Dolcetto

Here is the situation. One loves Indian food. One also enjoys wine. One has invited a few friends for a degage Sunday lunch. The menu is Indian: Kashmiri Raan—if one feels very strongly, and one doesn’t, about the politics associated with this region and takes an exception, and one doesn’t (because one doesn’t really care), to the affiliation of Kashmir to the Indian Republic, although one is aware that India controls part of the region, one can rationalise that the word ‘Indian’ is used in its subcontinental rather than res republican context—, a seasoned leg of lamb, marinated overnight in yoghurt, spices, nuts and honey, and slow cooked in an oven over several hours till the meat is tender and juicy, served with what the Westerners call Pilaf rice and the Indians, so one understands, Pulao rice. Sounds delicious, doesn’t it? One can assure that it tastes every bit as delicious as it sounds. Now comes the dilemma: what wine can go with this rich, creamy, succulent and mildly spicy—mildly because neither one nor one’s guests are brave enough to degust very hot, as in spicy, food—Indian dish?

One has a few options. One may not serve any wine with the Raan, and drink beer instead. India, to the best of one’s knowledge, does not have a great wine tradition. One has sampled a few Indian wines—and it is possible that one had the misfortune of tasting particularly vile varieties and missing out on gems—not all French wines, for example, are drinkable; indeed one can be certain that all the discount Pinot Noirs in Tesco are downright poor—which tasted like iodine. One does not have to have wine in order to enjoy Indian food, which, traditionally, was not made, so one guesses, with a corresponding catalogue of wines in mind. However, as one pointed out earlier, one enjoys wine, and one asks oneself: why not combine a wine with the Raan? One of one’s guests also enjoys wine; the other two are not fussy—one because he has a bowel condition that gives him the shits the day after a wine-drinking session, and the other because he does not understand, and therefore appreciate, palatal pleasures viticulture can offer. Also one does not much care for the yeasty Indian beer which gives one a sense of fullness that can only be relieved by repeated farting, and one knows it is not considered sophisticated to break wind in polite company even one comprising close friends.

So one has made up one’s mind to have wine with the Raan, and is faced with the dilemma mentioned earlier. One ‘googles’ ‘Indian Food and Wine’. One then learns that Indian food is considered the most difficult to pair with wine, primarily, it seems, because it is ‘searingly hot’ and ‘spicy’. Most wine experts regretfully inform that one’s choice is limited. Since the menu for the lunch is, at the most, medium on the spiciness scale, one wonders whether things will get easier. They do and they don’t. One learns that the ‘safest bet’ to go with Indian food is to avoid red and stick to white. Several reasons are proffered: the Indian dishes are apparently aromatic and therefore better suited to the flavour profiles of white grapes. Red wines either override the spices completely, or—shock! horror!—clash with them. Also, red wines, especially the full-bodied ones, contain tannins, which does not augur well for one’s lower intestines if the food is hot. If, while partaking, say, a chicken Madras, or—if one is feeling brave (or foolhardy)—a Chicken Vindaloo, one accidentally crunches down on a chilly, a mouthful of dry red wine is not very likely to bring one much relief. One may attempt to untie the Gordian Knot by opting for the mature, silky beauties in which the tannins have become more benevolent, but that will still leave one with the problem of clashes of spices and texture. What would one like to coat the inside of one’s mouth with: the rich creamy sauce of the dish or the texture of the wine? The experts also hypothesize that the high acidity or tartness of certain white wines—the ones with these qualities are especially recommended—can freshen one’s palate and counteract any heat in the dish.

So one learns that most wine experts think it is de regale—or is it de rigueur?—to have white wine with Indian dishes whether it is meat or poultry. Gewürztraminer, Pinot Gris, Riseling, and Sauvignon Blanc are the names that crop up repeatedly in the discourses of many an expert. The common rule of thumb appears to be: complex wines go well with simple food and simple wines with complex food. Not many would risk red wines—one oenophile site asks the rhetorical question: why do Indian restaurants bother to keep red wines on the menus—and, those who would, would match them with less spicy, lightly seasoned dishes such as Tandori. Most give thumbs down to big reds such as Cabernet Sauvignon—‘big tannins and heavy spices’—which—one can bet one’s mortgage on it—will clash with the spices of the dish.

