A REVIEW OF OUR PAST; A PICTURE OF OUR PRESENT
The stories of two families present a thoughtprovoking picture of India
Amitabha Bagchi’s latest novel is a thoroughly Indian story. The two threads that run through this tale include the letters from a narcissistic author to his loved ones that details life in India in the 1970s and 80s, and the lives of the members of two north Indian families, of differing class and caste backgrounds, intertwined since post-1857. Half The Night Is Gone, then, may be seen as a review of our past, or as a sophisticated analysis of our society’s weaknesses, the fall out of which is this moment in our history. The book starts by introducing Mange Ram, a farmer’s son, who gets lucky when he is picked as a wrestling champion for the ruling Mughal family. Thick in the head as he is in body, Ram soon finds himself pitted against a businessman — who is his then-patron’s creditor — and not having the sense to throw the fight, is unceremoniously traded to serve Motichand. The two families — Mange Ram’s and Motichand’s — are then caught in a cycle of co-dependency common in feudal times when the relationship between masters and servants encompassed generations. In this, his fourth novel, Bagchi plunges his readers into a world of numerous details and characters all of which are so well defined that they’re memorable even if their presence is fleeting. The author plays with prose and struc- ture with the ease of a master puppeteer, controlling the pace with which he allows the reader to know each person in his created world. He stops at painting a historically accurate picture of Old Delhi but spends ample time in the minds of his characters. So it is that a novel spanning over half a century of Indian history is told through the eyes of nearly a 100 characters. The reader shares an intimate moment with each whether it is Mange Ram, who degenerates into an arthritic old man or his youngest daughter-in-law Omvati, who dreams of a life better than that of a family servant for her son. Similarly, in Motichand’s family, we get to know his two sons — Dinanath, the prodigal babuji willing to kiss anyone’s ring to further his business interests, and Diwanchand, a sensitive neglected boy who leaves his inheritance behind to become a teller of tales, in particular, the Tulsidas’ Ramcharitmanas. The readers are ushered into Bagchi’s world like a spirit watching the characters lay down foundations that’ll become our present.
The novel’s interlaced threads are soaked in different emotions. The pre-Independence story is calm like a boat floating on a tranquil lake. As much as it highlights painful facets of Indian society, including the treatment of widows, through characters like Lala Motichand, Mange’s Ram’s son Prasadi and his wife Omvati, Motilal’s mistress Lajvati and his illegitimate son Makhan Lal, it also highlights crucial Indian traits: our capacity for tolerance and our reverence for loyalty. This thread also shows us the similarities that bind us. Through Vishwanathan’s letters, dated 2008, the reader discovers India during the 1960s and 1970s. Guided by the writer through post-independence India’s frustration, idealism shattered like cheap glass, Bagchi reminds us of the Indian capacity to revolt, which in many ways is tied to our sense of tolerance — for peace is as vital for survival as freedom. Bagchi’s prose is reminiscent of 90s classics like Cuckold and A Suitable Boy. The author presents the harsh realities of our caste system, patriarchal social structure, and feudalism.
And yet, in making his readers deeply invested in both the stories with their flawed characters, Bagchi challenges the reader to look at people as more than the sum of their good and bad parts. He allows room for fondness to creep in for the Motichand siblings, who never experience the pure joy of brotherhood, or for the bitter Vishwanathan who is still using words to try and correct past mistakes. In allowing for these cracks in the otherwise airtight snow globe he’s created, the author invites his readers to remember a trait that is not country-centric, but decidedly human: our ability to forgive, move on, and our capacity for acceptance. Avantika Mehta is an independent journalist. She lives in Delhi.