Review: The Palace of Assassins by Aditya Iyengar

Re-tellings of Indian myths are steadily gaining popularity in Indian writing in English. While there are plenty of people who object to the new writing on grounds of the storylines being implausible/devoid of accurate period detail/not fitting in with the accepted version(s) of the myths already in existence -- it is also true that these books are selling to another, avid market. There is an interest in grounding the myths in our times, or referencing parts of modern life or even just showing the ancient heroes as regular flawed modern heroes and anti-heroes.

The Palace of Assassins is Aditya Iyengar’s second novel based on the events of the Mahabharat. While his first book -- The Thirteenth Day -- examined the war through the eyes of Yudhishthira, this is the story of Ashwatthama the mighty soldier and son of Drona. Ashwatthama is the only survivor of the Kaurava leaders after the war, and his shameful killing of the Pandava children has condemned him to an eternal curse from Krishna. He is doomed to immortal life as a leper.

The novel starts from here, when Ashwatthama wakes up in the desert, cursed and in pain. It follows his rescue by the widow Kasturi and his attempts to come to terms with his fate. Surviving soldiers from the Kaurava army invite him to join their plot to revenge themselves on the Pandavas by massacring the Pandava lineage. The story moves fast and is fairly well plotted though some of the details can raise a reader's eyebrow. The occasional Americanism too, can jar slightly, though I admit this is a very subjective concern.

This is a quick holiday read. I read the book from start to finish over two aeroplane journeys in one day and it was gripping enough for me to go through security etc reading the book from my free hand. If you enjoy myths and fantasy (as I do), you might want to get this one.

Disclaimer: This book was sent to me for review.

Review: Current Show by Perumal Murugan

P. Murugan came into the national spotlight a couple of years ago when he came under attack for blasphemy for his novel Madhurobhagan. In protest, he publicly announced that he was giving up writing novels altogether. A highly decorated Tamil scholar, teacher and writer, he has written several novels as well as collections of poetry, short stories and non-fiction.

Current Show is a translation of his Tamil novel 'Nizhal Muttram' and is one of a series of translations of Murugan's work by Penguin Random House, aimed at readers who don't read Tamil. It is a powerful, gripping story of several young boys who live and work at a cinema hall in a small town in Tamil Nadu. The prose is raw, powerful and evocative. It is peppered with curt, coarse language that has one automatically translating the lines into vernacular in one's head. Sathi, the protagonist, has run away from his leper father, trying to leave the taint of untouchability and beggary behind him. He hopes to somehow make a life for himself in the alleys behind the cinema hall, selling 'colour soda' to the patrons of the theatre and doing odd jobs for people in between shows. The story is presented in a series of quick cinematic 'shots' as it were, rapidly creating a story of the days of these boys. They live in a world of filth and squalor and are exploited as cheap labour. They eat badly and escape into ganja-fuelled stupor in the evenings. And yet, despite their fights and seeming hostility towards one another, they band together as a group, reaching out for each other for solidarity during their waking hours and comfort when they sleep.

A word on the translation: The novel is translated by feminist historian and publisher V Geetha of Tara Books, who has also translated several other works by Murugan. She has deftly created a manuscript that reads fluidly in a language that it was not written in. It's not an easy job but she has done it remarkably well.

An interesting piece on Perumal Murugan's writing here at The Caravan.

Disclaimer: This book was sent to me for review.

[CSAAM April 2014]

Child Sexual Abuse – 

the Invisible Demon around Us

When Jaya Menon*’s daughter, then 12, ran around their apartment complexes in Hyderabad with the various gangs of children, Jaya made it a point to call out to her from the windows every half an hour. Her daughter was told to stick to the group and come home for her mother’s permission before entering any flat. Even if it was only to drink water or collect a friend, Jaya’s daughter was to stand outside in the hallway. Now an adult, Jaya’s daughter doesn’t have very clear memories of these strict rules but she does remember that her mother or some trusted adult was never more than a shout away. Unobtrusive, but always present.