What is one to do? While one prefers red wines with meals rather than white, one likes to think that one is not fanatical about these matters. One, therefore, is prepared to open a bottle of white wine with the Raan, though one is perplexed that a whole subcontinent’s cuisine is deemed by the experts as fit to be paired with only a few varietals, and one is not convinced that acidic whites are necessarily ideally placed to complement the hot and spicy Indian dishes. Why, one wonders, can’t one enjoy a Shahi Korma with, say, a decent white Burgandy—one has learnt from bitter experience that if a Burgandy is cheap, it is because it is cheap—or a sweet Vouvray (not all Chenin Blanc need be acidic)? A good white wine, by which one has always meant an Old World wine, one has always maintained, is nothing to sneeze at. All of this discussion, however, one admits to oneself, ruefully, is deus otiosus, as the wine drinking guest has an overwhelming preference for red wines. She is a cultured woman who reads T.S. Eliot whom one has always found, if one is honest, which one, truth be told, often isn’t, somewhat difficult to access, and one feels one lacks the imperium to override the wishes of such a refined, polished, cultivated, and genteel woman. One is afraid it has got to be a red wine.

Having trawled the ‘food and wine’ sites on the net one has come to the conclusion that one has to take some bold decisions. One has to show the gumption and veer away from the tried and trodden path. One accepts that mistakes will be made, but then one reminds oneself that nothing ventured nothing gained. Either one chooses the path of discovery or of approval. With the former mistakes are unavoidable, nay, essential; with the latter mistakes are anathemas. One decides to try an Italian red with the Raan. A coup’doeil of one’s cellar—if that is not a hyperbole to describe a cupboard, albeit a cool and airy one—reveals a Chianti Classico (obligatory), a couple of Barolo (none, alas!, more than six years old), and—one’s eyes light up—a bottle each of Barbara d’Alba and Dolcetto d’Alba. One has always had a soft spot for Dolcetto and Barbera, the two grapes that live unfairly, although understandably, in the shadow of the king, Nebbilo. One has always held the view that both provide highly food-friendly wines, which rarely disappoint. The bright purple, medium bodied exuberantly fruity wines crammed with fresh berry—or is it red cherry?; it could even be strawberry—flavour—or is it aroma?—never fails to fill one with zip. And their ever-so-slightly-sour twist at the end, one conjectures, will help the wines to cut through fatty food without leaving the excessively acidic aftertaste. Which one to choose between the two? One settles for Dolcetto d’Alba, primarily because it is almost four years old—this is one of those red wines which is best enjoyed when young—and one is worried the flavours might fade away if kept unopened any longer. One hopes ‘the little sweet one’ will be a star turn with the meat dish.

One takes out one’s crystal decanter, having always been of the view that if one can’t do things in style one should not do them at all. Although the wine is (relatively) young and not tannic, one still thinks a little bit of air contact will round it out nicely. Also, if one is honest—and one has already alluded to one’s inability to attain such a level of moral excellence most of the time—one wants the guests to notice and admire the crystal decanter. Have you met a man (or a woman, let’s not be gender-specific in these matters) without foibles? As one removes the capsule around the neck of the wine bottle one notices a slightly sticky residue on the surface of its neck, and wonders, with a sinking heart, if the wine is not cooked. How long was it languishing in the loading bay on a hot summer day; how many days did it spend sweltering in the cargo bay of the ship after it left the loving care of its producer and found a sanctuary in one’s wine cellar (well, OK, a cupboard, but a cool and roomy one)? When the capsule is completely removed one’s spirits are restored a bit upon seeing the cork sitting flush with the mouth of the bottle. Perhaps all is not lost. One takes out one’s fish corkscrew, which is very chic—even if one says so oneself—and removes the cork with practiced, gentle swing motion. Now comes, one feels it in one’s bones, the moment of truth. One lifts the mouth of the bottle to one’s nose and—it can’t be avoided any longer—takes a lungful of its aroma, praying it won’t be of stale prunes. Hallelujah! One smells blackcurrant –or is it plums?—summer fruits in any case. One also detects a seductive hint of chocolate, truffles, herbs, tea-leaves, fresh tobacco, and a savoury hint of creamy coffee, soy, earth, pepper, and vanilla. This will do.

The guests arrive. The IBS-sufferer, one can’t help noticing, is looking a bit grumpy. The lunch is served. One brings the decanter, hiding the disappointment that no one amongst the guests has given the slightest hint that they (or should it be he or she or he or she) have noticed it even though it is kept on the worktop in a very prominent position. One pours the wine out for the wine-drinking guest.

‘What wine is it?’ she asks.

‘Guess,’ one replies.

She takes a tentative sip of the wine. ‘Is it Beaujolais?’ she asks.

One smiles one of one’s subtle smiles and the IBS-sufferer asks one what one is grinning about. One does not respond to the jibe. One has always prided oneself on being a good host, putting one’s visitors at ease with debonair smiles and courteous wisecracks. Besides one has to be kind to the invalids. May be he is irascible because his IBS is playing up. Nevertheless one would be lying if one does not admit that one entertains the wicked thought, albeit only briefly, that the spicy Raan will aggravate the bowel condition of the gouchy valetudinarian.

