Reading the Thirteenth Tale took me back to the storytelling sessions with my grandmother.  My paternal grandmother was a small wiry woman with silver wisps of hair. I used to love cuddling the soft folds and furrows of sagging skin on her face, arms and stomach.  She used to smell of vibhuti (sacred ash) and Ayurveda. There was an open window by her bedside.  Lying on her bed, one could feast on the views the window chose to offer from time to time – rain, starry nights, full moon, pitch darkness, swaying coconut palms, nameless trees in silhouettes, iridescent flowers in full bloom… Cocooned in her warmth and breathing in the myriad smells wafting off her and the window, I used to fall asleep listening to her stories. I have never heard those stories anywhere else.  Only she could have told them, the way she told them – part story, part lullaby.  They are still there, somewhere in the far edges of my memory, - rags swaying in the wind.  Like a small child stretching and jumping to catch hold of them, I try to remember those stories again and again.  But they prefer to stay out of reach.

Thirteenth Tale, as its name suggests, is a tale – a story with a proper ending (discounting the ambiguity regarding the identity of the twin sister who dies in the fire).  The gothic setting makes one nostalgic about Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, Rebecca, The woman in white …(Though, it would definitely be a little over the board to compare Diane Setterfield's style to that of Bronte or Dickens for that matter).  The plot – the incredible history of the Angelfield House - is completely engrossing. On second thoughts, I think ‘magical’ should be the right word. 

 Reading British English is a pleasure.  This one is no exception either. As Setterfield, herself said in an interview, “ This is a very very English book”.  Crisp and succinct, the language does not have any wobbly edges.  Every sentence makes a clean cut.  I had to pause for breath after reading the letter from Vida Winter, the celebrated best selling author to Lea, the reclusive antiquarian book dealer. Like Lea thought, “There is something about words.  In expert hands, manipulated deftly, they take you, prisoner. Wind themselves around your limbs like spider silk, and when you are so enthralled, you cannot move, they pierce your skin, enter your blood, numb your thoughts.  Inside you, they work their magic.”

The book is a paean to reading in more ways than one.    Love for reading; an obsession with books is scattered across the pages of the book.  Take for instance, “There are too many books in the world to read in a single lifetime; you have to draw the line somewhere”.; or “ Reading can be dangerous”; or even better, “ ….Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in ice, that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is, by the miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic”. Not to forget, this is a very quotable book.  Every few lines down, you are sure to find something to highlight, something to remember for posterity, something to re-read…

“Do you know the feeling when you start reading a new book before the membrane of the last one has had time to close behind you? You leave the previous book with ideas and themes–characters even–caught in the fibers of your clothes, and when you open the new book, they are still with you.”  I am still weaving in an out of the Angelfield House, Lea’s bookshop, the topiary, Ms. Winter’s mansion….and it seems my return is going to take a while.

THE PILLARS OF THE EARTH BY KEN FOLLETT

I think it was in his biography that R K Narayan said that during the initial years, a book lover is always obsessed with the number of books that he reads.  However, there comes a time, when the number business takes a back seat and the book per se, becomes the only thing that matters.  Well...three decades down the line, I was still pretty much obsessed with the numbers.  Every January, I will set myself a target for the number of books to read that year, usually in and around 50, and then the race begins!!  Over the years, I have had many tricks up my sleeve to ensure that I get there, by hook or crook. For instance, I go looking for breezy/light reads, compulsive page-turners, google up short books and if see myself still lagging behind, I quickly grab a few children's' books to fill up my quota.  Pathetic, isn't it?  

I myself must have felt the naivety revolting; so, this year, I said goodbye to the target setting tradition and drew up a list of books which I have always wanted to read, but never did, as I was scared of falling behind the book race.  To prove myself that I am indeed serious about my resolution, I took up one of the bulkiest of the books in the 'BBC Goodreads' list - Ken Follett's 'The Pillars of the Earth" TA...DA..!!!

         
This was my first Ken Follett book.  Set in the anarchical 12th Century England and running into 973 pages in small print, the book is enormous (by my standards, at least).  But I would not call it an EPIC. Though immensely readable, the language is commonplace.  But one would get a bird's eye view of the social, cultural and economic fabric of the times - the raging civil wars, the starving peasants, the tug-of-war between the King and the Church, the corrupt nobility, the exploitation of the masses... You would find an entire gamut of human emotions crammed in there...You name it, you have it! But overall, the story follows a very much structured line, basically revolving around the incessant fight between the good and the evil and the final triumph of good over evil, in spite of all its temporary setbacks and humiliation at the hands of evil.  Though developed well, the characters are also similarly straight jacketed - either good or bad.  There are no shades of grey.  But I wish Follett had spent more time on Valerian Bigod, the scheming Bishop.  He had all the potential to be the scintillating villain.  But one never gets to know him well... in fact, he is always narrated in the third person.  We don't get a direct glimpse into his thoughts.  Pages are devoted to the intricacies of the main protagonist - 'the CATHEDRAL'. 

The women, in spite of being highly vulnerable to physical abuse from an overbearing patriarchy, are singularly independent, highly opinionated & strong headed, exceptionally spirited and capable of speaking their minds.  Many a time, its she, who leads and corrects the male and takes the plunge, when he falters.  Unforgiving to their oppressors, they retrieve vengeance and live to tell the tale.

But the one thread that flows through the entire book is that of 'HOPE and PERSEVERANCE'.  In spite of being beaten down again and again, none of them give up hope and courage.  Every character rises like a phoenix from its ashes...

Overall, an engrossing worthwhile page-turner, though, it definitely takes a while to turn all the 900+ pages.

ALPHABET SOUP FOR LOVERS BY ANITA NAIR

Anita Nair's Alphabet Soup for lovers is a foodie's delight. 

The author weaves in and out of the culinary world effortlessly. Most of the time, she seamlessly connects the name of dish/vegetable with the story; though it does feel a little forced at times.
The Book contains many interesting anecdotes and amusing stories about food and the many ingredients that go into it.

The book gives a strong call to follow one's heart..to go with the flow...So Komathi says: " I know the Zigarthanda should start with a 'J'. But this is my alphabet book. What is right for the world may not be right for me."

While reading the book, I had this overwhelming feeling that Ms Nair, when writing the book, was in a terrible hurry to wind up the book, so that she could attend to some very important and pressing chore. Maybe she had a deadline to meet, a foreign trip to proceed to (incidentally, it was while reading the book, that I also happened to read in the Hindu, Ms Nair's writings about her life in a far-off village in a far-off country). Maybe that's the reason why she left many of the characters unexplored and chose to just skim the surface. KK, for instance...why is he what he is? Similarly, Shoolapani's overwhelming need to run away from the incessant attention stardom begets is sadly unexamined.

As usual, Ms Nair's prose reads like poetry...there is a sublime old world charm to it. 

Unfortunately, Ms Nair's quintessential skills do not save the story from being nothing more than 'Mills & Boon'-ish. Though touted as a Love Story, the connection (the tug of their souls) between KK and Lena is far from convincing. If not for the author explaining in detail the way they feel for each other, there is nothing for the reader to read between the lines. Coming from a writer of Ms Nair's stature, that was definitely a letdown.