Sea of Poppies; by Amitav Ghosh.

In some ways this work is structured like his other earlier work, the first one, the Circle of Reason, what with the journey of people from variuos corners of the earth together and the geography, the difference being this one is set in past where timeline is shortly after the beginning of The Glass Palace, while the other was closer to present. The humour though that was pervasive in the first one, at least in the first part of it, is a mere whiff here in some of the pronouncements of a character that hears a penny whistle and unfamiliar with the particular item mistakes it for a flute, taking the one playing it as yet another incarnation and cautioning him about his conduct - to his, the cautioned one's that is - utter confusion.

One small surprise at the very outset as one begins to read this book is that this is not about the recent Afghanistan, but about India over a century ago, when opium trade was beginning and escalated by British and China was forced to accept the trade from European (and US) powers during the famous Opium wars. India, post independence, made a conscious decision not to use opium trade, which could have benefited the then poor nation weighed under with debts of the legacy of the British rule, and forego the profits of the opium trade however high, since it was a substance mostly misused to get people addicted and thereafter not good for health.

It took most part of the remaining century, however, to get tobacco industry (mostly centred in US) to be contained in any way at all, and that too mostly in US and Europe - while in the rest of the world tobacco smoking is promoted aggressively nevertheless. In Thailand for example police were used to arrest anyone protesting against the tobacco promotion being held outside schools and colleges by US corporations or local subsidiaries thereof, handing over free cigarettes to teenagers, from what one read within last couple of decades at the most - so even as court battles were being fought in US and Europe was banning smoking in most places, minors in other parts of the world being inculcated into the ill practice with aggressive use of law enforcing agencies was used to make sure the profits at expense of world health would continue.

Even Bible has something about sins coming home to roost, doesn't it! Only, very unfortunately such roosting is not as accurate as it ought to be and instead of those that practice such ill practices being affected by their own sins coming home to roost, it is other innocents of their own society being affected by what is misnamed party drugs even as innocents of all ages across the world are being bombed so the weapon producers ought to not suffer losses post cold war.

Now post 2001 some parts of the unhealthy trade have not only resurfaced in countries that deal more in arms and uses thereof than in health of their own people or their needs of food, education, and a good life even at the most basic level, the trade is escalated at cost of all other farming and of course the health of those that are paying hefty amounts across the world to use the substance in a highly altered form.

Addictive substances for killing weapons trade is not new, it was exposed during the Iran - contra scandal and trials, and some rightwing publications in US published the details (during mid to late eighties) of military airplanes being used to bring such substance back in what would be otherwise empty planes returning from a run to central America to supply the favoured with weapons.

But now the scale is escalated beyond recognition and uses too, and the tales of women not remembering a day or two of rapes or men deprived of their organs are covered up under the (what ought to be confusing logically but is very well understood) name of party drugs, falsifying both the words that make up that name.

Hence the surprise at the outset about this book so recently being up for Booker prize being not about Afghanistan today but about the British empire of yore - one tends to overlook the roots of a problem in the concerns of today, of being tangled in the vines and branches we are attempting to free health of the world from. But as one reads on it becomes clear why the Booker buzz about this book ended in a rather puzzling silence, and it becomes obvious there could not have been an official British recognition of this any more than there could be an oscar for any film made in India about the independence struggle. It had to lose the Booker since it is so clear an indictment of the British rule in India used for forcing poor farmers into changing their harvest from growing all their necessary food crops to growing poppies, using their own people at low rates and in horrifying conditions in manufacturing opium for export into the world, and going to war with China when the Chinese decided they did not wish their populations to be addicted to this substance for sake of profit of those that sold it.

China lost the war now remembered as the Opium War and subsequently one saw substance addiction of US veterans from Vietnam or Asia in general blamed on their being in company of the orientals who got the good boys addicted, the part of US fleet in Opium wars being conveniently forgotten. One wonders if the use of Indian men in the British military in those wars had something do to with the China India relationship as it has been during last half a century or so.

This story begins with one main character's soon to die husband is an ex volunteer of the British military in the short war that was conquest of Burma and joining of it to India for over a century, but this tale is about a journey down the Ganga for some characters while others have come from as far as Baltimore or Canton, all finding themselves together on a ship carrying bonded labour from Gangetic plains to Mauritius, along with some convicts proven guilty for reasons other than guilt as often as not.