One doesn’t want to appear to be too dismissive of what the Bluestocking has said. After all it is an understandable error; it can happen to anyone. One remembers how, once, while walking down a street of a ‘turd world’ city, dodging the beggars and taking care not to fall into craters big enough to swallow a lorry, one had spotted a structure that appeared to be a single-occupancy toilet, but which, upon closer inspection, turned out to be some sort of shrine of a local deity revered by the natives. One chooses one’s words carefully.

‘No, it isn’t. But you are fairly close, and the mistake is understandable. After all the wine is described by many as the gamy of Northern Italy. However I find that it is far better and more attractive than that, and makes interestingly fruity wine. Don’t you?’

‘Oh, shut up, will you? Can you be more pompous?’ The IBS-Sufferer’s ill-temper shows no signs of abating.

‘How are your bowels bearing up these days?' One asks, laughing mildly to indicate one meant no offence in case he looks like taking one at the insult.

‘My bowels are in fine mid-season; and don’t laugh like a hyena that has a bone stuck in its throat.’

‘Can you guess what wine is it?’ One asks the Bluestocking.

‘Not really, no.’ One is sure her indifference is put on; inwardly she is annoyed at getting it wrong.

‘I shall give a clue. It is from Northern Italy, Pidemont, to be specific.’

‘I guessed as much.’

‘Can you guess the wine?’

‘Please tell us, I can’t bear the suspense any longer,’ the IBS-sufferer interjects.

‘How do you like the wine?’ One asks the third guest who hasn’t uttered a word till now, and is sitting soporosely.

‘It’s all right,’ he gives his opinion.

‘ I don’t really know,’ the Bluestocking says.

‘It is either Dolcetto or Barbera. Come on, have a guess.’

The woman sighs. ‘Is it Dolcetto?’

‘Spot on. How do you like it?’

‘It is good. Nice choice for lunch. I prefer not to drink anything heavy with lunch.’

‘Please tell him,’ the valetudinarian says, ‘it’s excellent. Tell him you haven’t drunk such a wine in years. He has probably not slept last night agitating about it.’

The lunch continues at a leisurely pace. The valetudinarian drinks copious quantities of coke while the third guest drinks his glass of wine as if it were Chinese tea. The Bluestocking sips her wine glass slowly. Everyone seems to enjoy the dish and helps themselves to second helpings. The portions on the valetudinarian’s plate confirm his assertion that his bowels are in fine fettle (there must be some other reason why he is so crabby). One offers to replenish the Bluestocking’s glass, who declines by saying that she is enjoying the flavour and the taste of the dish so much she would rather have the wine at the end. However, as the lunch finishes, she declines the offer, again, and requests a mug of strong coffee instead, claiming to be feeling sleepy after a sumptuous meal. One helps oneself to a generous glass of heavenly Dolcetto and settles down to post-prandial chitchat. The Cordon Bleu starts a discourse on Wasteland, and, absorbing as it is, one’s eyelids begin to droop rather worryingly after five minutes . . .

One would put, with all humility, that the idea that only certain wines pair well with Indian food is tosh. When it comes to pairing wines with food, one would suggest that only one rule be followed: pair the wine you like with the food you like. And forget everything else.

Book of the Month: And Where Were You, Adam? (Heinrich Boll)

‘Byelyogorshe!’ This is the nonsensical word repeated by Captain Bauer, admitted to a make-shift army hospital near the rapidly shrinking German front in Eastern Europe, after he is hit on the head by a stray shrapnel. Captain Bauer’s neologism vividly symbolizes the utter sense of despair, absurdity and futility experienced by the ordinary Germans while their country, under Hitler, marched inexorably towards doom as the Second World War progressed, in this superlative early novel of Nobel Laureate Heinrich Boll. Along with Train Was on Time, this is one of the first works of fiction that depicts the Second World War from a German view point. It is also a powerful indictment of war.

Born into a liberal, Catholic family, Boll grew up in an environment of tolerance and broadmindedness. As a teenager he refused to join the Nazi party, which, as can be imagined, caused not inconsiderable obstacles in him enrolling into a university. He reluctantly served six years in the German army during the Second World War—he later claimed he secretly desired German defeat—always trying to get out of the service. After the war ended Boll’s anti-war and anti-fascist passions found expressions in a number of novels beginning with The Train Was On Time—he decided to pursue a literary career; his wife’s earnings (she was an English teacher) supported the family—, which earned him the epithet ‘the Nation’s Conscience’ besides the 1974 Nobel prize for literature.

And Where Were You, Adam, first published in 1951, bears all the Bollian hallmarks including his celebrated minimalistic style, subtle, yet effective, use of irony, and profound pacifism.