What Jaya feared was what many mothers fear – Child Sexual Abuse (CSA). She had been abused herself by a male family member when she was nine, and didn’t get much support when she tried to tell her mother about it. The memories had lingered and coloured her outlook on life. As her daughter grew, she tried to balance her desire to allow her child the independence she wanted with the protection that Jaya knew she needed. Other adults found Jaya’s behaviour overprotective but her husband Amit* who knew her story, supported and encouraged her.

Last May, when Aamir Khan featured CSA on Satyameva Jayate, the episode proved to be a vindication of sorts for Jaya and many other survivors like her. Shut up as a child, she saw on national television a renowned celebrity acknowledge and discuss what she went through. The show began with a nation-wide study by the Ministry of Women & Child Development, Government of India, that concluded that 53% of study’s 12447 respondents, aged 5-24 years, had faced some form of sexual abuse. Jaya was nowhere close to being alone.

What Is Child Sexual Abuse?

Broadly speaking, child sexual abuse is recognized as emotional, psychological and/or sexual exploitation of a child by an adult. It comes in many forms, from forcing a child to perform sexual acts under duress to exposing a child to pornography. It can emotionally and physically scar children for life, compromise their mental and physical wellbeing as adults and in severe cases, impede them from leading well-adjusted lives as responsible members of society.

As concerned parents let us separate fact from fiction in some common misconceptions about child sexual abuse:

Misconception #1

CSA only occurs in lower class, uneducated or broken households.

Studies the world over show that CSA can occur in any kind of a home. A child from a single parent family is not necessarily more at risk than a child in a joint household filled with adults. A child who is taught rules of basic safety and whose guardians are obviously and openly keeping a close eye on his/her well-being, is likely to be safer than more neglected children. Abusers prey on children they can bribe or browbeat into keeping quiet about abuse.

Misconception #2

Our children can only be harmed or abused by strangers.

An unsettling half of the abused children studied by the Ministry of Women & Child Development reported that their abusers were people they knew, usually a close family member but also often a trusted outsider such as a family friend, household help, tuition teacher etc. The devastation of this abuse of power can be incalculable. Sheela Malkani*, 36, a successful work-from-home professional, not only went through years of therapy (with full family support) to help her cope with the after effects of her sexual abuse as a child, but continues to regress into deep depression when forced to be in contact with her abuser at family occasions.

Misconception #3

CSA only happens to girls.

Child sexual abuse is called so because it can happen to a child of either sex. In fact, the study by the Ministry of Women & Child Development noted that approximately 53% of the boys interviewed reported sexual abuse, shattering the myth that only girls are susceptible to abuse and should be protected. Lending open support to this understanding is Harish Iyer, an Equal Rights Activist and vocal supporter of child rights, who has often spoken about the sexual abuse he faced as a seven year-old. His story became inspiration for a character in director Onir’s landmark 2011 film I Am that talked about CSA.

Misconception #4

Children don’t need to know about sex.

Shuktara Lal, a drama therapy professional who has worked with survivors of abuse, begs to differ. She emphasises that “It’s only when we start sex education that we can help our children understand what sex is all about. And it’s only then that we can honestly explain sexual abuse to them and tell them what they need to be careful about and, if they do experience something abusive, who they should go to immediately.” Sex education can be as basic as teaching a toddler to correctly identify and name body parts or as detailed as explaining pregnancy and intercourse to older children. There is no set age to have this conversation but it is best to discuss this with your child before they acquire incorrect information from elsewhere – such as an abuser.

Signs of CSA

Writing about her own abuse in the New York Times this April, Indian journalist and author Nilanjana S Roy noted that “the chief violation [is that] abusers did not ask us for permission to use our bodies as they pleased.” This sense of defilement runs deep in abused children, as adult survivors such as Harish Iyer and Cindrella Prakash know only too well. Like Iyer, Prakash has also appeared on radio and TV shows (including Satyameva Jayate), online chats and interviews to talk about the importance of recognizing, understanding and addressing child sexual abuse.

