The Reluctant Detective -Kiran Manral

Kiran Manral scores a bonus with her remarkably well written debut novel “The Reluctant Detective “ – a racy story about Kanan “Kay” , a ditzy overweight shopaholic who maxes out her credit cards , feeds her son fast foods just to stop his tantrums and pokes her nose into two murders when she shouldn’t . In between she lunches , attends dreaded PTA meetings and puts up with a grouch of a husband who treats her like a juvenile and is also haunted by the spirit of the murdered woman .

Kiran’s book is full of spots of wry humour and anecdotes which tickle the funnybone ,the impossible longings for a size zero figure – at one point she considers kneeling down before a whip thin maid and begging her to be her personal trainer . Her obsession with her avoirdupois and her contradictory reluctance to ”eat healthy” make her a very plausible character .

And that is one thing which is a major plus in Kiran’s novel – the rounded three dimensional characters described with such tongue in the cheek humour – from the TV artiste whose carrer is doomed by her role of the suffering daughter in law in television megaserials , the smarmy small time actor in the Velvet Smoking Jacket , the girl gang ,the husband ,the parents viewed through telephone calls and Kay’s memory , even the little boy Kabir , so reminiscent of bratty little boys used to having their own way and Kay , of course . Very plausible , living , breathing characters , who one might meet at any time .

This is possible perhaps , because Kiran draws them from real life people she might know . The wisdom she displays in that she never strays far from the familiar , in terms of people and places , is an appreciable strength and lends deep credibility to her writing .

The style is fluid, amazingly fresh and well written and races through to a quick finish . All in all a good read which makes one wish that it was a thicker novel .

But that again is something one would have to wait for and nothing whets hunger more than the anticipation of a hearty meal , or in this case a good thick read ! Waiting for another good read , Ms Manral .

Just a little footnote about Kiran - she is a freelance writer , a blogger of repute and a media consltant from Mumbai. To her credit , she is also a social activist and the founder of India Helps which she set post the 26/11 terrorist attacks . India Helps works with disaster victims and has been responsible for the rehabilitation of a number of victims of the 26/11 attacks and others .

And when winter sneaks up on you and catches you unawares , think back to the scent of green mangoes in a khus basket ....

This basket is off to  BWW

Black and White Wednesday

The flurry of activity of little hands on Sandeepa's blog took me to Black and White Wednesday , a photo event that Susan of The Well Seasoned Cook runs every Wednesday .
Therefore apart from some wonderful recipes that  I have been trawling through  the last 2 weeks , off and on , there is also some wonderful food related photography .

Come winter and along with the huge variety of vegetables in the market , comes a haul of fish that Bengalis enjoy only in winter - small pomfret , tyangra maachh cooked with greens , parshey with mustard , the aar and boal, my favourites - full of fat , to be cooked with onions and chillies in a spicy but delicate gravy - the chillies , onions and the spices melding together and complementing each other in a flavourful dish to be eaten with steamed rice .

So ,in anticipation of the good days to come , here goes my contribution , shot at the local fishmonger's one evening last winter !

                                       THE DAY'S HAUL 

When one talks about violence against women how would one categorise it ? Rape? filial dominance ? wife abuse?Murder in the name of honour?Incest ?
It is a given fact that violence stems  from the dominance of women by males advocated from as far back as Manu the mythical lawyer who directs women to seek protection from their fathers , husbands and sons , in short , defines a woman as a possession , incapable of thought or action .
A study of the lives of women down the ages would show a strong sense of discrimination culminating in the treatment of women as chattels or possessions to be used at the whims of males .

While the statistics for domestic violence and abuse of wives is alarming , cutting across all sections of society , what is even for alarming is the fact that very little by way of punitive action and rehabilitation for women who have suffered abuse .There is also the reality that very few women talk about abuse and coose to suffer silently for various reasons be it economic dependence , societal or parental pressure .

India has shocking statistics for female foeticide with Punjab topping the list and Rajasthan following a close second ,with the trend of child sex ratio showing a sharp decline with regard to females  in the last few years . Coupled with the cases of female infanticide on the rise , the scene appears to be bleak as successive Governments seem unable to do anything concrete in this respect . http://www.reliefprojects.org/female-infanticide-in-India.html

A friend coming back from a recent trip to Brindavan said he was horrified to count more than a hundred old women sitting silently in the precincts of various temples . They were all from Bengal, abandoned , victims of emotional abuse and neglect  equal to physical abuse ,and left to beg for their daily meal .  

 Violence against women servants of any age is perhaps as common  as physical abuse of a wife . It would be easy enough to attribute the violence to the thrill a bully feels in hitting someone who is physically not his equal and cannot retaliate and is therefore subject to dominance . 

