![]() |
| Subhash Chandra |
** ISSN 2475-1359 **
* Bilingual monthly journal published from Pittsburgh, USA :: рдкिрдЯ्рд╕рдмрд░्рдЧ рдЕрдоेрд░िрдХा рд╕े рдк्рд░рдХाрд╢िрдд рдж्рд╡ैрднाрд╖िрдХ рдоाрд╕िрдХ *
Fiction: The Cannibals
Short Fiction: Money Madness
![]() |
| Subhash Chandra |
Subhash Chandra
Short Fiction: Thanksgiving
![]() |
| Subhash Chandra |
Subhash Chandra
Creative Nonfiction: Dare Devil
![]() |
| Subhash Chandra |
Poignant poetry
Book Review by Subhash Chandra
Creative Nonfiction: Guilt
![]() |
| Subhash Chandra |
Subhash Chandra
Peer Readings: Subhash Chandra deconstructs Haunting and Other Stories
AN AMAZING BOOK!Haunting and Other Stories by Sunil Sharma, Authors Press; Rs. 295, pp. 167
-Subhash Chandra
It has taken me two-plus years to snap out of the
spell cast by
‘Haunting.’ Reason: if I find a profound thought, a striking idea, or beauty of style in a novel or a story, I underline the sentence/s. (Two mauled pages appended below).
Each story
creates a throbbing universe; each universe is inhabited by individualised
characters that are a diverse mix of class, gender, and sexuality. They are
‘familiar’ and yet surprise us; they reveal unexpected traits which make the
narratives immersive. Most of them are morally bankrupt.
![]() |
| Subhash Chandra |
Some are sensitive and cerebral, however; they reflect on society and feel anguished to witness inequity, injustice, and exploitation of a large dispossessed majority. Sharma is a trenchant critic of urbanisation which he thinks has a baneful effect on people: they become unfeeling and ‘phoney.’
This brings me
to the passionate averment by Sunil Sharma that all art has (or should have) an
ethical responsibility to make society a better place to live in. “Any book
that fails to effect a deeper moral transformation of characters due for that
cleansing process, and concomitant and parallel purifying process in readers,
will remain a hoax, a sham, a counterfeit, a minor and largely forgotten
product” (“The Haunting”:115). Gillian Dooley rightly remarks in his Foreword
to the book, “There is no mistaking Sharma’s passionate ‘social conscience”
(5).
A number of
stories depict oppression, even victimisation resulting from gender, class, and
sexuality.
| Sunil Sharma |
“A Story Told by
a Maid Servant’s Daughter,” is a layered tale, constructed in the style of the
‘frame story,’ used in One Thousand and
One Nights.
“And then Tanya
asked Laxmi to tell her a two-minute story.”
There was a
woodcutter who takes two of the four daughters to the jungle and comes back
alone and tells the sisters that the lion has eaten them up. The next day,
Tanya wants to know what happens next. The father takes the third child and
repeats the same reason. Then Laxmi herself disappears.
It is a
heartrending tale of cruelty towards the girl child.
In our society,
it is the girl/woman who always bears the brunt of poverty, vengeful feudal
feuds, and war.
WHY?
The differential
treatment of a girl and a boy in families is rife in India. She bears the
burden of household chores, and she is the one who is regimented to fit into
the prescribed feminine codes.
The protagonist
in “A Teen Daughter,” (in epistolary style) writes letters to her mother, away
in the US on an exchange programme. She writes, “Helping out with the laundry.
Spreading the linen -- alone. Dusting daily. Today brought some raw veggies and
made breakfast for bro and granny … Granny says I watch too much of TV. Bro
says I do not do any work. … I do not study. . . Dad shouted. Could not get his
Sunday tea on time… I miss you, dear Mom.” (19)
The girl child
is made to slave and is yet chided.
WHY?
In “Dream,” we
meet an oppressed wife; the husband, Sukumaran, whips up fights over trifles.
He is “Always mocking, Sudha, trying to snub and hurt by verbal weapons,” all
through their domestic life. She goes silent.
Silence is the
strategy adopted by women to keep peace.
Once she dreams,
and the dream signifies death, but she has no time to mope over it; she has to
ready the mid-day meal for the joint family!
It is an
everlasting grind for the woman.
WHY?
“At an Indian
Police Station: Some Philosophical Thought,” is yet another story that
highlights the torture of a woman by her husband, and the apathy of the
androcentric police. The battered young woman pleads with the Duty Officer, “Do
something Saab. He [her husband] is a monster! I am scared for my life. The
uniformed man was jaded. “Don’t worry,” he barked. “Tolerate. Learn tolerance!”
(23).
WHY?
One of the most
poignant stories is “Change,” which brings up the issue of double oppression
resulting from gender and sexuality. Smita is not a welcome addition to the family,
as the father had wanted a boy; and she is ill-treated because a male inhabits
her female body.
“On weekdays …
Smita would do what she could always deftly do – turn herself into a boy … an
empty home was a perfect stage for any dramatic mid-afternoon
gender-reversal.”! (47)
Il-treated by the father, and chided by the overworked mother, Smita deeply longs for parental affection. She empathises with her depressive father and tries to cheer him up by acting as a boy. Ironically, he is enraged and turns her out of the house into the chilly night; she develops fever and dies. Both, the mother and the father, have dreadful dreams: the mother sees Smita as angry Durga, father witnesses desolation all around which is symbolic. The story is an angry denunciation of the city … “where innocence can never survive …”
Then there is a cluster of stories about modern urban life. The wealthy treat the poor with contempt, or at best indifference. “The poor are the non-living species … They are the dead people.” “At the Party and After...” (3). Banbari Lal, BL, is a poor, lowly government clerk, but he occupies an important desk. He is invited to a party, hosted by and for the elite. He is brutally ignored both by the hosts and the guests. BL begins to feel out of place and sorts. He flees from the party, but not before the writer has used his agency to expose the greed, promiscuity, and hypocrisy of the wealthy.