Child sexual abuse is usually (though not always) indicated by inexplicable injuries, rashes and infections in a child – in the genital regions or elsewhere.

Other signs of possible abuse are overly sexual behaviour by young children, moods swings or depression, sudden terror of familiar faces or strangers, alcohol or drug abuse, problems at school etc.

A Mother’s Role

CSA is the invisible demon that sits on many a mother’s shoulder. Fears of CSA have otherwise indulgent mothers refuse permission for class trips, sleepovers, even birthday parties and play dates. It is the unnamed fear that pervades parenting.

Even mothers who claim not to know or care about CSA, because “it doesn’t happen in decent, educated families like ours” nevertheless follow the ‘rules’ of protection – insisting that a child be home before dark, that children stick together in groups etc. It is a subject that is widely considered taboo or indecent in India but… truth be told, we have all had our share of such ‘uncles’ – the ones who kiss young girls when drunk, or insist on the children sitting on their laps though the child is clearly uncomfortable.

Rohini*, blogger and mother of an 8 year old boy and a 4 year old girl, knows that she cannot protect her children from every danger there is, but she believes in arming herself and them as best she can. Although her mother finds her worries “paranoid” Rohini takes pains to educate herself on possible abusive situations, sifting through mainly online information, and has discussed safety and possible reactions with both her son and daughter. The way she sees it, safety education is vital “so they know right from wrong and are equipped to say no, call for help and confide in their parents if something were to happen to them. I think suffering abuse in a shameful silence can be far more harmful to a kid's psyche and self-esteem than the actual abuse.”

It is important that parents start teaching their children as early as possible where they should and should not be touched, that if they feel uncomfortable they are allowed to say “no”, loudly and repeatedly, that if a child comes to complain of any kind of uncomfortable incident, whether abusive or not, he/she will receive trust and support. We often urge our children to make physical contact such as handshakes or kisses but a friendly “Namaste” or “Hi” or even a smile is perfectly acceptable too. A forced physical gesture confuses a child’s innate sense of boundary. Younger children, especially ones who aren’t yet talking, should be bathed, cleaned or changed by you at least once every day, no matter how trusted your support system. Older children must be made to understand that internet usage is a privilege and comes with safety rules. Teach yourself and your children about online predators. Gowri Shetty* does not allow her teenaged sons to pass on personal information (phone numbers, addresses etc.) except in person and checks their Facebook accounts regularly.

Lastly, it is important that parents retain a sense of perspective. Discussing danger with children is far more important than refusing them permission to engage with the world, whether online or off. Since we cannot guard over our children all their lives, the best gift we can make them to is to teach themselves to keep themselves safe.

 IN A NUTSHELL 

How to keep your children safe:

• Discuss safe touch/unsafe touch.
• Listen to your children.
• Teach your child to protest.
• Do not insist on physical contact.
• Check your child.
• Reassure your child.
• Monitor internet usage.
• Draw information boundaries.
• Spend time online with your child.
• Don’t be paranoid.

This article of mine appeared in Mother's World magazine last September. I'm re-posting it here as a part of CSAAM 2014.

Fear and Loathing in Bombay Then and Now

Read & Reflect Column #2

The Quarantine Papers by Kalpish Ratna

Paediatric surgeon, columnist and novelist Kalpana Swaminathan has made a name for herself in Indian literary circles today with her engrossing mystery novels featuring female detective ‘Last Resort Lalli’. She has also written unusual children’s fiction such as Ordinary Mr Pai and Gavial Avial.

She is equally prolific as half the person behind ‘Kalpish Ratna’, the pseudonym used by her and her surgeon and writer colleague Ishrat Syed, for articles, columns and eight books written together. Their common interests, history and medicine, come together, compellingly, in The Quarantine Papers. Published in 2010, this is a mystery novel set against two historic events in Bombay – the riots of 1993 and the plague of 1896.

