"Wrong triumphs over right, as much as right over wrong."

"The summer of 1947 was not like other Indian summers. Even the weather had a different feel in India that year."

Almost every page has a phrase, a sentence, a paragraph, which I have read and re-read, pleasuring myself with it. The title is from the end pages and the line above, the first sentence, on the first page.

"Mano Majra has always been known for its railway station. This...gives its staff a somewhat exaggerated sense of importance. Actually the station master himself sells tickets through the pigeonholein his office, collects them at the exit beside the door, and sends and receives messages over the telegraph ticker on his table. When there are people to notice him, he comes out on the platform and waves a green flag for trains which do not stop.

Not many trains stop at Mano Majra...All this has made Mano Majra very conscious of trains.

Before daybreak the mail train rushes through on its way to Lahore..In an instant, all Mano Majra comes awake. As the midday express goes by, Mano Majra stops to rest...When the evening goods train steams in, they say to each other, "There is the goods train." It is like saying Goodnight.

Then life in Mano Majra is stilled, save for the dogs barking at the trains that pass in the night.

It had always been so, until the summer of 1947."

My earliest memories of Khushwant Singh are associated with his voice. At least I think it was his voice. Although, a quick search on Google today didn't get me a positive link. This was in the early 80s I think. We were in Delhi. Doordarshan had a documentary on the history of the majestic ruins of the Tughlaqabad Fort. And Kushwant Singh provided the background narration. Its one of those voices which stays with you, deep baritone. Couple this with his obvious command over English and more than twenty year's later, I can still hear it.

The author, eminently readable, definitely opinionated, humorous and honest. The Mark of Vishnu was the first story authored by Singh, that I read. It was in school, in the syallabus for 'English Literature'. I forget in which grade. The children, the tin can and Gangaram. I vaguely recall it. And I remember even at that age tucking him gently in the list of authors I liked. With Malice Towards One And All, The Company of Women and several short stories later, I finally reached Mano Majra today through the Train to Pakistan.

Long on my list of reads and falling snugly into my current phase of literary jottings around partition, having started and finished the book, I am still struggling to emerge from the small bylanes of Mano Majra.

Not that I want to in a hurry.

A Case of Exploding Mangoes

A Case of Exploding Mangoes
By Mohammed Hanif

1) This is one book which languorously yet confidently treads the meandering line where satire, sarcasm and humour, merge into a very satisfying read. So, I will loudly disagree with elements of Chandak Sengoopta’s writing in The Independent, and volubly (as volubly as possible while hungrily gulping down one mouthful after another) agree with Robert Macfarlane in The New York Times. This book is not about waiting for the tension to build. The tension is in each page, to be enjoyed like the bits and pieces of conversations between Cadet Shigri and the Secretary General of the sweeper's union, through the slit in the wall of their dungeon cells. The writing is effortlessly humourous and flows like the plane in the grip of a ‘phugoid’. Sometimes it is outright humour, sometimes biting sarcasm, but always accompanied by a satire on the realist trappings of military, bureaucracy and the politics of power. The pleasure is in knowing that you'll get to ride this wave, up and down, up and down, right till the end. Quite like General Zia’s response to the aerodynamics in the closing moments of the book.

2) They have never - actually - enjoyed one. The anticipation. The first look and with that, the impending loss of control as you see the texture of the skin, flushed to various hues of orange and yellow, and sometimes a tinge of red. The fight to keep the fingers slow as the outer covering is peeled off to reveal the deliciously corrugated surface within. Some strands sheepishly trying to hold on to the skin leaving them so suddenly so exposed. The mind trying to hold the hand in check, which is preoccupied with its own struggle with the fingers. Focusing on keeping them soft, slow, yet steady. The mouth already tasting the pleasure, measured by the increasing frequency of desperate swallows. In anticipation.

No, unless you have tasted it, you would not know what I am talking about.


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Why 1 and 2? Because sometimes I am quite greedy. And impatient. And impulsive. For example, if you look in my wardrobe, you will find ‘two’ of my favourite tops, ‘two’ of my favourite shorts, and so on and so forth. If I can’t decide which colour I like better, I take two and maybe three. I shut my mind for that hundredth of a second when I say, “I’ll take both.” Friends who know me well, and when given a choice of a gift brought back from holidays, know that the next question to ask is “What ‘other’ colours do you have”. :-) Anyway, I divert from the issue here. The issue being that I wanted to write a few lines about a book which I finished reading a few hours ago, and thoroughly enjoyed from cover to cover. First I wanted to write in a particular way, then almost mid sentence, I went off in a tangential direction. But, I wanted them both.