The year of the novel is either 1944 or 1945; the location Hungary. Hitler’s Wehrmacht is shattered and the ‘Thousand-year’ Reich is soon to be consigned to History after a mere thirteen violent years. Still, soldiers are rounded up and sent to meet certain deaths to the fronts, which, all save the deluded Nazi higher echelons know, are impossible to defend against the Russian juggernaut; the Jews are still exterminated with clinical precision; the talk is still to defend the Fatherland till the last man is standing; and shells are still exploding even though they are serving little purpose.

The novel is a series of snapshots instantiating the idiocies and illogicities of the war, which would be humorous but for the reasonless loss of young lives—German as well as non-German. Each chapter of the book is a complete short story by itself, but the chapters are also linked: at the most obvious level by the characters which appear in some or more of them; contextually, with the backdrop of the Second World War; and geographically—in Hungary, where the most of the action takes place. Boll has an astonishing ability of sharp and penetrating characterization. Amidst the degringolade of the once mighty German army, a number of characters stand out not least because of their sense of noblesse oblige, little knowing that history would judge them very harshly, and the reign of Hitler that resulted in the disastrous war would be declared as a blot on history of twentieth century humanity. Thus we meet Quartermaster Finck who dies while carrying out the absurd demand of his superiors to bring back genuine Tokay wine from the interiors of Hungary; S.S. captain Filskeit, the rabidly racist former choirmaster, who, like his leader, bears no phenotypical resemblance to the master race he so admires, and who is grimly intent on sending the Jews to their deaths in the small concentration camp he is in charge of as the Nazi war-machine is disgregating; and sergeants Schneider and Schmitz who choose staying with the injured soldiers under their care over retreat and face certain death.

Time and again throughout the novel, Boll juxtaposes contrasting perspectives and emotions. Lieutenant Greck, for example, suffers from excruciating stomach cramps and diarrhoea, a source of greater torment than the shells exploding around him, and, in a grotesque tragedy, gets killed while defecating. The intrepid and disillusioned colonel Brassen, while lying on a dirty trolley in the makeshift hospital after suffering from horrific injuries in yet another futile battle, repeatedly asks for chilled champagne from beneath his heavy bandage, and an anonymous soldier, who has fought alongside the colonel in that battle, and who is now lying next to him, asks him to drink his own piss instead. Corporal Feinhals is the shadowy presence throughout the story. A flotsam of the deadly war over which he exerts no control, corporal Feinhals marches to the front, gets wounded, falls in love with a Jewish school teacher but stands aside as she is taken, with her kin, to the concentration camp, is hauled to the front again, helps build a bridge and almost immediately destroy it, and slowly makes his way home. Feinhals almost survives the war, only to perish in a blast as he nears his home. Illona, the lovely Jewish schoolteacher with whom Feinhals falls in love, gets deported to the concentration camp S.S. captain Filskeit is in charge of. The former choirmaster, who is obsessed with maintaining a choir of prisoners—an instance of bizarrerie grotesquely overshadowing the tragedy—, commands her to sing, and, driven to insane hatred when he hears the blonde Jewess render the All Saint litany to near perfection, empties his pistol into her chest.

This is a work born out of the revulsion Boll always felt towards the senseless destruction and wanton loss of lives in the war, which blighted ordinary lives. The strength of the novel lies in its masterful depiction of the effects of war on ordinary people: their strained weariness, their phlegmatism, their brief loves and aspirations even as their entire lives are being eclipsed by the monstrosity, and the surprising persistence of human decency and gemütlichkeit amidst barbarity. When this dense and intense novel comes to an end the reader is left with an indefinable sense of pain, anger and sorrow at the senselessness and inutility of war.

Conversations: Cricket and Politics

‘It's a scandal!’

‘Isn’t it just?’

‘Whom do they think they are?’

‘Absolutely . . .but . . .’

‘What?’

‘Shouldn’t it be who?’

‘Who?’

‘Who.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘The question you just asked.’

‘“Whom do they think they are?”’

‘Who do they think they are.’

‘You have a genius for missing the point.’

‘Sorry . . . Carry on.’

‘The arrogance of it!’

‘The effrontery!’

‘It’s a disgrace!’

'Where is the guillotine when one needs it?'

‘A national disgrace!’

‘Steady on now. I am as cheesed off as you about this. But don't you think calling it a national disgrace is a bit of a hyperbole, if that itself is not an oxymoron?'

‘Don’t you?’

'Don't I what?'

'Think it's a national disgrace?'

‘No! What have we got to be ashamed of?’

‘You may have a point there. It’s them who should be hanging their heads in shame.’

‘Them?’

‘Yes, them! Who else?’

‘Oh! You mean they!’

‘Bastards!’

‘Rascals!’

‘This is racism. That’s my frank and honest view.’

‘You think so? But . . .’

‘They are accusing him of lying, would you believe it?’

‘Are they? One should think twice about casting aspersions on one’s integrity. But I suppose it is their job’

‘What do you mean by “It’s their job”?’