Just as Australia was the penal colony for Britain as well as yet another place apart from Canada where the poor of Britain were encouraged to go settle in an attempt to clean up the mainland and solve the problem of what to do with them, Mauritius was used as a penal colony along with Andaman and Nicobar island group off coast of Burma near equator, and here one gets a glimpse in to the human tales of those that are forced to leave home and go forth into unknown lands for one reason or another - a son of a Maryland freedwoman who leaves for fear of being enslaved if he stays on, a couple in heart of Gangetic plain that flees her relatives who will kill them both since she is a widow saved by him from the pyre convenient for them for economic reasons and he is a low caste male too incidentally, an unwanted wife who was left at a fair and found her husband living with his new family when she found her way back finally, a Frenchwoman in India who is looked down on by the local British for being well educated and unprejudiced and bathing every day like the local people rather than the twice or so a week that the ruling wives do, and so on.


At almost the beginning the author brings out the fact of British in India forcing the local population of Gangetic plains - one of the most fertile regions of the world with few to compare - to plant their fields with poppies that they control the product of and make profits from, and it becomes clear opium trade was as much forced on India as on China. These poor farmers had to forego their harvests of food, which in turn not only made food scarce and therefore pricey with affordability going steadily above the capacity of the farmers, but it also meant the loss of biodiversity - farmers prior to being forced to grow poppy typically planted several crops and rotated them to suit their needs and that of the land - and, too, impoverishing of the soil. All this together with loss of extra benefits such as the straw now being no longer free to refurnish the thatched cottage roofs, and hence the direness of poverty being worse, makes a graphic picture. The farmers harvesting opium for the British cannot afford to seal roofs over their own heads with even straw, since now straw is no longer the free byproduct of their own wheat harvest every year.

On the other hand or rather in the other strand of the story, which by now one is used to his playing with two or three strands alternately as he weaves his tale, he brings in a son of a "freedwoman" by her ex-master, skin the colour of "old ivory" and able to pass for "white" (as if any human could be the exact, precise colour that white is!) - who benefits unintentionally through the dire circumstances of his ship sailing from Baltimore to Calcutta after having bought for opium trade, and along the journey is the fascinating description of men who take to ocean for a living from various corners of the world. Their linguistic stew consists of traces of every language they have encountered and so does the lingo of the British masters in India deliberately mixing up their vocabulary just so, one cannot be good at the local languages lest any colleague accuse one of having gone local and one nevertheless must speak the half or less version of English lest one is taken by local populace for a naive newcomer on the land. It seems that another unspoken precept is also that one must distort any word one picks up from the locals, but that may be part of the first rule.

The lyrical tale of a journey, or rather many journeys of many characters who are from various corners of the earth and come together at the port on the river in Calcutta for yet another journey together to an island off coast of Africa where a new society is being forged, hides a great deal of research visible behind the thin veil of a well told story that ends rather abruptly. One cannot help thinking there is another book or many in the offing, and that this one is just the prologue. The writer practically promises it, all but, in the ending sentence that leaves one looking through the book again, puzzled about where exactly was the reference tantalisingly mentioned in the last sentence, only to be convinced at the end of the search that it was the vision mentioned in the beginning and no other event. It is a veiled promise so if it is reneged on it counts as the temptation and promise offered with an exchange of glance that is never given in word, just in case. Still, it would be a piece of folly not to follow this up with the stories of the characters further in their willy nilly chosen land of migration and how the society developed there.

One personal favourite is the description of the tidal bore, so far shown post the recent tsunami only as a phenomena in east coast China on some information channel when the tsunami trauma was new.

The Hungry Tide; by Amitav Ghosh.

Amitav writes closer to his origins in this one, and the writing has a subtle flavour of Bengali (or Bangalie or Bangla) literature - quite appropriately too, since it is about coastal region of the land where the great river - after Ganga meets Brahmaputra forming a humongous river flowing through the north-south axis of the land - goes to meet the ocean in several branches, hundreds of them, with estuaries forming and swallowing up coastal islands all the time, where mangrove forests emerge in short time and are submerged at high tide.

How people live in this region is a mystery for those that have never experienced living in low lands, and for that matter it is not that different in any low region of a great river. Netherlands has her dikes protecting the country from the ocean at north; and the Mississippi delta has the unique city of New Orleans with its unique style of cemeteries - graves have to be not under but above ground, for one thing - and other characteristics peculiar to features common to all low lying regions of great river delta around the earth.

