When Art Meets Life

 This book only could have been written by a poet.

'It rains outside one of the windows, snows outside the other.' begins the novel. We find ourselves in this seemingly uncommon play of nature. We are ready for this illusion or fantasy or dream sequence or surreal experience of a budding poet – Pushkar.

Pushkar, a reclusive and introvert young poet, lives with his journalist father and music teacher/singer mother in a rented house. Set in urban Kolkata, there is bustle outside, Pujo is around, but inside such houses, artistry and literary vocation have filled the minds and space, like literature and music do. Beyond the elusive windows of rain and snow, the characters reveal us the lights and shadows of different walks life, as the author takes us close to their personal lives, one of whom is Pushkar, who keeps a secret diary of poems.

Pushkar meets Nirban, who is an editor of a literary journal, and for the first time his poetry is going to be published. He also meets a circle of like-minded friends, mostly young writers and poets, among whom he finally finds his safe haven. As Pushkar is carving something for and out of his poetic vocation, there are so many lives in the story, as if intertwined with each other, struggling, compromising, relishing, remembering a separate fate, a distinct life, with or without choices: Gunjan, a passionate teacher of English literature is caught between his love for literature and melancholy, which is gripping him; Abhijit, Pushkar's friend from school days, is finally coming to an end of his love relation; Saheli, who is among few of the readers of Pushkar's secret diary, has found her courage, just like Pushkar, to elate their relationship. Ishita, Pritha, Asmita, Anuja, Saswata, a milkwood tree, Abanish, Suhrid and many others – these characters come alive in the novel, and one feels that, they live even after the last page, somewhere in Kolkata – we'll just have to look for them.

When the strains of the songrung out in the washed-out, bluish light of the chic, tiny veranda: [It seems I have grown fond of the haze], the music, the evening, the fading horns of the rickshaws in the distance, the hazy gatherings on the street corners, the sound of fish being fried in some house in the vicinity, lights coming on in some attic and TVs being switched on, it all began to seem illusory to Pushkar.

Nirban's great plan, to create something worth remembering all their lives, is taking shape and Pujo is around. Hopes and aspirations of young writers have heightened. But, some lives are sinking, some gloom have descended upon few characters, and some hopes have failed. Art is burgeoning in the streets and rooms of Kolkata, but somewhere the shadows have settled too. Some novels are not read for the pleasure of ascending plots, and A House of Rain and Snow is one of them. We are transported there. We can empathize the inner worlds of the characters, their dreams and endurance. Some characters have just discovered their happiness and peace, while few live as if in a hallucinatory realm of past, present and grievances. Amidst all this, we see lives, circled, protected and inspired by poetry and music.

I am not one to glorify sorrow. What I want to tell you is that a person who can feel sadness must know their heart is their greatest wealth. It is sorrow that sets us apart from each other, makes us unique. Like what Tolstoy says.

Failed poets, shy poets, forming poets, poets hiding behind and coming front, those who have found refuse in literature but have also found sadness and delusion in everyday life, those who have found their pride and honor in their music – this novel places literature and music at its center, and we see characters as if circling them like planets revolving around the sun. But, planets rotate too, and have their own chemistry, serene and harsh. That's what we see in the individuals, their formation and paths. Experimenting and seamlessly embracing poetry, prose, letters, monologue, fragmented texts, literary references, the novel builds a world, personal and evocative, like an artwork. The playfulness of the text, just like in modern poetry, has imparted poetic luster to the narrative voice. And nothing can be segmented from this novel, nothing can be removed. It may offer different reading experience to others, but I have found its joy in rereading while preparing for this review. This novel is meant to be reread time and again, especially by someone who finds their solace and voice in literature.

Baba is not asleep. Papers are up in the air, Baba and his table are airborne as well. As is the dim lamp on the table. Baba is still writing, his words floating on the surface of the page in front of him.

There are instances in the novel, which are dreamy and surreal, but they just seem to be an elevated poetic vision. It doesn't blur the narrative, it seeps through it, and merge with realities. From the A Confession by Srijato, we gather that this novel is deeply personal for him, as if a bildungsroman of a poet, and it has been rightfully justified.

My impression of the novel, its ambience and gradation of light is of some concoction of love, for poetry in particular, seeping into you.  Here literature and life becomes one, superbly done in a modernist style. The narrative viewpoints, glimpses, raw and dreamy description of urban setting are simply brilliant. Shifts in space and time, techniques used in the narrative, sentence and scene composition, similes confirming to alienation and elusiveness, and the casualness and the strength of it, unpredictable animation and personification of objects, descriptive and evocative prose, contemplative endings to chapters – all this evoke emotion for the passage of time. I was deeply impressed by the artful composition of paragraphs, author giving them the perfect last sentence, and flawlessly completing the mood of the paragraph.

… like an unused boat tied at the fisherman's wharf because it cannot withstand the waves of the sea.

… he resembles the narrow balcony of some cheap hotel where discarded things are dumped throughout the year and where only a few venture once in a while.

Memories can morph the incident a little and represent it in a slightly distorted manner, unable to turn down the commands of your expectation. There is nothing wrong with it. They are your memories, your desires, after all.

This is a supernova of introversion, a story of parted lives connected with art. This is also a story about family, friends, love, alienation, and exploration of individualities and its hope for life. This is a story of passion and patience for people enamored with art and literature. Poetic pieces in the chapters, have acted like some background music. And, writer's use of natural elements as symbols are just perfect. He shows us the fissures, and then he shows us the expanse. A House of Rain and Snow is a walk-through of Kolkata city, a glimpse into some lives that make up the crowd, their nuances – from those 'flickering scenes', as the author has called them.

I would like to thank and congratulate the author and the translator for their work on this evocative novel.

Author: Srijato
Original Text: Bengali
Translator: Maharghya Chakraborty
Publisher: Penguin Random House India

Source: Akita Gupta PR & Communications/Review Copy from the Publisher