|
|
The author, 40-year-old Jaishree
Misra nee Nair, a Keralite who grew up in an Army family in
Delhi and moved to live in England in 1993, takes the aid of
three urban families - the Sachdevs, Singhs and the Menons - to
weave her story and build up her argument, which at best is a
weak satire on the acquisitive lifestyle of rich Punjabi
families (represented here by the Sachdevs) who love to flaunt
more than they possess. For whom marriages are but business
transactions and who consider it outrageous to enter into a
matrimonial alliance with a middle-class "Madrasan."
The characters
too, like the flimsy story, fail to impress or stir you in any
way. You get no deep insight into the characters, most of which
fall into predictable and distinctive slots. The Sachdev family
(around whom the narrative revolves) symbolises the typical rich
Punjabi family. The "moneyed Punjabi types" who
acquire "Rubens look-alike paintings…that would make
their drawing room look more sophisticated." The family
head, Jagdish Sachdev, is the standard busy, wealthy businessman
who has never found a companion in his wife. For the major part
of the story he is shown too weak-willed to hold his own against
his haughty wife. It is only towards the fag end that he decides
that there has been enough of "namby-pamby" and makes
up his mind to confront her. The wife Swarn, who too is
portrayed as the regular chiffon-draped, flesh-hanging spouse of
a "bijnichman," has a one-point programme in life - to
complain about inanities, besides, of course, her
hovering-over-the-horizon migraines. "Life…life is not
always easy, ji," is her constant refrain. The narrative no
doubt has its share of wit and humour, but the etching of
Swarn's character has been a case of overkill with repeated
references to her physical attributes each time she enters the
frame. "Flesh-oozing", "lugging a full 80 kilos
of flesh", "Swarn's hips… are rippling over the edge
of her woefully inadequate dining chair." Her "soft
parts" and layers of flesh have even been driving her cook
"into fits of utterly debilitating distraction" for
the past 15 years. The recurrent graphic descriptions of the
fantasies of the cook not only begin to sound monotonous but
also hamper the flow of the story. While talking of repetitions,
one would also like to mention the jarring use of "ji",
which begins to sound jaded after a while. ("It has to be
done, ji. Only for the sake of one's children, ji").
Coming back to
the characters, Sachdevs' elder son, the meek Rohit, who is
engaged in his father's business, has been married to Neena, who
comes from an equally well-off family. Neena, as expected of the
daughter of rich parents, shows little ambition in life. She had
agreed to marry Rohit "because she wouldn't have to move
out of Delhi, and because…Rohit had quite a thrilling
resemblance to Imran Khan." Her parents - Kammy and Manny
Singh "who have mutilated perfectly reasonable names
Kamlesh and Manpreet" personify the "Punjabi Upcoming
Professionals (Puppies)."
The younger son
of the Sachdevs, Tarun, is yet again the predictable
good-for-nothing rich guy whose sole purpose in life is to
befriend girls till his father persuades him to help him in
business and till he falls head over heels in love with his
sister-in-law's college friend Gayatri Menon, a bright,
confident, good-looking Malayali, who belongs to a middle-class
family and has returned to India after completing her Ph.D in
Oxford. You would have expected Gayatri to make some impression,
but unfortunately, she too fails to deliver. You see this
intelligent girl getting reduced to a confused mass of
protoplasm when she questions her feelings for Tarun. Again, the
wooing of Gayatri has been overstretched and beyond a couple of
pages, begins to sound dreary and unexciting.
The Sachdev
household is shown to be having a "happy scene" till
Neena decides to play the "efficient", "conniving
and determined Cupid" between Tarun and Gayatri (quite a
departure from the accidental love that the author refers to).
As expected, Swarn is against the alliance and treats the Menons
"with scorn and disdain". This makes Tarun leave home
and Gayatri and her parents decide against pursuing the
alliance. Meanwhile Rohit, who has gone to England on a business
trip, has a torrid affair with a "firangi, a white
woman." The "impending doom," which has been
referred to in a perplexing manner in the first chapter ("A
devil unfamiliar to Swarn…curly-haired firangi was
lurking in the wings of Swarn's languorous life…), had struck
the Sachdeva household. Neena leaves for her parents' house and
Jagdish, ashamed of his sons and fed up of his "sullen,
sulky and unloving wife" leaves her to stay in a motel.
The long-drawn-out tale of the
impending doom and the its culmination coming with the total
disintegration of the Sachdev household fails to touch a chord
or carry a higher message. Just one thought enters the mind—
an exercise in futility.
|
THE
shocking fluorescent pink cover of Jaishree Misra's novel Accidents
like Love and Marriage not only irks the eye but also
flashes a bright red signal: Stop. Expect non-serious handling
of a seemingly frivolous but sensitive topic ahead. However,
brushing aside the intuitive warning and paying heed to the
age-old adage "never judge a book by its cover", you
tread ahead. Unfortunately, you don't have to go far to
realise that the contents merely lend volume to the pink fluff
displayed on the cover.