In the December of 1997 , my sister and her husband lived in a small cottage on the grounds of a large estate in Santiniketan. Across the wall lived S , a photographer , his wife and  their child - a pleasant young couple much given to going off on trips over the weekend . My sister and her husband , inveterate animal lovers had umpteen cats and dogs around the place and late on a Friday night , heard the sound of keening . It was an eerie animal sound and their first thought was that it was a puppy caught in the wire of the boundary wall . Having checked the rear garden they found nothing . When the keening started again -  they went hunting for the source of the noise , and  again finding  nothing they  came back .

It was then that my sister realised that the sound was very close to the house and sounded louder when she went to the kitchen . And in fact it was from next door As they did not know that S and his wife were away they fiorst called out and on not getting an answer jumped over the wall and went around to the door which was bolted and locked from the outside . When my sister was insistent that the noise was from inside the house , the landlord broke the lock and they followed the noise to the bathroom .

On opening the door which was bolted  from outside they found the servant girl , perhaps 11 or 12 years old , severely malnutritioned and therefore diffciult to make out excatly how old she was -, hands tied behind her back , ankles tied together , the rope looped around her wrists tightly and the neck forced over a metal bucket filled with water and strapped to it so that her chin and mouth were submerged . She was gagged and in an impossible position , unable to move her limbs or talk once she was untied and lifted out from the impossible physical position she had been forced into .

Very often the perpetrators of violence against women are women themselves . I   remember a tragic story from my paternal family . My father's eldest sister a child bride at 10 was widowed at 14 . Thereafter she remained unmarried . A classic beauty , she was pampered and cossetted and ultimately ended up marrying my uncle's friend - the son of a rich zamindari family with princely pretensions and a widower with 2 daughters . When she conceived the first time , her mother - in- law , inveigled her into visiting the family home and there , with a midwife got the child aborted . The process used was horrifying . She was beaten and tied up and then the abortion was performed . That  her husband said nothing only reinforced the fact that this had his tacit consent . The second time she conceived , the mother in law and midwife came to their house and repeated the process, this time gagging her so that no sound escaped to alarm the neighbours .

Thereafter ,my aunt lost her mental balance and could not tolerate  children . Although she had her sane phases , she would lapse into another person at times .I remember her once sitting and decapacitating a cloth doll she had given my sister so viciously it turned my 7 year old blood cold . Ultimately she ended up spending her last days on a world of her own rarely bothering to come out of it and acknowledge others .

Fugue

It is still dark when the alarm rings . Her heart is thudding - as if she has run a mile or had had a panic attack - an ominous shadow gathering momentum ,bound to hit her sometime later in the day . Her husband is still asleep , huddled under the quilt . Padding to the kitchen she puts the kettle on for a cup of tea . It is 5 am - pitch dark although she can see a light in the house opposite where the intrepid scholar is probably preparing his lessons . As she drinks her tea she runs through the chores for the day in her mind . All on auto really - the lunch boxes , the clothes , the daily wash, the servants , the food , waiting for the children to return, tuitions, groceries , food to be cooked and eaten, Horlicks to be fed , studies to be supervised .
Opening the fridge she takes out a tray of meat patties, around 20 of them , heavy round flattened discs of chicken, bread,onions,tomatoes,pepper and garlic compressed within, and puts 6into the frying pan ;the burger buns on a plate go into the microwave for warming .The milk slowly bubbles and she adds oats, then the  sugar .Takes out sliced Modern bread and the butter from the fridge .
The rich meaty smell of the burgers frying fills the apartment . She hears a sound from the bedrooms and closed the kitchen door gently .Reaching for the biscuit tin she is surprised to find it empty .
Once the patties are fried, the tomatoes and onions sliced , she carries them to the dining table. The smell of the patties is irresistible and she breaks off half and pops it into her mouth where it turns to dust  .

The flat is silent once more . She hates to wake up the children on winter mornings - they look so peaceful sleeping heavily , under their quilts . Her heart fills with tenderness at the thought of their faces - tears pricking in her eyes .
The porridge is on the table cooling .The toaster is plugged into the socket. Time to wake up the children .
It is easy to wake up her daughter who red eyed , clings to her, nuzzling her face in her neck ,wracked by quiet sobs .Another bad dream recurring , she sighs . Gently detaching the child ,she tells her to get to the bathroom.

The door to her son's room is closed , a thin bar of light visible at the bottom. She opens the door , brow wrinkling to find the bed clean, empty, quilt folded neatly at the foot of the bed , the table where he studies neat ,with books stacked at one end.

And then she sits down heavily on the bed, heart thudding   as the universe threatens to swallow her once more .It doesnt help that her daughter and son stand watching helplessly from the door .