Intro to Nectar in a Sieve
It's about time I posted again here! I really have been reading, plus I still have lots of previously read books I want to write comments on that are piled up in my room. I just haven't taken the time, I guess. Other things have been more important, so I don't have regrets, really - but I'll try and get back here more frequently.
So, new book: I just finished a book about a woman's life in southeast India. Although I probably related because of spending a bit of time in those parts, I really think anyone will be able to feel with the character: the book is written with such humanity, through the eyes of a narrator so honest, and so compassionate, that she reaches into the very soul of what makes us human. I felt as though I struggled with her through joy and loss of innocence, disappointment and anger, poverty, starvation, love, triumph, and heartbreak. She is not a heroine in the sense of being something higher than human -- and her frankness about her own human frailty allows the reader to acknowledge his/her own. However, she things she endures! I found myself crying frequently and feeling such a rush of emotion. It was powerful, cathartic, healing, and also painful. It was a reminder that we really do have a responsibility to one another. I found myself remembering the times that I've failed to help someone when I could have. To me, living in health and relative wealth, it is difficult (even when I'm among the poor) to remember that for some, life really is that desperate. I forget that.
The book was written by a woman (Kamala Markandaya) from India during the 50's. Her writing is unassuming, frank, sympathetic, poetic, nostalgic, and at times, almost brutal - but through it runs a deep sense of compassion, quiet endurance, and hope. Replete with sensual imagery (meaning pertaining to the senses...not the sexual connotation) without being overly wordy or unnecessarily clever. There's a raw quality combined with a richness that reminds me of India --
I don't have the words to describe it, but I picture a vine with exotic flowers that are strangely delicate, with vibrant oranges and violent pinks. And the vine seems delicate until you try to remove its tiny fingers from their strongholds within the rocks, trees, and cement that it has cut through and find within its body a sinewy, leathery impossible strength that can't be torn. The flowers can easily be plucked and crushed, but they grow back rapidly, and the vine remains, inexplicably.
It captures the feeling of India. A land of stark contrasts where delicate sensual, beautiful, rich fabrics wrap around bodies with dusty feet that march through garbage, human filth, and monsoon rains, performing hard labor side by side with their lean, dark, half-naked male counterparts. I saw people with a hard life who endure with a patience beyond my Western comprehension, and who continue to love, dance, laugh, and decorate their harsh lives with vibrant color.
So, new book: I just finished a book about a woman's life in southeast India. Although I probably related because of spending a bit of time in those parts, I really think anyone will be able to feel with the character: the book is written with such humanity, through the eyes of a narrator so honest, and so compassionate, that she reaches into the very soul of what makes us human. I felt as though I struggled with her through joy and loss of innocence, disappointment and anger, poverty, starvation, love, triumph, and heartbreak. She is not a heroine in the sense of being something higher than human -- and her frankness about her own human frailty allows the reader to acknowledge his/her own. However, she things she endures! I found myself crying frequently and feeling such a rush of emotion. It was powerful, cathartic, healing, and also painful. It was a reminder that we really do have a responsibility to one another. I found myself remembering the times that I've failed to help someone when I could have. To me, living in health and relative wealth, it is difficult (even when I'm among the poor) to remember that for some, life really is that desperate. I forget that.The book was written by a woman (Kamala Markandaya) from India during the 50's. Her writing is unassuming, frank, sympathetic, poetic, nostalgic, and at times, almost brutal - but through it runs a deep sense of compassion, quiet endurance, and hope. Replete with sensual imagery (meaning pertaining to the senses...not the sexual connotation) without being overly wordy or unnecessarily clever. There's a raw quality combined with a richness that reminds me of India --
I don't have the words to describe it, but I picture a vine with exotic flowers that are strangely delicate, with vibrant oranges and violent pinks. And the vine seems delicate until you try to remove its tiny fingers from their strongholds within the rocks, trees, and cement that it has cut through and find within its body a sinewy, leathery impossible strength that can't be torn. The flowers can easily be plucked and crushed, but they grow back rapidly, and the vine remains, inexplicably.
It captures the feeling of India. A land of stark contrasts where delicate sensual, beautiful, rich fabrics wrap around bodies with dusty feet that march through garbage, human filth, and monsoon rains, performing hard labor side by side with their lean, dark, half-naked male counterparts. I saw people with a hard life who endure with a patience beyond my Western comprehension, and who continue to love, dance, laugh, and decorate their harsh lives with vibrant color.
posted by Marci at 7:10 PM
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