When storms hit, these people are affected by not dozens or hundreds but just as often by thousands or mind boggling hundreds of thousands. One wonders why they live there when they know this will happen for sure in another few years yet again, and in this book one finds why.

For the love of the land, this land, is why - it is this simple. If they are resettled elsewhere, another land just as loved by others who belong there, these people are not happy to be safer, they want to return, they dream of their own river delta country and they steal a march to walk back hundreds of miles at nights to return to resettle on another island.

The region is a biopreserve for many many species that are unique to this region often, some too that exist elsewhere but just as precious for all that. Royal Bengal Tiger among the former, and species of riverine or general dolphins for examples of latter. Some dolphin species are common to river and ocean but choose an environment and stick to it, while some belong to rivers.

The author describes the history and geography of the land along with the species and the people that belong here and know their land, the ins and outs of the islands and what one might encounter, having lived here for generations, albeit illiterate. We see it through prism of a young cetologist who is here for research and is amazed at the knowledge of the local fisherman, illiterate, who saves her life more than once - giving his own in the final such event, though it is of necessity and not a choice. There are townspeople who are visitors or settlers discovering the land, choosing to live here and helping the locals one way or another, in another strand of the story that weaves with the main. It all forms a delta of a story like a river reaching its finalé, mirroring the region the story is set in.

The author neatly avoids mentioning the cataclysmic events that were set in motion by the storms of 1970, when hundreds of thousands of people lost their lives in the eastern part of this region, after having actually described the storm and the fact of losses of life. That was when finally Bangladesh separated (from the two part fractured nation that had separated from India as Pakistan in '47), having had enough of being dominated and exploited by the western part for most of their history as a joint nation, after a prolonged two year struggle involving much massacre and worse before arriving at freedom. But of course, he stays off most of the struggles of this nature except the leftist thought stream of the region in this one, and even that is fleetingly given here only to refer to the history of the region and the struggles of the people who settled and live here.

The portrait of this land is lovingly sketched and goes straight to heart. At the end, the characters one forgets mostly except perhaps the mostly mute fisherman, the child of his and the mother who returned to live here, and they are sort of off in corners while the main characters through whom one one sees the story are, while not unimportant, recede with the storm. One approves of the women who tenaciously decide to stay here although of affluent and more city backgrounds - one from Calcutta, another from US where she has grown up and returned to her birth land only for research as a professional cetologist to begin with - but it is the local people personified in the fisherman and his mother and his child one remembers. They, after all, are one with the region, the islands, the river and its hundred fingers holding the islands as sand grains while it reaches out to the ocean in south of the land.

The Glass Palace; by Amitav Ghosh.

One cannot but think of various writers and their styles in reading this - Khaled Hosseini for one (are they of the same school of writing, did they attend a class together, one wonders) and to some extent Pearl S. Buck for another. She wrote about China and US, her two nations, and wrote more than one saga describing history of the place with more than one generation in the forefront of the story. There is also a reminding of Maugham when one comes to the part about Malaya, but only because of the plantations, there is no other similarity there of course.

The value of this work is in the fact that it does describe in detail some of the history of the parts of the world that are globally mostly forgotten.

Somewhere during the exodus of the Burmese royals one begins to wonder why the writer would use names of known places in the story and checking on the note from the author at the end gives a clue - it is based on history. But then, the characters of the collector and so forth are detailed, and one begins to have a growing sense of it all being a family tale of someone who looked up his various relatives and wrote, only to read a disclaimer at the end to the effect that only the royals are real figures - this could have been mentioned in first few pages, say after the title page and before the story begins, as is often practice.

Anyhow, the story is gripping, mostly because of the historical details of of an era much written about but not dealing with the parts of the world this one covers (except for works of W.S.Maugham) in most known literature. The characters are sketched well in spite of the racy nature - the story covers over six decades of events in southern Asia, by which I do not mean the euphemistic term South Asia used to cover up the fact that that is only a name now used to indicate what was India; here the events take one extensively in Burma and Malaya (today Malaysia) and parts of India in east and west.

One sees the underbelly of the empire that the sun never set on, and the shoddy treatment of the subjects especially during times of humongous stress - when the war tide is turning against the British, the soldiers are expected to nevertheless fight on for the empire but the non European civilians are not allowed on the one train out of Malaya for evacuation to safety, just one example.

