Readers who have admired Aanchal Malhotra’s writing have waited eagerly for her much-anticipated foray into fiction. Five years and two non-fiction books later, the wait finally came to an end with The Book of Everlasting Things. It is, the author says, an ode to her grandparents. Set in the walled city of colonial Lahore, it revolves around the Vij family that is transitioning from a business in textile to one in fragrances. Vivek, the son, who had gone to fight in the first World War, has returned well-versed in the art of perfumery and has already begun transferring his olfactory skills and knowledge of distilling extracts to his nephew, Samir. One fine day, the perfumery is visited by a Muslim family of calligraphers. And it is this visit that sparks the everlasting connection between Samir and the young calligrapher, Firdaus, which is going to be witness to separation, violence, longing, grief and unacknowledged love.
At the outset, it is clear that the novel is more than a mere recording of time and its passage from the pre-Partition era to post Independence. It is a documentation of how art and skills have survived the horrors of political events as much as it is a poignant recollection of a human catastrophe. Malhotra’s historian self can be seen at work when she scratches beneath the surface to make detailed intrusions into the nuances of understanding ittar and the strokes of calligraphy writing. Her descriptions of perfume-making––the use of nose and eyes in selecting the right source, and then perfecting the notes—are reminiscent of English-French Joanne Harris’s 1999 book, Chocolat. Like Vianne Rocher, we find Vivek indulging with the object bodily to “construct stories” of people and their memories through scents.
The author excels as a storyteller of the human sentiments, making readers pine for both the tangible and intangible that was lost during Partition and the preceding wars. With a pace that isn’t rushed, and a build-up that holds on to the readers’ attention, the tale unfurls through the eyes of each character as they witness their Lahore burning.
Looking back, the most memorable scene of the novel takes place in chapter 12, when Firdaus and her father are at the perfume shop writing labels on the bottles while luxuriating in the presence of the Vij family. The beauty of this scene is emblematic of the nostalgia associated with life before the borders were drawn and one’s inability to fathom the loss of erstwhile ideas of relatedness. Written in five parts with each comprising short chapters, the novel absorbs the reader in the world that Malhotra creates with great attention to detail, but the wordiness, at times, makes the prose untethered from the story.
Although the book critiques colonialism, it doesn’t get into the nitty-gritty. Malhotra, instead, chooses to look more on the inside. She focuses on how Indians were cohabiting and creating a space and culture for each other, despite the looming British influence, making the book an important addition to literature that lends historical context to the Hindu-Muslim rift in contemporary times.
Of course, this does not refute the role and relevance of globalisation. We see Vivek first going to France for the war, and then to other parts of the world for flowers and other ingredients for his perfumes,
showing how the West influenced their lives.
The heart of the novel, however, is revealed through a grieving Samir: “Home… would remain the hardest thing to unlearn.” It is the need to belong that almost all characters are seeking, whether it is in a land, or with a person or an object. If Malhotra’s aim was to make her readers think, and aspire for a better world, she has achieved that.