‘The Plague Inspectors broke into homes, summarily removed anybody they found having a fever… The quarantine was ingenious. It even dealt with Bombay’s railways and roads. Plague passes were issued for people who wanted to go from Bandra to Mahim… Inspectors were stationed along the causeway. In you boarded the train at Bandra, the carriage doors were locked shut till you reached Grant Road or Mahalakshmi. There you were jumped by the Plague Inspectors, and whisked away to a hospital or a Segregation Camp. They learnt and perfected it here, the British. It would be their model for the Concentration Camps in South Africa that Alfred Milner would establish two years later during the Boer War. This was Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee! Hitler was just a copycat. It all sounds sane at this remove, but imagine it happening to you!’

The book is set on a somewhat flimsy premise of a secret pact made by four men that must be honoured by their families down the ages; flimsier still is the story of the protagonist Ratan who lives two lives – one his own in 1993 and one of his grandfather a century before. His grandfather’s memories and experiences of communal tension are sparked into urgent action when Bombay breaks out into riots and communal violence following the destruction of the Babri Masjid in Ayodhya. Ratan slips in and out of history as he tries to make sense of inexplicable bits of knowledge and a sense of tragedy that must be averted. As a laboratory technician he finds himself working on victims of communal violence; however, his medical knowledge and skills belong to the doctor his grandfather was. He struggles to come to terms with what these flashbacks are trying to tell him even as his modern-day surroundings fill him with anger and despair.

The book works despite its undeniable flaws because of its evocative storytelling. Bombay of 1993 comes alive, with its fear and disbelief, as does the Bombay of 1896 wracked by disease and consequences such as evacuation, segregation and travel restrictions.

 ------------------------

A short description of the bubonic plague in Bombay may be found here: http://www.iias.nl/iiasn/25/regions/25SA1.html

Other People’s Stories

Note: I write a monthly column called Read & Reflect for Indian Weekender these days. I will be posting the pieces here after they are published in New Zealand.

Read & Reflect Column #1

Another Man’s Wife by Manjul Bajaj

Having read Manjul Bajaj’s first book Come, Before Evening Falls with deep appreciation only a year ago, I approached her second offering Another Man’s Wife with high expectations. The latter, a collection of short stories, did not disappoint. Her strengths remain the same: strong characterisation, detailed depiction of period detail and cultural context, and finely nuanced storytelling.

The first story, ‘Ripe Mangoes’, is a stellar example of all this. A young Kathak dancer, married for convenience to her father’s creditor, yet tries to hold on to all that is dear to her. She leaves behind her family orchards, her lover and her old life in Murshidabad and moves to “a grey matchbox of a home” in Calcutta where she looks after her three growing children. A home where she installs a tutor for her sons, the man she has loved most of her life. A life which is now threatened by her adolescent daughter who is unable to bear the weight of her mother’s adultery.

The motif of blurring lines is central to ‘Crossed Borders’ where old crimes follow an immigrant gardener around all his life. As an old man he think he has finally achieved the anonymity needed for a peaceful existence but a yellowed newspaper clipping lands him in the hands of his employer, a vengeful ex-wife looking for somebody to murder her husband’s new love.

 ‘The Birthmark’ is a more fanciful, less satisfying tale. Discussing the female infanticide rampant in the Doab areas, it pits a mother-in-law prepared to keep her bloodline ‘pure’ against the Bihari tribal worker her younger son married. Pregnant with a girl, the daughter-in-law refuses an abortion and her mother-in-law finds herself resorting to scheming against this “strange dark witch” who is teaching her son to accept a girlchild.