(Here is another fact about the said empire and its claim - something not mentioned in this story, but a fact of history. Allied soldiers behaved exemplary fashion in occupied Germany but not quite so during war in empire colonies with the civilians, a fact known to locals but not admitted much less publicised in general, and Amitav - pronounced Amitabh - makes no mention of it and for that matter might or might not have a clue about it either, in that there were casual rapes of innocent civilians by soldiers of allied forces with no redress from the authorities, a fact that belies the "obligation to protect" claim of the empire rulers completely. If the subjects were uncomfortable complaining to the rulers about such atrocities performed by allied non-local soldiers due to the racial preferences meted to the soldiers who were racially of the rulers' side, then the empire had gained no trust whatsoever from the ruled, clearly.)

From the heartrending exile of the Burmese royal family to the long march of the protection denied civilians from Malaya to Burma to India, and the later travails of the Burmese people under the repressive regime, it all touches heart - except where the author for no reason whatsoever finds it obligatory to give shoddy details of lower physical or sexual nature, which this tale could very well have done without. Often one gets the clear sense that he is unable to settle in comfort with his identity and would like to be one with the neighbours of his choice, western and sahib, except the ghost of his real identity won't let him rest - and so he exploits the heritage to write engrossing tales such as this but attempts to keep his own head above it by subtle mistakes of spellings or pronounciations such as made by callous rulers of colonies who deliberately steamrollered over ruled subjects in various matters (including temples razed to build roads or railway stations, temples of major import too) just so he can keep on the right side of the world population generally.

At the end, when one finishes reading the end of the story of several generations over the huge expanse of nations and turns to the author's note only to read that it was mostly fictional characters, which one has come to believe with growing certainty due to details of unnecessary nature if it was indeed so, one begins to wonder why he would attempt to discredit the work from both directions - if it was all fiction it could certainly have been done far better, and if it was not why claim it so? One wonders if the claimed fictionality of characters is only to protect the relatives he exposes with a determination for sake of a shoddy lot of details given unnecessarily and mud thrown that he would not like to be taken to court for or be looked at with contempt by his people for, the mud thrown at his own to attempt being accepted by his chosen people as once some had to do by eating forbidden stuff but is no longer enough. All in all, if only he had avoided that shoddy part and temptation to thus make it dirty in an unattractive way, he could avoid making statements about the fictionality of characters when the events are so real and the whole work not quite literature, not quite history but bordering on the verge where its only worth is by virtue of being historical tale; on the other hand perhaps the multiple veils thus drawn over the tale allow the author to keep a semblance of success in the attempted impossible of belonging to rulers and ruled simultaneously, for as long as he can keep a foot each in two very diverse boats.

A Thousand Splendid Suns; by Khaled Hosseini.

Having explored sensitive problems and horrors of male life in The Kite Runner, this one is about the downtrodden gender across time and geographical boundaries, still with the same background of Afghanistan from seventies to recent times in the country, one of the most turbulent times in the history of the land and that is saying something - we are talking about the crossroads of the huge continent of Asia here. Before Arabs invaded and converted it to Islam it was a Buddhist land offering respite to silk route travellers in the various monasteries strewn around central Asia - Bamian, Bukhaaraa, ... - and a flourishing home of learning, arts, world trade. Most people do wish to live in peace and attempt to keep up the learning, arts et al, except some lands are almost cursed in that the turbulence keeps invading in form of various armies criss crossing time and again. Kansas has tornadoes, central Asia has humans invading and occupying from east and west.

Yet it is a beautiful land, as seen through the rosy memories of the writer who clearly loves its various features from snow to desert, orchards and fields. This book coupled with the other more famous one of his (TKR) makes one almost wish one could instantly travel and see all that he is writing about, even though one is aware it is no longer the same - not only he rues it but that is all one has been familiar with unless one is another expat Afghan. The ravaged land with trees and fields of life sustaining fruits and grains and so on replaced by tanks and guns and bombings and opium fields that help the drug-gun trade prosper. Bamian Buddha has been destroyed quite deliberately, in between all other destructions of towns and humanity, and in the place of peace is now desolation and destitution which is all this sort of war and coup ideology, supported with gun and drug trade, can bring. People try desperately to survive, by staying on for the love of land or leaving with a heavy heart for safer shores until one can return.