‘Well . . . they are after all in the opposition, so they will dis the other guy.’

‘It’s not cricket!’

‘It most certainly isn’t.’

‘No wonder Bhajji is angry!’

‘Bhajji?’

‘Harbhajan.’

‘Harbhajan?’

‘Singh.’

‘Sing?’

‘Why are you repeating everything I am saying? I know what I am talking about.’

‘Sorry . . . Who is angry?’

‘Harbhajan. Wouldn’t you if you were him?’

‘Him?’

‘Yes! Him! Harbhajan.’

‘Oh! You mean he! I suppose he has as much right as anyone else to feel angry. I am feeling angry. Well, not exactly angry. A bit peeved. A bit miffed. A bit vexed.’

‘Stop waffling.’

‘I was saying this Sing . . .’

‘Singh’

‘That’s what I said. Sing. If he feels passionately about it, and which tax-paying, law-abiding citizen wouldn’t?, he is bound to feel angry. At least vexed.’

‘It’s an insult! Do they think we are brainless?’

‘They are obviously under the impression that we the people have about as much intelligence as a dead rabbit.’

‘We must know the truth!’

‘Couldn’t agree more with you. Truth needs to come out.’

‘There should be an independent inquiry.’

‘Haven’t they announced there will be a judicial inquiry?’

‘Only after there was an outrage.’

‘Well . . .Better late than never, I say.’

‘I am sure the whole country is behind Bhajji.’

‘The whole country?’

‘To the last man!’

‘But why Bhajji?’

‘It’s a slur on his integrity! That’s why!’

‘So, are they trying to implicate him, too?’

‘Hello! Are we reading the same newspapers? Are we following the same game?’

‘I perhaps am not following the whole thing as I ought to. I know the honeymoon period between him and the media is over . . .’

‘You can say that again. Although, the racist Western press and media have already pronounced him guilty!’

‘Racist Western press? Don’t you think that is a bit harsh?’

‘I stick to every word I say. They are after him. It’s all jealousy.’

‘Well, he was the darling of the media for a long time and, as they say, what goes up has to come down. He has many good qualities. He is a fine and able man. But people get tired of too much spin. They stop believing you.’

‘What do you mean too much spin? Of course, he will spin. He is a spinner; that’s his job. That’s why he is in the team. But this whole fracas is not about spin.’

‘You don’t think it is?’

‘No, I don’t. Spin has got nothing to do with it.’

‘I can’t say I agree with you totally. There are credibility issues here.’

‘Of course there are. Their credibility! Not his!’

‘Well, I suppose, everyone does a little bit of spin. That’s what a politician does. But the last few years have seen it being taken to an unprecedented level. That’s why people are doubting his credibility.’

‘He is one of the best spinners. Better than Shane Warne.’

‘Shane Warne?’

‘Shane Warne. The Australian.’

‘Ho! Ho! Ho! Ha! Ha! Ha! Are you saying Warne will be proud to spin as much as he does. That’s funny.’

‘I can’t see what is so funny about it. A country’s honour is at stake. It is not something I can bring myself to feel merry about.’

‘Well, ultimately people will be the judge.’

‘People have already judged. Their verdict is loud and clear.’

‘Oh! You mean the opinion polls. I suppose they are good markers of what hoi polli think. But one can not be sure till the actual election results are out.’

‘Election results? What are you blathering about?’

‘Well, that is the ultimate test, isn’t it?’

‘Bhajji is innocent.’

‘Bhajji?’

‘Why, do you doubt him?’

‘What has Bhajji got to do with this?’

‘He has everything to do about it. Are we living on the same planet?’

‘I did not know he was directly involved.’

‘It’s all about him. Are we breathing the same air?’

‘So Bhajji is the new spin-doctor! Didn’t know that. Well, I suppose it is the occupational hazard. He should have thought twice before accepting the job. Campbell never got into trouble.’

‘I told you, it’s nothing to do with spin. Who is Campbell?’

‘So you keep telling me. But I am not convinced. What do you think it’s about, if not spin? And Campbell is Alistair, the spin-doctor par excellence. He could have taught Gobbels a thing or two about spin.’

‘Anyway, I think he is being victimised because he is a Sikh.’

‘Campbell is not a Sikh.’

‘Bhajji is, you idiot. Campbell has nothing to do with this. Can he play cricket?’

‘I don’t know. I hadn’t even heard his name till you mentioned it.’

‘You mentioned Campbell.’

‘And you mentioned Bhajji. Or Sing. Brown’s new spin-doctor.’

‘Brown? Have you gone nuts?’

‘I think it is you who is struggling to get to grips with reality.’

‘Look, I am talking about Bhaji.’