Cory Fernandez, in her story ‘Me and Sammy Fernandez’, offers a setting which is almost filmy in its extravagance: an aspiring music journalist falls in love with the son of a celebrated Goan singer. Rejecting the demands of her own Parsi background she enters into a relationship that turns abusive. Intimate Partner Violence (IPV) is described in disturbing detail as Cory struggles to reconcile her conscience, work and family with her rapidly souring marriage.  The final straw comes when she discovers the truth behind the death of her husband’s singer mother Amethyst, the idol of Cory’s youth.

The young village boy who dreamt of ‘Marrying Nusrat’, of giving the young NGO worker the stability and love she did not find in her marriage finds his path rockier than planned. Nusrat came from “some do-gooder agency” in Lucknow to organise the chikan workers of the village into a co-operative. In the process she opened the eyes of many of the villagers to the world outside the village and herself received unconditional love and support from them in her time of need. This story provides an eye-opening account of the lives and hopes of the men and women who provide the exquisitely hand-embroidered that are sold in ‘Indian’ shops everywhere.

One of my favourite stories in the book is ‘Underneath a Moonlit Sky’, about two couples who meet while honeymooning in Kashmir. Against the backdrop of the violence that destroyed Kashmiri tourism in the 1990s the Kashmiri husband and wife struggle to keep their love and marriage alive; in Madras the ex-honeymooners have their own troubles with childlessness and demanding relatives. Each year Rohini sends a little photo-postcard to Kashmir, unconsciously creating mementoes of happier times as well as of guilt and despair.

The eponymous ‘Another Man’s Wife’ is possibly the highlight of the collection. Kuheli and Devji grow up together in an adivasi village in Gujarat. They plan their lives together, forseeing a future of children, farming, togetherness. The building of a dam disrupts their lives, flooding their villages and making them penniless refugees overnight. Their struggle for survival is further complicated by the government official who wishes to make Kuheli his mistress. The resulting strain on their marriage is almost more than the bonds can bear.

Manjul Bajaj’s poetry and blog posts can be found online at

http://manjulbajaj.blogspot.in/ and

http://www.youtube.com/user/ManjulBajaj

Bijoya

The days after Durga Pujo bring with them a peculiar mood of introspection. After the madness and the subversion of night and day, the overeating and the excitement of the lights and the crowds, the sudden peace and absence of festivities make people break out in strange ways.

Apologies

We just moved to a new home and this week the three of us are travelling. I didn't mean for there to be a break in the Lake Gardens Tales but there has been one since I've hardly had any chance to be at a computer. Episodes will resume as soon as possible. A huge sorry to those who've been clicking in and been disappointed. (I know the feeling!)

Debipokkho

Mr Mookerjee dimly heard the cellphone alarm go off on the far side of his bed. Within a few seconds his little bedside clock began to sound its own alarm as well. He fumbled around for the clock first. A firm pound on its little button shut the alarm off but the cellphone required the bedside lamp and some sleep-dazed reading of buttons. Not for the first time he wondered why these phone makers had to complicate life.

The letter

Mrs Singha sat down heavily on her bed. The girls were both in school, their father on his way to work and the maid was not due for another hour. This was her time to plan her day, maybe watch a little TV or catch up on her sewing. She was a large-boned woman with heavy hands but her stitching was remarkably fine. When she embroidered each stitch was tiny and perfectly set, lost in what felt like a garden of other, equally tiny and impossibly perfect stitches. Even her hemming was note-worthy, so fine as to be nearly invisible.

The Laundry

(There is no episode of the serial this week. As an apology I offer you a recently written poem that will perhaps give you some idea of the whirlwind that is my life.)


The Laundry

The perfect lines for a poem
Around my head do run
I can’t stop to write them down, you see,
The laundry has to be done

Poetry and prose

Sona stared at the page. The words didn’t change. Nor did they make any more sense to her than they had yesterday.