The writer begins this one with the most downtrodden possible a person, an illegitimate daughter of a servant by a master who is doing penance through giving the mother and daughter provisions for life as long as they do not intrude on his legitimate life of respectability. Still, the girl knows no sorrow or downturn of life except the bitter mother who keeps telling her truths she won't acknowledge - children need to love and dream, to survive, and the truths are bitter. When she sets forth to make one dream come true, a small enough one at that - have her father take her to a film in one of his theatres with his other children, see the film together, eat ice cream - she is faced with devastating realities of her life none of which are her fault, and loses her mother and pretty soon any possibility of a real life. She tries to make life as best as possible, but innocent downtrodden ones are not necessarily spared by providence and she loses the one happiness she could have had, children and any possibility thereof.

The writer jumps to the life of a younger neighbour inexplicably and one wonders if this was a composition brought together in a book form but initially consisting of separate connected stories. Then with more happenings of history the two are woven together like the simple braiding of hair with different sections brought together. How fifteen year old are forced to grow up and make very adult decisions and choices to survive, to find what happiness they can and to protect those they must, is a reminder of how the world lives beyond the teenage haven of US with cars and malls and proms and popularity their only concerns. Here in this story, education is a luxury not everyone has, and in fact the most liberal fathers of daughters are forced by the bombings and missiles to keep their daughters home finally, and teach them privately. Young males of course have gone to war and died, or lost limbs early in life with land mines. Or died trying to escape it to safer lands.

The meanness, the petty cruelty and nasty tricks of the male largely looming in the lives of the two women is symbolic of a class hatred for no reason that the lesser male feels for the higher whom he can conquer only in one way, by raping the women that belong to their class - and even better, doing so within marriage so the women have little if any chance of escape, it is their own life, their own husband, father of their child or many dead ones. The elder one is daughter of a richer one and in some way higher class in that she speaks Farsi (Persian), and does not speak Pashto; the younger one is not only half the age of the elder one, who in turn is less than half the age of the male who married them, but is also the daughter of a teacher, with an educated mother and is being educated herself, has a friend she loves, and is beautiful - and he clearly hates all of the superior qualities of this one, and tricks her into marrying him by having someone tell her a false tale about her love being dead.

This level of petty cruelty, nasty evil mindset, comes only from a lesser person who knows he is lesser and hates the superior ones for it, questioning their assumption of superiority - but if he had it in him to aspire to their level nothing could stop him, in fact the teacher would encourage and help the neighbour. It couldn't be that difficult for a man who owns a reasonably prosperous business and is in demand to find some time for rising above what he suspects is a low station by being well read, but he prefers to spend the time on porn and hates the better ones. The difference is not that the better ones think they are above, it is that the lesser one not only knows it he would rather trample them in the worst way he can think of and thus equate the better ones with dust under his feet.

And yet this does not satisfy him, so he goes on to be more cruel and manipulative and nasty in petty ways that hurt his wives but do not benefit him in any way. All this would be unbelievable if one has not met such persons but they unfortunately are all too real, and exist across all differences of geography, nationality, class, rank, caste by any other name, community and faith and colour of skin or eyes or hair, gender or power or wealth. When it is a male empowered by his society to brutalise his wives and daughters it all takes more dimensions of cruelty, and this writer describes them in detail enough to make one cringe.

Another reader's review made one believe it all ends well, and so the failure of the women in escaping together was a severe disappointment while the death of the senior wife in helping the others live by murdering the husband left the tale with its final blow of tragedy, in that she was not only one of the two protagonists but also had finally nothing. One finds solace in the junior wife and her daughter finding the friend-lover-father of the daughter again, in that he was not dead, and their escape to a better life, until they return to rebuild the nation - but the tale has suffered irreparable losses in losing Mariam pretty much the way the nation has lost much. Humanity cannot give up, life does not, and a nation must grow its life back from its roots, as they do in the final part of this story. But one must remember those that gave life so others could survive, too.

The Kite Runner; by Khaled Hosseini.

It is always a true tale when told from within, and therein lies half the secret of why this book is good, gripping, raw, imagery strong and unforgettable. Layers upon layers of the life as the protagonist knew in a country that was ravaged by wars and marauders since mid seventies in recent times, even apart from the historical ever trampling of the land by various warriors in their path.

Several questions, several interesting points. The nature of caste and the role played by race in the whole caste-class question, and an almost slavery sort of level of relationship of master to servant in most respects except an actual sale of humans involved, for example - very intriguing in that rarely is this structure admitted as a caste, and is then taken for granted, while being usually clothed in terms of race or nationality. Islam is supposed not to have any iota of inequality between men (that women are held and considered inferior is usually swept under a rug and since women rarely are equal and happy on the whole in any society even now this is not questioned except peripherally) - but slavery and rank has ever been a part of most Islamic societies, and the fiercely independent Afghans are no exception in this. This book begins with the whole racial question of Afghanistan and the treatment of one race by another, dominant one, is central to the story, albeit not in a general form but in form of characters. Still, they do speak and give the general facts in their society as they were and in all probability still are.

