A SENSE OF UNDENIABLE REALITY
A haunting collection of eight stories of young men and women, who grew up together in Muzaffarnagar
In fiction, as in life, it is easy to create heroes and villains. It’s harder to understand that people have a little bit of both within themselves. Tanuj Solanki’s new book of short stories, Diwali in Muzaffarnagar, achieves this incredible feat.
The book contains eight stories of young men and women, who grew up together in Muzaffarnagar. They go on to make new lives for themselves outside the riot-ridden town. Each tale explores different personalities and different journeys. What binds them is the sense of loneliness that follows everyone who makes a home outside their hometown.
Solanki is a skilled writer; his prose is subtle, seductive and technically perfect. There’s more than a hint of Alice Munro in his style.
Right from the first tale, The Sad Unknowability of Dilip Singh, the reader is treated to a rare sensitivity. The story is like a hook and it is hard not to take the bait and read the remaining works fervently to see if they match up. For the record: they do. The second story in the collection, My Friend Danish, is a heartbreaking tale of innocence squashed by communal divides. It is full of accurate observations about human nature and the reader may wonder why she never thought of them. It is a tale ripe for making judgments, yet there are none. Solanki’s persona, speaking in the first person, offers only understanding along with the sadness that comes with the realization that childhood notions of bravery and friendship are just fables that individuals believe to comfort themselves.
Half the stories have male leads, so the initial assumption is that this is a collection of men’s stories. Even if it had been so, Diwali in Muzaffarnagar presents men in a way not often seen in fiction: as vulnerable beings struggling with traditions they’re taught, which are directly opposed to a changing India. The men in the stories are cowards, perverts, inane, but worthy of sympathy. The final few stories have female protagonists. I suspect Solanki divided the genders deliberately. The women’s stories depict a different side of Muzaffarnagar. Their experiences tell of the travails of womanhood, of dreams of escape, and of the reality of coming back home.
Good People, a story about a woman and her family’s struggle with childhood abuse, is exceptional. Told in sets that volley between Tanuja (the female protagonist) and her husband, Ankush, it’s a story about coming home to find her parents taking care of the grandfather who sexually assaulted her as an eight-year-old. Like the other stories, what stands out here is that Solanki moves his characters around to face their worst fears. He does this with skill and an intimate knowledge of their motivations. Nothing in this story feels unreal. Instead, it is something that probably happens to thousands of women every day, but remains cloaked in silence and the weight of tradition. This is one of the best short stories I’ve read in a long while.
The book finishes with Compassionate Grounds, a tale of a young woman who escapes Muzaffarnagar and all but cuts ties with her family in favour of a posh life in Delhi. She must return after her father dies. The most extended piece in the book by far, it is a slow, fleshed-out tale of the inescapability of one’s flesh and blood. I may never forget the part where the protagonist realises her shit smells like her deceased dad’s. It makes the reader laugh while they cry.
The final story encapsulates the very essence of Solanki’s book: the desire to escape; the loneliness of adulthood; the empty feeling of making new homes in new cities; the inevitable need to return to one’s roots, and the equally irresistible urge to run away once we do. This is a haunting collection. But it is more than that: it’s humane, kind, and real. Its prose is impeccable but not pompously so. It is a true pleasure to read.