopadhyay in popu-larity. Shirshendu Mukhopadhyay smiled af-fectionately and agreed. Today, it is difficult to say who is more popular. I didn’t fail to mention that Ray’s forefathers were from our Katiadi in Kishoreganj.

A wonderful prose coupled with his belief

in the goodness of man and a quest for the nobility of man make him the outstanding writer that he is. He is a rare breed among present writers of fame -- he is a believer. Man is in distress but he is to be loved, to be trusted, to have faith in. Childhood memo-ries haunt him. Loneliness, sorrow, nostal-gia, and alienation keep him occupied. But he is a firm optimist. Has created a lot of powerful characters.

Rangamoyee is a mentally strong, digni-fied, brave, and affectionate lady in Durbin. The scientist in Parthibo is dreaming of and fighting for a better world. These are two of his most amazing characters. Did he see their likes in real life? Maybe not exact prototypes but traces of them in a few persons. They were partially real and partially bred by his imagination.

He has written a lot of novels for children.

Began a little late, in his 40s, but is a very popular children’s writer now. He has created the cutest bhoots for them, utterly lovable. “Yes, my ghosts are not to be feared!” He is a seasoned writer of detective stories, even thrillers. Shabar Dasgupta, the police officer, is a detective with a difference. He is a pow-erful character. Received a lot of prizes -- the Sahitya Academy award and the Ananda Pu-rashkar (twice).

Who were his favourite writers? Bankim-chandra and Rabindranath Tagore, Michael Madhusudan Dutta and Jibanananda Das. Not Tolstoy, a believer like him? Certainly but the “bideshi” who most fascinated him was Fyodor Dostoevsky. That surprised me a bit. But I liked his honesty. “Crime and Punish-ment,” “Notes from the Underground,” and “The Idiot” he simply loved.

Marquez? “Oh, yes, but he came much later to me. In the 1980s.” I appreciated his love for cricket and Tagore songs. Favourite singers? Debabrata Biswas (“Bangal” love -- I smiled), Suchitra Mitra, Konika Bandopadhyay, Rajes-hwari Dutta, and Hemanta Mukhopadhyay. Regretted that Rajeshwari’s records were not available now. “Who says that Hemanta couldn’t sing Tagore songs well?”

I feel that, as in the case of TS Eliot, his conservative political and religious thoughts never stopped readers of all kinds from ad-miring him. Eliot wrote wonderful poetry and essays, Shirshendu Mukhopadhyay writes brilliant fiction. He is a story-teller par excellence. This Puja he wrote a novel for the Anandamela only. No novel for Desh or Anandabazar.

Why? “I was a little unwell.” He must write next year, I demanded. I told him that I have turned his Pogo from “Nilur Duksha” into a national character in Bangladesh. Pogo is Prufrock-like and Pogor Journal is the name of my literary column.

Shirshendu Mukhopadhyay looked the youngest and the happiest 80-year-old I have ever come across. He posed for photographs and went out to face Ekattor TV. His friend Soumitra Chattopadhyay was waiting for him. Quite handsome at 79. I felt like walking over to him and saying, “An old admirer here, Dada. Very glad to meet you.” But sadly, the TV crew was in the way.

“The people of Bangladesh love me 10 times more than the Indians,” he said dur-ing the interview. I gave him my warmest thanks and muttered, “I am the proof.” Even his books sold 10 times more in Dhaka than in Kolkata! The students of Edward College, Pabna once gave him a reception. When he was leaving, hundreds ran with his car. He re-membered that always. “If ever Kolkata turns me out, will you let me stay here?” He joked.

“Without a doubt, Dada.” l

Junaidul Haque writes fiction and columns.

Arts & Letters 17D

TSATURDAY, DECEMBER 5, 2015

‘The people of Bangladesh love me 10 times more’Shirshendu Mukhopadhyay is a man of eclectic taste and talent

I feel that, as in the case of TS Eliot, his conservative political and religious thoughts never stopped readers of all kinds from admiring him. Eliot wrote wonderful poetry and essays, Shirshendu Mukhopadhyay writes brilliant fiction. He is a story-teller par excellence

Aid to the crescent moonFaisal Jalal

P O E T R Y

Arts & Letters18DT

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 5, 2015

The battle cry was heard.Every syllable and every word

was uttered, spat out in disgust.With every life that was taken,

With every family that was broken,With every prayer that was not spoken,

My religion has come under attack.

This is my rallying cry - to the aid of the crescent moon. This is my rallying cry.

This is my … cry.

Before the faithless rise and take hold,the ebbs and flows within the hearts, cold,and damp are the lies that whisper there,

“Go join the misguided and non-humanity”.Aren’t we cool with our black flags a-waving,Aren’t we cool with our oil fields a-blazing,Aren’t we cool with our weapons a-plenty,Make no mistake, we are masters of senti -Mental, though, is our true raison d’être.

Your devastation is our zakat-al-fitr.

Decadent cities will burn and fallThat is their dream. 

Human cities will rise from the ashes. That is our hymn. 

This is my rallying cry - to the aid of the crescent moon. This is my rallying cry. 

This is my … cry.

Here me now and hear me well - All Muslims and ye of awesome faith. 

Let us unite before the hour is late. 

This is my rallying shout - “Paris’ lights will never go out!” 

You are a virus of Islam that will need eradicating. You are a pox on the house of humanity that will need curing.

You are a plague on the map that will need scorching. You are a diseased crop that will need torching. 

You might have a ruthless devotion to a misguided interpretation. But we have something higher- our faith in the human religion. 

We cherish justice, compassion, science and progress,Irregardless of how one likes to pray or dress. 

We value above all, that life is preciousA gift from above.A gift of true love. 

My religion has come under attack. Make no mistake, we will fight you to get it back. 

This is my rallying cry - to the aid of the crescent moon. This is my rallying cry. 

This is my … cry.

Faisal Jalal is a total badass and a complete asshole.