“Profanities” is
yet another acerbic critique of urbanisation that breeds callousness.
“The ole bastard did not like Chicago at all. More than two lakhs were wasted on transporting him to and fro America” (99). Shockingly, these words are spoken by the eldest son, Rahul, settled and practising in the US as a doctor, who has come to Mumbai to perform the last rites of his dead father.
The system is all-powerful. It eventually incorporates rebels, much like the Beat Generation was in America. The protagonist, Ramesh, in “The Man Who Wanted to Write like Marquez,’ eventually turns into a power-and-pelf-hungry bourgeois.
The title is
mischievously misleading, as it suggestively foregrounds the story “The
Haunting,” and prepares us to encounter a world proliferating with ghosts,
ghouls, and spirits. Instead, we meet living people with their distinctive
angularities and travails, aspirations and disappointments, frustrations and
suffering.
However, “The Haunting,” and “The Meeting with Hemingway,” disinter the ghosts of writers: Dickens and Hemingway. Sharma is an ardent admirer of Charles Dickens for his passion to ameliorate the condition of the poor, and Hemingway for his outspokenness.
A brooding, grim darkness in the stories disturbs you, but then that is the purpose of the author – to shake you out of complacency and indifference.
A word about
style: Socrates, a character in the story, “Mr. Socrates,” tears into a certain
tribe of writers who get millions in advance royalties from foreign publishers.
Socrates was
livid: “These upper-class guys living in New York or London … criticize India
and get the Nobel. They talk of displacements and lost homelands and prefer to
live in advanced countries and do writing ... They sell their country -- for
personal gain. Who stops them from returning to a poor country and toil here
like their peers? They are all fakes. Charlatans. Brown Sahibs, of the
post-colonial country” (90).
A pulsating energy seems to course through Socrates' words, much in the style of D.H. Lawrence. To wit: ““The world is a raving idiot, and no man can kill it: though I’ll do my best. But you’re right. We must rescue ourselves as best we can.” (Lady Chatterley's Lover).
My recommendation: Go for it … if you love fiction with a purpose.
Heroes of the Pandemic: Subhash Chandra
![]() |
| Subhash Chandra |
March 2020
We are sitting
and facing each other wordless, worried. The air in the room is heavy and
doleful. Home is the only sanctuary. The invisible deadly demon, Corona,
strides the streets unchallenged and powerful. And yet ….
I pick up a bag.
My wife gets
frightened.
“Where are you
going?”
“We’ve survived
on potatoes and rice for four days. Now nothing left.”
“But how can you
even think of it? During the lockdown, shops
open only for four hours. There would be surging crowds and no social
distancing. How can you be so reckless?”
“Can you suggest
an option?”
“I’ll go.”
“That’s a smart idea,” I snort. “With your slipped-disk and delicate Bengali constitution you plan to haul the weight up sixty two stairs to our third floor!” I say truculently.
“In any case, I
can’t allow you to go out,” she declares, agitated. “You know very well, the
elderly are particularly vulnerable. You’re seventy plus; your age-compromised
immunity is lower than the others because of your weight loss and low
hemoglobin.”
Both of us are
edgy and restive. The dust particles are frantically swirling in the slanting sunbeam
streaming through the window.
We are startled by the trilling doorbell. Time was we’d warmly welcome a guest, as few undertook the trouble of climbing up. But now we get tensed up. Cursed times!
“You go to the bedroom,” I tell my wife and put on a mask and specs. The Virus can get into you through the eyes, too.
Lo and behold! Sanjay Trehan, a lively young man adored in our Housing Society known for his guileless smile, and friendly, vibrant voice, stands on the other side of the grill-door. He works for a leading Indian company as a highly paid executive.
“Uncle,” he says
in his booming voice, “I’m going to take charge of you two... I’ll bring all
that you need and leave it outside the door. Please don’t stir out at all. This
is my order!”
Overwhelmed, I
could not utter a word.
“You can phone me up the previous evening and give me a list of items.”
It became a
routine. Every evening, my wife would call him. We not only consumed veggies
and fruits of our choice, but also of good quality because Mini, his sweet-natured
wife, accompanied him. It went on for months, until the shopkeepers’ boys were
allowed entry into our Complex after Corona cases dropped drastically. For a
week at a stretch not a single case was reported in Delhi.
#
However, our worries
re-surfaced with the onset of the second wave. Just a couple of days into it,
we got a call from Sanjay one evening.
“Hello Uncle, we resume our old routine. Okay? Tell me if you have any other work, such as, going to the bank or paying bills.”
We’d learn later, he had driven a Corona-infected resident to hospital and helped many other people in several ways, besides.
Fiction: Subhash Chandra
![]() |
| Subhash Chandra |
Miss Him
Two Bungalows, Four Cars
Fiction: Thank You, Dinu
![]() |
| Subhash Chandra |
- Subhash Chandra
LITERARY DISCUSSION
| Rana Preet Gill |
![]() |
| Subhash Chandra |
Wonders of a Smile
![]() |
| Subhash Chandra |


