Muddy eddies and unclear waters

BOOK REVIEW


Book: The Muddy River

Author: P. A. Krishnan

‘When the river is flooded, its water is muddier than at any other time, but when the flood has subsided, it becomes clearer than it was before.’ This quote is attributed to Gandhi at the conclusion of The Muddy River, by P. A. Krishnan. The plot is very much so – muddy, at this quote at least, strives to bring some clarity.

There is a novel within this novel, and a plethora of characters, who weave in and out of the narrative at will. The story of Chandran and Sukanya who have lost their child Priya is at the heart of this story. The relationship of the protagonists is like a theme song, an undercurrent running through. Streaks of brilliant narrative flash through like lightening on a dark stormy night. But on the whole, The Muddy River is a narrative that moves in fits and starts, and as Sukanya’s mails to Subir and Herbert echo, it is a narrative that does not tell the story perfectly.

The culprit you could say are the fonts in the book, the myriad fonts that muddy the reading so much, that you have to return after the first few pages, to figure out that one represents the book in the book, one represents real time and there is more.

Besides, there is some confusion as to the Voice at a particular point. On page 31, Sukanya is reading letters from Subir and Herbert. ‘She’ reads the letters. ‘She’ eased him on the sofa. And a couple of lines later, ‘I haven’t asked him who this Raman is...’ This ‘I’ pops up at a few more places but I have trouble placing the identity of this first person character.

The story hops between Guwahati, Calcutta, Delhi. Ramesh Chandran, as Chief Vigilance Officer, Power Transmission Corporation, a government entity, finds himself thick in negotiation for Ghosh, an engineer of the corporation kidnapped by a militant group.

There are some truly delightful characters who weave in and out – there is Bura, the contractor; Raman who dies in the arms of an ‘escort’ in the company guest house, Bhuyan, the cop; the Power Minister; the Power Secretary. The machinations of these last dignitaries are familiar, deliciously repugnant and corrupt.

It is a tale within the tale, and Ramesh writes out his life, it appears, to purge the guilt of the death of his child. Or is it?

We don’t know. Interestingly, Ramesh remains a mystery despite the first person narrative. He hides more than he relates, even as he shares with you his observations, his irritation, his anger. As the novel concludes, it is Anupama, who takes up a good part of the Assamese narrative who offers us a glimpse of the real Chandran, and then there is a tantalising possibility – did they have an affair?

There is pure gold in the plot of this book and its characters. But it is lost in the muddy eddies of the fonts and the back and forth telling, the he’s and the I’s, the italics and the bolds.

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