Reading a first-time author is like going on a blind date. The prospect is exciting, as there’s always a thrill in novelty. But there’s also apprehension that he might be wearing purple socks. Just like your date’s appearance, for a book, the title and cover form that first important impression. The Second Hand; not a bad title except for connotations of hand-me-downs, does not have an impressive cover, with a predictable hand on it in algaeish colours. But then, why judge a book by its cover?
Nilesh Shrivastava starts off in an insightful manner. The protagonist, Mukund, is a mediocre sort of fellow who, having lost his wife and job, is sent on a mission to his home town Jalsaur, to literally bail out his cousin Uday by his father, Sarvesh. An obedient son, he grudgingly goes to Jalsaur, which he describes as a town where there’s absolutely no good reason for habitation. There he sticks around with his cousin, again at paternal behest, trying to rescue him from the trouble into which his cousin has unwittingly got himself. To validate his existence Uday gets involved in political and religious skirmishes, fuelling the onset of communal discord in the quiet town. Uday, Mukund, his wife Deepa and his Muslim neighbours of generations, Siddiqui and his daughter Sara, act and react to events propagated by politically ambitious businessmen. Their sure shot strategy to gain power is of course, religion. It works for them. But in the process, the entire region is torn by communal violence, with the Siddiquis being personal targets.
The story, set against the background of the Babri Masjid disaster, brings out the past of Mukund’s family, and to an extent Sara and her father, to give the characters depth. The author succeeds in doing that. It is also an attempt to explain events and the reactions of the central characters. One is left with the feeling that the participants have remained at the periphery, despite being placed at the locus.
It’s confounding to note that a book that is intelligent and insightful, can be so uninteresting. It may be the dull plot, where
one expects something intense to happen, a gripping climax, an emotional moment, but no, your expectations are never fulfilled. It could also be that the intelligence crosses over into abstraction so much that it becomes unintelligible. The clarity with which abstraction is elucidated by the likes of Kundera and Calvino are completely absent. Of course, the comparison is unfair, but it’s frustrating to read what in parts is like a personal journal, which only the writer is supposed to understand.
The story is split into four narratives, the first by Mukund, the next by his father, then Uday’s and the last by Sara. If one hopes for refreshing narratives, with distinct voices, it’s like expecting Johnny Depp for your date. It’s amazing to note that not two or three of the narratives, but all four sound exactly the same. In fact they sound so alike that one keeps forgetting who the narrator is.
The weak connection of the lines on Mukund’s hand being shadowed in Uday’s seems to have been placed just so there’s a connection between the beginning and the end, and of course, to justify the title. The language is confused. It’s literary in parts and then suddenly there are strains of Indian English that stick out like grasshoppers in a desert. Good editing would have done the job, but it looks like the editor was given the boot even before the second draft was completed.
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