‘I understand that. But surely you are not naïve enough to think that it’s Bhajji who is their target. They are gunning for Brown.’

‘Why would they gun for Brown. He is not even remotely involved in this.’

‘Come, come, now. Do you honestly believe whoever this Bhajji is, and whatever he has done, or not done, he has done it, or not done it, without Brown’s knowledge? Do you? They want the power. This other guy—I forget his name –wants Brown’s job.’

‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘OK. Let’s see if we can find a via media. We both agree that the accusations are unjustified.’

‘Outright lies they are!’

‘We both agree that he deserves another chance.’

‘He should be completely exonerated. The country’s honour is at stake.’

‘Look, hardly a day goes by nowadays when there isn’t a scandal involving some or the other politician in some or the other corner of the world. I don’t think there is any need to drag in the country’s honour just because a few in the opposition have expressed doubts about his integrity.’

‘Bhajji isn’t a politician. He just wants to play cricket.’

‘He should join a sodding cricket team then.’

‘That’s what he does, you cretin.’

‘May be he should stick to it. And leave politicking to others. If you can’t bear the heat, get out of the kitchen.’

‘You talk a lot. But you talk in circles around a point rather than getting directly into it.’

‘Look, all I am saying is all politicians go through tough periods. I know the media are giving him hard time at the minute, but I’d have thought that that is par for the course if you are in the public domain.’

‘Media have their own agenda most of the time.’

‘Agreed.’

‘Tell me one thing. Do you believe him? Or do you believe all those bastards?

‘I believe he really did not know about the gaffe of one of the junior employees in the home office. You may even argue that no one in his position could have been realistically expected to know about these minor matters. But when things go wrong big time, someone has to take the can. If you’re the prime-minister of your country you’ve got to take the vicarious responsibility.’

‘I always thought you were half-baked. But I was wrong. They did not even put you in the oven.’

‘If you do not agree with my point of view, that’s OK. No need to be nasty.’

‘I’ll make a final attempt to make myself clear. I believe Bhajji is innocent. I believe he was framed. I believe he was provoked. I believe he should be given a break. I think it’s a disgrace they have pronounced him guilty and imposed a ban on him. It is probable that dirty politics is at play here, but it’s stretching the limits of credulity to believe that Gordon Brown is involved in this. I doubt the man even knows the basic rules of cricket.’

‘All I’ll say is that your failure to look deeper, beyond the superficialities, and your quaint habit of limiting yourself to the most obvious, non-figurative, somewhat simple meaning of words, is disappointing. We must agree to disagree; and that’s that.’

Book of the Month: Injury Time (Beryl Bainbridge)

Injury Time is one of the early books of the supremely gifted Beryl Bainbridge. Auberon Waugh found himself ‘laughing till the tears ran down’ his cheeks while reading this novel, which won the ‘Whitbread Award’ in 1977 upon its publication (Bainbridge went on to win this award again, decades later, for ‘Every Man for Himself’). The Lancashire-born Bainbridge—she is not sure whether she was born in 1932 or 1934— had written her first novel, Harriet Said, in the 1950s when she was a struggling actress in the Liverpool Repertory Theatre—she attempted suicide by putting her head in the gas oven (‘I was probably trying to draw attention to myself as I was feeling a bit miserable,’ she admitted, later), although, as she revealed decades later, it wasn’t in reference to her dashed hopes related to auctorial ambitions or an acting career which appeared, at the time, to be going nowhere, but over a heartbreak—although it was not published till the 1970s.

Bainbridge, in her distinguished writing career that has entered into its fourth decade—although her grandson, Charile Russell, in a touching documentary he made on his grandmother, complains, ‘She smokes too much, she drinks too much, and she hasn’t written a book in years’—has experimented adroitly with many genres. In ‘Injury Time’ she draws, to an extent, on a background of terror and crime in London—in which city the novel is set—in the 1970s. Edward is having an affair with Binny, an acerbic woman who tends to take offences when none is intended. The bumbling Edward has no intentions of leaving his wife and has convinced himself that that is what Binny wants, too. He nevertheless has adulterer’s conscience: he is aware that Binny’s tetchy and prickly demeanour covers a deep seated unhappiness and insecurities about her status as a mistress, and she yearns for those little things—choosing a birthday present for his family members, for example—which the spouses take for granted. Partly to expiate his guilt over this, Edward agrees to throw a dinner party with his paramour. However, with his middleclass inhibitions, Edward can go only so far. His wife—she never makes a direct entry and is always referred to in third person—who is a minor, P-grade, socialite, is not to know about this. Old Simpson and his wife, Muriel, who are famously discreet (although Simpson, who is himself having an affair, after a fashion—he has not managed, yet, to sleep with the object of his lust, a Latin American woman, though that is not due to lack of trying— unbeknown to his wife) warns Edward not to test Muriel’s lenience towards such matters, which she tolerates but doesn’t really approve of, too much. Everything is arranged perfectly, and it should be a night to remember so long as no one drops in unexpectedly. What unfolds is a funny, grisly, and ultimately horrifying tale, full of eccentric characters, with macabre twists. The ending, which, I think, is purposefully ambiguous but hints at the gruesome comeuppance awaiting Edward, leaves the reader with an ambrosially unquiet feeling. Graham Greene, the master of moral ambiguity, would have been proud to write this novel.

