A fictional village in Kerala, an illicit
affair where the man (Burhan) is 15 years younger than the woman (Reyhana),
salacious village gossip that stokes wild action and raw emotion on WhatsApp, a
crowd that turns into a frenzied mob intent on punishing and setting the
‘wrong’ right - this roughly summarizes Saharu Nusaiba Kannanari’s Chronicle of
an Hour and a Half; not just a chronicle of mass hysteria and mob lynching but
a searing account of the world/times we live in - one that defies Newton's
Third Law - where first the reaction is decided upon and readied and then the
action is fabricated/blown out of proportion to match the reaction, a world
that avenges something that never happened, a world where imagined hurt (more
often than real hurt) rules emotions, seeks solace and demands action from/on
the Internet, a world full of self-righteous sinners.
Before you dismiss this work as a bleak
portrayal of our world in the name of glorifying reality, let me tell you that
the author sheds light on many aspects of our life through his sizeable array
of characters. Very few portray women and their problems with a clarity as
sharp and fierce as the author. Reyhana terms her husband as an uxorious leech at the start, and the
‘why’ sinks in, in the final chapter. Nabeesumma, Burhan's mother can be hailed
as a powerful woman for all she endures over years since her marriage but the
author meekly points out that calling such women strong is only as farcical as
hailing people stepping out to work a day after floods or terrorist attacks
ravage a city as resilient, because do they even have a ‘choice’?
If the author openly shows what plagues women
in our society, he shows the problems men face in a quiet, understated fashion.
In a book that liberally gives space to Chinnan and Ashraf who ‘see’
problematic things, even to their wives and kids, the author doesn't leave a
single chapter in Burhan’s name, the man who is mangled to death by the mob.
This deliberate omission of voice spells clearly how gender stereotypes and
social conventions not just affect women but men too. While Burhan faces an
acute punishment, Reyhana suffers chronically, her honour besmirched for life
for the same trouble they idly walked
into. Now when both women and men suffer in different ways, the debate on
whose suffering is ‘greater’ only seems pointless. Through Shahid and his
conversations with his father, the author lends space to men who sacrificed a
decent married life for toiling away in the Gulf countries and the widely
accepted definition of ‘masculinity’. Through Najeeb Maash, the writer airs
views, easily tagged as blasphemous in parts of the world. Through Funny, his
son, he shows how mobile phones can aid, if not bowel movement, moral
depravity. For all the love that North Kerala harbours for communism, Che
Guevara and Argentinian & Brazilian soccer, a clear Latin American
influence can be felt in the writing - it’s raw, graphic and reeks of violence.
I read this ‘much praised’ book a week back
even though I got a copy of it right after its release. I loved discussing it
with Bhavna with whom both planned and impromptu buddy reads have been special
and fun. Taking time to pick the book, I thought, will rid me of a hyper
critical eye. With a fair exposure to literature from Kerala, about 80 pages
in, the vast array of characters, an illicit affair at the heart of the plot,
men objectifying women, it all felt formulaic even though the writing and
atmosphere build-up were top notch. But as I progressed, I quietly concluded
that the book deserves all the praise and attention heaped on it, I was left
with no other option.
