Book review of Cantilevered Tales by Jayant Kripalani
‘A slice of life liberally sprinkled with spice’ would be a succinct one-line description of Cantilevered Tales by actor-author, Jayant Kripalani, published by Readomania. The unguents he pours into his stirring pot gives forth the most tantalizing flavours that intrigue as well as captivate you as you begin to read the book.
The plot meanders through a kind of anecdotal narration about the lives of various characters that traipse through the Tales. For a length of time, so absorbing are the stories and so involved does one get in the delightfully intricate lives of these people that one is hardly conscious that there is plot unfolding.
Kripalani’s keen observation is evident in the bold colours with which he paints the disparate characters, yet wielding the brush with compassionate insight. He likes to take the reader down alleys and lanes that lead to the beginnings of his protagonists’ lives so that one can comprehend and fully savour the quirks that make them up. Kripalani asserts that he ‘hates getting involved with issues’ yet his involvement with the protagonists of Cantilevered Tales remains till the very end and what else, he pulls you in, too. Here is an excerpt to illustrate:
“Chingdi was a small, about four-feet-nothing, wizened old man or so it seemed. He was just forty and some, but with skin so wrinkled that he could have passed for eighty. Chingdi was obviously his daak naam. Over the years most of the household had forgotten his real name.
Only I knew it.
Abhimanyu Chaitanya Shankar Behra.
According to Baba, he had walked in one morning many moons ago, a few years before I was born. When Chingdi was still a young boy, he was four feet tall then too. He had introduced himself to my father, told him he was going to be the ‘caretaker of the pond’ and asked where his room was.
‘If I put the letters of your name one on top of other Master Abhimanyu Chaitanya Shankar Behra, they will be taller than you. Do you know how deep that pond is? You are a shrimp, a little chingdi,’ my father said.
Without saying a word Chingdi turned around, walked to the pond, dived in and came up ten seconds later with a large rui in each hand.
‘Here you are, Sair. Tonight’s dinner. I should have caught them sooner but your pond has not been cleaned in years obviously. I couldn’t see a thing.’
Baba had never eaten a better rui and ever since Chingdi had become an indispensable member of the staff.”
What struck me are his visual cameos of the Bengali stereotypes; easily identifiably and true to life. I could feel the prickly heat, itchy dust and frustration as much as the taciturn Ashutosh Babu in traffic jams on the Howrah Bridge; a real daily occurrence. The house ensconced in a verdant garden with a sedate pond in the backyard, I saw instantly; these paradises lie just outside the grimy city of Kolkata. His realistic portrayal of the iconic Writer’s Building regressively archaic yet resolutely carrying on brought up a chuckle or two. How well he illustrated Kolkata’s disdain for power, prestige and money by the idea of a CM sharing an impromptu feast of mangoes with his secretaries! Not to forget senior bureaucrats commuting to office and back by the pedestrian bus and local train…goes easy on the pockets of the ‘underpaid and underworked’.
Just one thought…would readers not so familiar with the nuances of Kolkata (Calcutta)’s ways relish the subtleties of the Tales to their fullest? Of course, there is a copious glossary to help with the regional vocabulary.
Perceptively, Kripalani concocts a number of personalities and Kolkata’s signature the Howrah Bridge is one of them but the most tangible protagonist is a bureaucrat-cum-country gentleman whose only purpose is to clear his desk by the end of the day and look forward to smoking a hookah quietly by his pond. His disposition that he cannot be instigated to react unless somebody ‘threw an unwanted pebble in my pond’ is a lovable foible that resonates with the reader. Kripalani’s creation did remind me of the restrained British aristocrat who at the end of a workday retires to his simple, rural country home that he considers his citadel. Placid and calm, he will not be stirred unless the enemy assaults its doors! Then, nothing can deter him to defend it all costs.
Even though Kripalani is at pains to stress that he is no ‘crusader’, Cantilevered Tales is a bridge with panoramic views that tickle our susceptibilities. While the author indulges in what seems just a gossipy tête-à-tête, he touches upon conservation, maniac urbanization of open spaces and corruption stalking the corridors of power. Almost playfully, he displays what the common man is capable of doing against this combined evil, if and when pushed into a corner.
What I remember of Kripalani’s style of acting shows up in his writing; understated humour with witticisms and tongue-in-cheek comments. Here too, he leaves much unsaid allowing silences to speak. His inclination to retain Bengali words that don’t really have equivalents in English simply spikes up the flavour. Brilliantly idiomatic with many original analogies created by the author, himself, the language leaves you with the tart taste of cool lemonade on a hot day. I would credit the editor for not tampering with his unique voice.
Take a sip from this excerpt:
“I found the whole business utterly amusing and marginally crass, as I looked at this caricature of a well dressed man.
The heat of Writers’ Building, in spite of its high roof, was finally seeping through his three-piece afternoon suit---a fine concoction of an off-white linen suit with the faintest of brown pin stripes, a pink shirt, a mauve tie---and a sheen of sweat on his forehead that had begun its slow journey down his sideburns. The top part of his shirt to which the vest underneath did not extend was beginning to stick to what seemed like a rather hairy chest.
‘There is a gigantic difference between earning a great deal and being rich,’ I said.
‘Mahatma Gandhi? It sounds suspiciously like something the old man Gandhi would have said. Please don’t quote things said by that mad man. I do not understand why he is being treated with such misplaced reverence.’
‘Marlene Dietrich, actually.’
‘Marlene who?’ It was apparent from the barjaat’s expression that he did not know who she was.
At least he’d heard of Gandhi, small mercies.
In effect, I had turned down his offer.”
Cantilevered Tales is certainly the ‘gulp’ fiction (coinage by the author) that Kripalani claims. I am not very sure why he uses the word ‘gulp’. In Bengali galpo means stories. Since they are tales linked by a common thread, is that his meaning? Or are these the kind of fiction one ‘gulps’ or swallows at one go? I don’t know.
However, this is a book I would surely curl up with on a Sunday, a cup of coffee near at hand. However, be assured that it will take you less than twenty four hours to ‘gulp’ it and leave you yearning for more.
All rights reserved @Sutapa Basu 2017 First published in Tehelka 16 June 2017