I wander'd lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

The well-deserved smoke

 Note: This episode is nearly 24 hours late. I'm sorry, I confused my dates. That happens a lot with me. Oops. :)

As Mr Rai dreamed on in the glossy warmth of Tapati’s black bathroom, the ‘large’ bathroom in the flat on the third floor witnessed a very different scene. Rajib entered surreptitiously and quietly locked the door behind him. He turned on the little ventilation fan and the geyser too. Nandita was still helping to clean the roof but there was no saying when she would be back. In the meantime, he had to have a cigarette.

The black bathroom

Mr Rai walked fast, hoping to avoid anybody he knew. It was a lot to ask for since he had walked down these streets every day for the last two decades, but he hoped that if he could find a taxi in front of the sweetshop then he could leave the area without having to answer any awkward questions.

Independence Day

The flag hoisting was scheduled for 8 o’ clock. However the ‘pole’ (a long stick, mysteriously found on the roof last June) had warped with the rains this summer and the flag took a good twenty minutes to actually reach the top. Eventually, though, it went up and all the residents of 63/1/B/4, Lake Gardens, dutifully sang ‘Sare Jahan Se Achchha’ as well as ‘Jana Gana Mana’. Nandita and Rajib, that young couple from the third floor, sang a surprisingly moving version of ‘Ay mere pyaare watan’ from Kabuliwala. Mr Rai gave a little speech afterwards, speaking of how important it was to preserve our hard-won independence and sovereignity.

The baby in Canada

The news of the dog spread up and down the building, albeit slowly. Old Mr Mookerji on the ground floor heard it first since it was outside his window that Mrs Rai accosted the maid. Mrs Rai did mention it to Mrs Singha when they were both giving the dhobi the laudry for ironing, but since Mrs Singh turned away at the crucial moment to fish up a school skirt that had fallen to the floor, she missed the dog part and Mrs Rai decided to close her own door with a decisive slam instead of repeating the story. If Mrs Singha were truly interested she could jolly well ask the maid herself!

The overheard phone conversation

The couple on the third floor were rather noisy. The whole building heard them and wondered if the young people knew they could be heard. This morning their maid left the door open as she ran after the garbage collector – on Mondays the regular collector, who collected the garbage from each flat daily, had his day off. The young man was on the phone with his mother, it seemed, and he appeared to be rather annoyed with her. A long and exasperated conversation floated down to the interested recipients downstairs each of who had a unique take on the mother-son exchange.

The Serial

Inspired by Alexander McCall Smith's '44 Scotland Street' novels, from this month I am going to try my hand at writing a weekly serial. I don't aspire to be a McCall Smith but I hope to write something that I wouldn't mind reading myself. Let's see how it goes.

In the meantime, I extend an invitation to you and all my other readers to feel free to chip in with a guest post. From September, once the tone and atmosphere are established, I will be happy to host your vision of my story. You are welcome to write it your way but just remember to keep it clean.

See you Tuesdays at 10 am, then.The first episode is up and you can read it here.

Chanakya’s Chant by Ashwin Sanghi

Chanakya is a name familiar to most lovers of history, especially political history. Politician par excellence, his work helped consolidate the kingdom of Chandragupta Maurya, one of India’s greatest emperors ever. Ashwin Sanghi’s new novel is not so much about Chanakya’s life and career (of which our knowledge is admittedly sketchy) as it is about the modern Indian state. Two narratives run in tandem: one the story of a young Brahmin boy who saw his family dishonoured and swore revenge on his corrupt king; the other the story of a wily historian who plays kingmaker in contemporary India. The former is heavily fictionalised while the latter is, of course, entirely so.

The story of Chanakya as a young boy on the run and later a young man intent on revenge by replacing his tormentor with a ruler of his choice provides a fascinating mirror to the present-day saga of Pandit Gangasagar as he spins his complicated and far-reaching web to put the leader of his choice – and making – in the Prime Minister’s chair. How far will Chanakya and Gangasagar go in their single-minded determination? As their plans play out, the lives of the people they involve will never be the same again. One is forced to suspend judgment of morals and ethics however as Sanghi is careful to keep the reader’s vision focused on the larger picture, the greater common good that both Chanakya and Gangasagar claim to work towards.