Injury Time, while it deals with the quotidian, almost pathetic, intrigues of a middle-class man in the throes of a mid-life crisis, is overshadowed, nevertheless, like many of Bainbridge’s novels, by death, destruction and violence. The gradual build up of an atmosphere—this, I think, Bainbridge particularly excels at—whereby the reader becomes aware, as the plot progresses, that notwithstanding the current affability and amiabilities, something awful is going to happen, is absolutely splendid. The violence, when it inflicts itself upon some or more characters, is often unexpected and senseless, as when Ginger, one of the gunmen who have forced entry into Binny’s house, rapes, first Binny and then Muriel. Bainbridge once said that she used the device of accidental deaths in some of her novels because of her conviction that a book had to have a strong narrative line: ‘One’s own life, whilst being lived, seems to have no obvious plot and is therefore without tension.’

Bainbridge is a perceptive and wry observer of the human nature. The description, for example, of Edward’s stream of inner thoughts in the midst of what is turning out to be a hostage situation is splendid not just because of Bainbridge’s sparse, almost clinical writing style, but also because it is true of human nature. This brings me to Bainbridge’s writing style. I love the sparse, no-words-wasted style; she has the gift of catching tones of speech which, while delightful on its own, also contributes towards building up the atmosphere of the story. Bainbridge herself is self-deprecating about her prodigious talent. ‘I am of the firm belief that everybody could write books and I never understand why they don't. After all, everyone speaks. Once the grammar has been learnt it is simply talking on paper and in time learning what not to say,’ she once wrote. If only it were as simple as that.

Bainbridge, who embarked on a literary career in the 1960s, was, for years, criminally overlooked by the critics, and was singularly unlucky in respect of awards—she shares the dubious distinction with Anita Desai of having been nominated for the Booker prize as many as five times, only to be piped at the post by another novel on each of the occasions—but has, in her autumn years, won the critical acclaim she had always deserved, much to the delight of her committed following.

Book of the Month: The Comforters (Muriel Spark)

The Comforters, Muriel Spark’s first full-length novel, received enthusiastic encomium upon its publication in 1957—Evelyn Waugh described the novel as ‘brilliantly original and fascinating’—compelling the critics to note her down as a novelist worth watching. And Spark who embarked upon a novelistic career at a relatively late age of 39—she had published a biography of Mary Shelly and a collection of poetry a few years earlier— did not disappoint. She followed her debut novel with a string of novels including, of course, The Prime of Ms Jean Brodie, which brought her worldwide fame and, as she herself observed many years later, helped her to put her money problems behind her once and for all.

‘The Comforters’, I can’t think of any other way of describing it, is a work of breathtaking originality. It has all the hallmarks that one associates with Spark’s later work: coruscating wit, imagination, a dry, sardonic, deadpan style, and her versatility as a writer.

Caroline Rose is a young writer. A recent convert to Catholicism, she is writing a critical work on ‘Form in the Modern Novel’, which is generally going well, although she is having some difficulty with—this is very tongue in cheek of Spark seeing as how the novel unfolds—realism. She is not lacking in problems and friends—her comforters, Catholic converts themselves and most of them slightly off the wall; Baron Stock, to name just one, sells demonological books, and is hard on trail of England’s leading Satanist, besides being convinced, somewhat extraneously, that there are no intellectuals left in England—who forever are ready with their words of wisdom. Young Caroline becomes increasingly plagued by the doubt that she and her fellow ‘comforters’ are themselves being written into a novel by someone else. She begins hearing voices accompanied by the clicking of a ‘non-existent’ typewriter’s keys. This is a neat little trick Spark has pulled off, I think, as it allows her to make several metafictional jokes throughout the length of the novel about the novel itself. The voices repeat Caroline’s immediate experiences and provide a detached background commentary on her thoughts and actions. As the novel progresses and various sub-plots are resolved, Caroline is slowly cured of her voices, and, based on the notes she has jotted down throughout the hallucinatory experiences, she embarks on writing, this time, a novel which is about characters in a novel. Throughout the narrative, the reader is, at some level, made aware of Spark, the omnipresent real narrator of the novel, the ‘someone else’ whom Caroline suspects to be writing a novel about her, Caroline, and her friends. In the early part of the novel there is a deliberate obscuring of boundaries between the thought contents of Caroline and those of the author, which the voices repeat. There is a hint of this towards the end, too, when ‘a character called Laurence’ who, until then, the author has given no reason to readers to suspect is not a ‘real’ person, is snooping in Caroline’s room. And, if he is a ‘character’ in a novel, what about Caroline herself?