Funnily enough, the discrimination against Hazara is due to their being of oriental mix; strangely because the moghuls that ruled a large swath of the regions around were Mongols, who settled in India finally but spent a large time in the central Asian regions generally. Not only Changez (mispronounced Genghis in west, while the real name is closer to Chingis in Mongolia where he came from and Changez where he fought to begin his empire base) Khan is revered in the region - several villages claim total descent from him, in that everyone is supposed to have descended from him.

The very name Khan is of Mongol origin, for that matter. And this name being used proudly throughout the region one would think people respected the origin of the name, the race that bequeathed it. Not so. Pastuns, or Pakhtoons or Pathans as named generally, not only look down on the central Asian mixed races of the regions, Hazara amongst them, but treat them in generally horrible way quite often. One is reminded of the now deposed despot in Pakistan "warning" US that Afghans won't accept a leader who is racially closer to Tajik or Kirghiz, not so long ago.

This is played out in a relationship that strikes close to heart of every male of human species in particular - that of childhood buddies, master and servant, brotherhood, threatened by the racial and caste tension around in the society.

Interestingly the villain figure is a half caste from every perspective - with an Afghan Pashtun father and a German mother - who embraces the worst of his heritage by choice, and is described as crazy in a way that goes to the very root of nazi ideology and those that believe and practice it. His German mother disapproves of what this boy has chosen and in fact is unaware of the son's choices, she is in all probability running away as far as she could from the horror of the past of her heritage, and yet it appears in the mindset of the son who has her racial features making him look different. Not that the region - central or south Asia for that matter - lacks light eyed or light haired variety, even before colonial days, but that this particular villain figure of the mixed race boy is very aware of his nazi heritage, his looks and his identity; and he has chosen all that his mother rightly discarded as a horror. And his way of adhering to that choice is by beginning to rape what he considers as males of lesser races. Beginning with little boys.


The main interest of the story must remain with the protagonist however, and his guilt at not saving his friend, his brother that then he was unaware of the relationship with. He never points the finger at his father for not acclaiming the son he had from the servant's wife, though, being the adoring and idolising son who is jealous of the attentions the other boy gets, and attempting to rise to deserve the father's attention.

But the reader must question, was the father such a hero after all, since he stood up to guns for strangers but did nothing to protect his own son from a relationship outside wedlock and had him work as a servant in his house, unschooled and poor? Whatever the guilt of the master's legitimate son, it does not begin to compare with the original sin, that of the father of the two boys who left it to the legitimate son to correct his father's sin by lifelong omission.

The coincidence of the young nazi-inspired boy growing into the sadist taliban leader who is murdering people publicly with any accusations possible, persecuting Hazara people to the extent of going about murdering a whole town (Mazar - e - Sharif massacre of 1998) and still going about using orphans - often those he deliberately made orphans and then hunted out for the purpose - to sodomise just to see them degraded, is perhaps too trite - except this; the ideology of racial persecution and elevating sadism to the level of an ideology to be followed and replacing old faith with this persecution sadism is all too really borrowed from nazi by taliban.

And finally, the women - who are mentioned in the book only fleetingly and not too nicely until the protagonist falls in love, and then finds human contact with his wife to be and her mother. It is almost at the end of his journey of revisiting his past that he gives an account of the mother of the little friend of his childhood that is not dismissive as it is in the beginning, describing her in terms of male lascivious and degrading mindset - still, it is not as comprehending in human terms as it could be, or perhaps it is an exercise he leaves the reader to perform consciously or subconsciously depending on how closed the mind of the reader is, what society the reader belongs to. The protagonist perhaps would rather not go that far from his own roots.

The poor woman married to a servant, her own cousin who married her for a marriage of convenience (convenient for her father and for him, not so much for her in any way one could possibly think of) who is not only handicapped with one leg paralysed in a polio attack and the lower face paralysed too, on top of being the racial dominated Hazara as she is too - she is initially described as far too beautiful to look at only once, and perhaps this is her only crime really in a society so unfriendly to the gentle sex as to brand them with all sorts of allegations if they happen to be attractive and without a powerful protector, indeed a society which turns into the taliban land easily enough with women beaten up by strangers for simply speaking out audibly in process of shopping for their family's need of food.