The narrative tone feels like a tele-serial sometimes, where one point is made several times over, in several ways. Midway through the book it begins to jar as the reader wishes for tighter editing. The language is occasionally disappointing too, as when some men are described as “guarders” of the royal treasure. Despite these niggles, this reasonably priced book provides its fair share of twists and thrills and is an intriguing account of political machinations.


Chanakya’s Chant by Ashwin Sanghi
Westland, Rs 195, 448 pages

The School at the Chalet by Elinor M. Brent-Dyer

[Am posting this piece I wrote for The Statesman in August 2005 because I can't find it in their online archives.]

The second and concluding chapter on schoolgirl stories concentrates on Elinor M. Brent-Dyer. She was a later contemporary of Angela Brazil's, writing around the same time, but a slightly different kind of stories. She was born in 1894 and died in 1969. In between she published over a hundred books, which included stories for schoolgirls as well as a novel for adults (under a pseudonym) and some geography textbooks. She is remembered nowadays for the Chalet School stories, of which there are roughly 63 paperbacks and several short stories, in addition to a couple of annuals. An impressive amount of writing; what was it that made the Chalet School tales so popular?
For one thing, they were probably the truest to life among all the school stories written then. Brent-Dyer was first a teacher and then the headmistress of an all-girls' school so she did know what she was writing about. Thus her books tend to give a very balanced view of schoolgirl pranks. She wrote about girls getting up to every imaginable trick but she neither sympathised with the more outrageous ideas nor completely condemned them. Her girls were naughty and got punished accordingly. Her teachers were equally realistic, being neither severe dragons nor omniscient superwomen. Some of them made mistakes and some were more popular than others. The most interesting feature of the series is perhaps their length, because the 63 odd books cover a period of several decades, which is a long time to be following the fortunes of any one school. The original students grew up, some returned as teachers, some helped the school out during times of difficulties, yet others sent their daughters in turn to be future Chaletians.
The period covered is also one of great interest because the first book was written in 1925. Since the school was set in the Austrian Tirol region it had to be evacuated when the Second World War broke out, so the location of the school shifted at several points in the various stories. Along with a very vivid picture of the times, these books also capture the changes in attitude of schoolgirls, from the (relatively) more prim and ladylike girls of the 1920s to the more free-mannered and independent-minded students of the 1950s. The School at the Chalet was the book that started it all.
Brent-Dyer's death at the end of the '60s signalled the end of an era in a way. More stories have been written for schoolgirls than schoolboys in the last few decades yet neither genre has retained its old popularity. The Chalet School books themselves have become difficult to find now. The odd one may be found in second-hand bookshops or well-stocked school libraries. It is only in the last few years that J. K. Rowlings has rekindled the enthusiasm for school stories. Even there, those who have attempted to cash in on the popularity of wizarding school stories have found that it is not that easy to reproduce a Hogwarts or its atmosphere.

The Jeep that Wouldn't Start

It was one of those mornings when you feel great to be ten years old with the whole summer vacation ahead of you. And if you happen to live with your grandmother (who is after all quite strict, however nice she might be) in the city, while your father moves from tea garden to tea garden, it is good to spend your holidays with your parents. All the more so if you like tea gardens and the hills, which Vicky did, very much so.

But it wasn't the perfect start to the holiday that he had expected. For one thing, his parents seemed worried about something. His mother had warned him not to wander too far from the house, and his father was in his office-room, talking to the manager of the tea-garden next to theirs. In fact, as Vicky climbed moodily up the mango tree next to the house, he could hear his father's voice.

"It's an insider job, I'm sure of it", he was saying. "We’ve tightened security, increased guards, questioned the workers and none of that has led us anywhere. I think the tea is being stolen by somebody who works inside the garden. The question is, who?"