The Comforters is many things all at once: it is a black comedy, satirical portrayal of Roman Catholic church with Biblical allusions, and part detective story. The ease with which Spark handles the elements of different genres beggars belief, seeing as this was Spark’s debut novel. It is an incongruous yet invigorating cocktail.

Like many of Spark’s novels, The Comforters, under its sparkling wit, its author’s skill at handling, even shifting between, different genres, and deft characterizations, has oft-troubling currents of madness, destruction, and supernatural. Spark offers, deliberately, little insight into her characters’ psychology which adds to readers’ wonderment.

I was particularly struck by the vivid, almost clinical, descriptions of the heroine’s anomalous auditory experiences. Here is an excerpt: 'There, then, seemed to have been more than one voice: it was a recitative, a chanting in unison. It was something like a concurrent series of echoes. Caroline jumped up and over to the door. There was no one on the landing or on the staircase outside…The wall, from which direction, the sounds had come divided her sitting room from first floor landing…A typewriter and a chorus of voices: What on earth are they up to at this time in the night? Caroline wondered. But what worried her were the words they had used, coinciding so exactly with her own thoughts.'

Spark clarified, decades later, in her memoirs, Curriculum Vitae, that these descriptions (which constitute highlights of the novel) were based on personal experiences. Spark, in the early 1950s, would appear to have had a kind of nervous breakdown, characterized by, in the main, auditory hallucinations. The doctors felt that it was secondary to nutritional deficiencies—an impoverished Spark, a minor poet and freelance reviewer, was leading a hand-to-mouth existence in those days—but Spark herself, rightly perhaps, points the finger at the Dexedrine tablets she was taking so as not to feel hungry. Experts have also pointed out that the title of the novel alludes to the Book of Job in the Old Testament in which visitors come as spectators, and not real comforters, to Job’s illness. I am not sure whether Caroline’s inability to understand, perhaps because she can’t empathize with, fellow converts to Catholicism—a quandary also faced by Matthew from ‘The Bachelors’—is an allusion to the Book of Job or a personal dilemma faced by Spark—a daughter of Jewish father and English mother—who converted to Catholicism, like the heroine of her novel, in the 1950s.

Even if one is unaware of such theological and personal connections, it will detract not a jot from the enjoyment one will derive from this witty, elegant and satirical novel.

Remembering Oscar Peterson

The prodigiously gifted, supremely polished, and amazingly prolific (he made more than 200 albums) jazz maestro Oscar Peterson died in Totonto, Canada, at the ripe old age of 82. The man whom Duk Ellington described as the ‘maharaja of keyboard’ was not keeping good health in recent years. He was troubled by arthritis and allegedly also had a stroke a few years ago. According to a close friend, Peterson was going downhill in the past few months; when the end came it was due to kidney failure.

I got introduced to the intricate artistry of Oscar Peterson relatively late. It must be more than two decades ago that, at an evening party given by a then acquaintance, who was a jazz aficionado, I heard ‘Hymn to Freedom’. I never, alas!, saw him performing live—he was apparently very strict about the code of conduct and was known to have walked out of live performances when he felt that the audience was not paying attention—but have derived hours of pleasure listening to his inventive compositions, phrasing, and unique timing. There isn’t a mood that is not explored by Oscar Peterson and which will not be a perfect accompaniment to your frame of mind.

The man who became a legend in his lifetime for his ability to play at breakneck speed and swing at the same time started his training as a classical pianist apparently at the behest of his disciplinarian father who looked askance at his son’s jazz aspirations. But that was not to be. An admirer of Art Tatum—he later said that he was profoundly influenced by Tatum’s format—Peterson, according to many, went on to achieve the same level of virtuosity as his icon.

The pedants insinuated that the refulgent technical wizardry of Peterson was a patina, barely concealing lack of authenticity. His playing was contemptuously dismissed, at one stage, as ‘music for Pavlov’s dogs’. These views, allegedly shared by Miles Davis, have been strewn away with the passage of time as leaves in a gale. What has survived is the coruscant repertoire Peterson has left behind, which, I am sure of this, will be heard in hundred years’ time. May his soul rest in peace.

Here is a list of my some of my favourite Oscar Peterson compositions:

1. Hymn to Freedom
2. Night Train
3. Summertime
4. Georgia on My Mind
5. Someone to Watch Over Me
6. The Windmills of Your Mind
7. I Love Paris
8. It Ain’t Necessarily So
9. Diango
10. In the Still of the Night