The poor beautiful woman is described to her own son in horrible terms by soldiers who in all probability were lying, with affirmations of having used her with her complicity. Nevertheless she runs away leaving her secure position in the powerful household. And yet, if sex was all she desired and she could have had everything she needed from the master of the household including the protection she lacked, and respectable married life with children, with only one proviso - to continue as the servant's wife and a servant herself while in reality being the mother of child of the master, and perhaps his concubine for life too. This is what she ran away from leaving her newborn son to his legal father, one who might or might not have known about the truth of the son's blood - he had enough evidence to know, but might not wish to and to what purpose after all since the master would not acknowledge the second son by the servant and so the little boy was for the servant to bring up after all, and to protect to the best of his abilities?

The mother returned to find her son and had a few years with his family at the end of her life, and it speaks volumes for the Hazara code and conduct that while he had pain accepting her he did so to his and his child's benefit. She in all probability had run away to have a life of open state of affairs in that there was no pretense of being a respetable wife while in reality being the master's concubine - she had no reason to not expect the master to call upon her services again, although he perhaps would not have done so and did it once only due to grief of losing his much beloved wife in childbirth - and preferred the group of singing dancing troubadours to the hazards of the town, the society of Kabul looking at her beauty askance and victimising it.

Victimisation she did not escape, but perhaps she did have a life.

Paths of Glory; by Jeffrey Archer

Archer is a master story teller and this book is another point in evidence, that he holds one glued to the tale that is mostly historical and documented - one assumes he is writing intimate scenes and private thoughts from his own ability rather than any sort of actual documented evidence thereof - and it is not only an eminently readable book, it is one to be recommended on most counts, not the least of which is the sort of determined effort that takes one and more over a barrier, and humanity to a new horizon.

George Mallory, along with his companion for the climb Irvine, has been suspected to be the first known person, certainly of the western world (which, ironically, includes Australia and New Zealand, without anyone giving that particular twist to or convolution of geography a second thought), to have set foot on top of the highest peak of the earth, known by various names - Gaurishankar, Saagarmaathaa, Chomolungmaa, and Everest, amongst many others in all likelihood. Very likely there have been local persons that have climbed it or even traversed the landscape in all sorts of paths as the Himaalaya was rising over the millennia after millennia as it still it, but those are unrecorded and hence even less admitted than the known previous discoverers or even occupants for millennia of other continents that were new to west. Mallory and Irvine vanished around a corner on the climb in 1924 and the body of one was discovered only recently in 1999 while that of Irvine is suspected to have been seen by a Chinese climber who died in an avalanche soon after.

This book is the story of the person and the life of Mallory. Very very interesting, gripping, with all the details about climbing the Eiffel tower and the tower in Venice, and the peaks in Alps and Himaalaya. One is almost there and triumphant for Mallory while weeping for Nyima and laughing ruefully at the Finch escapades.

Archer is strangely callous about some details, perhaps they - one, likely - belong to the history where the British climbers mention one amongst them speaking "the local language" is helpful - which is a bit like an Oriental, an Arab or an African speaking of a fellow Oriental, Arab or African speaking "The European language". There are other such careless little details, but then Archer while benefitting from his readers' avid interest in his work no matter where they are from must affirm his loyalty to the crown and hence show a willingness to be callous to the colonies, even ex colonies.

One rather glaring example of such incorrect detail bordering on false is his epilogue where he mentions someone being murdered by a "Pakistani" in 1931, which is when not only such a thing did not exist, but was not even a demand, only a tool for leverage in hands of someone machiavellian hungry for power who was dismayed to be granted his demand since he would not play by any fair rules or means of any possibility of a dialogue, while in reality he had wanted to really rule India undivided. To set Archer straight, it is no secret that in '31 the concerned person could only have been Indian, and saying Pakistani merely conveys the information in a short and therefore incorrect, false manner that that person's roots as well as future choice of a nationality lay in that direction.

What is irresistible is the descriptions of beauty of Himaalaya, of the peak they tried to conquer, of the view. One almost is catapulted into going over pronto to do it for oneself. Alas, one's years of any such activity are now definitely over, even though now it is practically a highway with several teams a year from anywhere and everywhere around the world achieving the conquest - including handicapped and blind climbers, old people and repeat climbers.