“I don’t know,” said another voice (the other manager, Vicky decided). “They are doing a clever job, too. The thieves always seem to know where the labourers will be, which areas are being closely guarded. Who gives them this information?”

Vicky suddenly remembered that his father would not want him overhearing official discussions, and quickly made his way back to the ground before he was caught.

“So that’s what is up,” he said to himself, as he walked down the garden to the verandah in front of their bungalow. He knew enough about tea-gardens to realize how serious the theft of green leaves might be. A garden might lose a fortune through tea stolen like that, directly from the tea bushes on the hillside. Still thinking, he found himself in front of one of his father’s jeeps. This was his favorite, a white, short-bodied Willys that would hold just 2 people and enough equipment in the back for the perfect picnic. He and his father had planned fishing trips down at the river nearby as well as treks up the hillsides, and his father had promised that they would take this jeep.

His mother was on the porch, directing Dinesh, their driver, about the shopping to be done that day. Seeing Vicky, she called out, “The car is going down to the bazaar. Do you want to go with Dinesh and get the marbles you wanted? Dinesh says he knows a shop where you should be able to get big ones.”

The bazaar! A place full of interesting shops! He had his pocket money with him and besides, his Dida would never let him go to the bazaar with only a driver for protection. Beaming with joy, he jumped into the passenger seat of the Willys and waiting impatiently while Dinesh made his way down the steps. As he opened the driver’s door he said, “I’ve to stop by at the factory on the way, ok, Vicky-baba?” Vicky nodded assent. A drive and to the bazaar at that. It was going to be a fun morning!

As they pulled into the bazaar his enthusiasm rose again. They’d had to wait for a long time at the factory, to collect some sacks, but here they were now at the bazaar, and there was the shop. Dinesh dropped him off there and said, “I’ll come by and pick you up in half an hour, all right? I have some work, and I have to do Madam’s shopping as well. Please don’t wander off.”

Vicky spent an exciting ten minutes picking out five huge multicoloured glass marbles. But once his shopping was done, he decided to search for Dinesh and the car, instead of waiting another twenty minutes to be picked up. After asking around, he finally found the Willys parked outside a crumbling little building outside the bazaar. He looked into the doorway, and then entered, meaning to ask for Dinesh. He was just about to call out, when he heard the driver’s voice, talking to some other men.

“I’ve left the chhokra out in the bazaar. Must go pick him up now. Wonder what the brat would say if he knew he had helped me bring six sacks of his father’s precious tea out of the factory… heh heh heh”

So the insider was Dinesh! Shocked, Vicky crept up to the doorway from where he could hear the men talking. He heard Dinesh boast about how he had been masterminding the theft for months and how smoothly it was running. Nobody would suspect him because he had such good recommendations from former masters. Who would think they were all false?

Vicky ran out into the street. There was nobody there to help him. He remembered seeing the police station near the other end of the bazaar, but running there and back would take him ten minutes or more. What if Dinesh left in the meantime? The police needed to catch him with the other members of the gang. Thinking aloud, he said, “I can run there and back. If only the jeep develops some kind of trouble. If only it can somehow keep him waiting here, even five minutes would do! Oh Jeep, you must not start!” And Vicky began running for the police.

“What I don’t understand,” said Vicky’s father that evening, “Is how the Willys didn’t start. It’s never given me a day’s trouble. In fact, it’s the best-maintained vehicle I have. And if it had started Dinesh would certainly have left. And you were lucky, Vicky, that his friends were all there, trying to help him start the jeep.”

But Vicky only smiled to himself. It hadn’t been luck at all, it had been the Jeep. In fact, as he had got out of it when he reached home half an hour ago, one of the headlamps had dimmed in a way that could only be called a wink!

Written by Sunayana Roy (P.G. II, Roll No. 761) as a term paper for the optional course on Children’s Literature in April 2005
Illustration © Soubhik Niyogy 2005