The Book Thief: A Review

What can I say about a book, where Death is the narrator? 

That it is funny and morbid in parts. 

This isn’t an objective review, I’m afraid.

 I stayed up all night, reading this book and at some point in the twilight hour, I fell in love.

To paraphrase, Markus Zusak (author) slightly.

The only thing worse than a book you hate: Is a book you fall in love with.

The Book Thief, has been around for a long time now. For too long and too many like me, could be oblivious to it.

Set in Nazi Germany, The Book Thief, recounts the story of a young girl (Leisel ) and her world. A world at the same time divorced and anchored in the most gruesome acts of the 20th century. 

That’s the thing about the Holocaust, or any war horror- you can write about it so, that the reader’s heart is ripped out and is disoriented for days. And why ever not, many would argue. I am all for telling stories, of keeping the memory of the heinous alive. Maybe to remind all of us, never to turn that corner again.

 It’s easy and tempting to recount the details of the violence in a violent way. However, it takes a very special author, to do it gently and gracefully; without performing any disservice to the memories of those who endured it.

In Zusak’s world, you meet a motley crew of characters. They live in a microcosm of horror, equally untouched and manipulated by events around them. The strength of the story are the smaller stories, how Tommy's ear infection caused Rudy to win the medals. Why didn't Rudy want all of them? Suddenly, these seem like urgent questions in Molching, a town so close to the epicenter of Nazi Germany. There’s Papa, Max (the Jew who wants to beat Hitler in a boxing match), Rudy,  the swearing foster mother, Rosa. There’s Ilsa Hermann, the woman who never got over her son’s death. 

And then, there’s Death. A narrative device, used both beautifully and hauntingly.

 Death is marked by its melancholic, yet shrug-of-shoulder narration of events. 

" For the book thief, everything was going nicely.

For me, the sky was the colour of Jews"

This brings me back to my point, on fiction around the Holocaust-- it’s so easy and sometimes necessary to rip the readers heart out. 

This book will walk inside your body. 

Saunter, if you may.

Sit inside you, in lotus position, holding your heart in its hands. With every turn of the page, you will feel a squeeze there, a tug here. And all you will fervently whisper is, please don't break my heart. Please don't.

Perhaps, Zusak’s foreplay with words and easy amble around irony, classifies this as “young adult fiction”. However, there are vibrant analogies, crippled characters and a backdrop of one of the worst hate crimes committed. This is important reading for the young and adult alike. 

“I have hated words and I have loved them, and I hope I have made them right.” 

You did good, Markus. You did good.

To Meera, Somebody gonna get a hurt real bad !

An open angry letter, to Meera from Cocktail.



This is a spoiler, but so is Meera (you get the drift!)

Yo Meers,

I would have written last week, but I was too busy being hurt on account of Deepika. So, I refrained. But the high road and making nice is not where I’m at.

As a result, this is my vicious, open letter to you on the internet.

You suck !!

*Dammitt* I promised myself, I would lead with a logical argument.

The thing is, Meera, every story starts at the beginning. You were once the blubbering girl, in the loo of a wasted diner. You were also chilling on the curb of Heathrow’s smallest exit. You were also, homeless, friendless and clearly without any survival skills. Basically hon, you were dead meat.

Let’s ignore the, ‘what was she thinking’, when D took you in. She clearly believed, that despite her parents being AWOL, most other people were decent and deserved decency back. You set her straight there, didn’t you ?

Other than the odd dusting around the house, which ANY room mate with a sense of responsibility will do, salwar kameez notwithstanding, you didn’t really contribute much. D, on the other hand, publically humiliated a guy who was a jerk to you. You said he was a jerk. She believed you, and demonstrated what standing up to someone looked like.

You continued to purr and hiss at her new boyfriend. A guy, you claimed to hate and despise, and D who you claimed was your sister. Don’t worry, your feelings were nouveau schizophrenic, we get that ! Anyway, said jerk, says THREE nice things to you on a beach, when his REAL girlfriend is wasting Cape Town sunsets indoors. You promptly make big, Bambi, love eyes at him. Wearing your risqué-st playsuit, you decide to dance with abandon to what should really be D’s song !

Main hun hi nahi iss duniya ki ?!? REALLY !

(Aside-  This constant eye rolling is getting in the way of furiously pounding the keyboard !)

Like, the real hero of this movie, D decides to leave her toy boy with you. Faith, love, goodness implicit. Of course, when the cat is away, Meera will play.
Please don’t even try to innocent, small town yourself, that the beach dance wasn’t intimate. But, that’s what you did.  And when you finally kissed, you did the “oh, no, what just happened, this kiss completely blindsided me.”

I think the Kiss was the real climax of the story.

I waited for you, Meera, to recoil, in horror, disgust, shock and repeat “how could I do this?!”.
 Or, fling yourself off the scenic cliff for being the WORST FRIEND EVER.
Seriously, that would be an ok storyline for me too.
You, of course, discussed logistics with Gautam and seeing obvious operational problems like “aaj tum uske room mein sote ho, kal mere room mein aa jaogey”, you decided it was a no go.

You promptly return to your happy London pad, and resume dusting. Since, scriptures do say, “Clean dust and thy cheating ass shall be forgiven”.

Again, the key point was not that Meera and Gautam kissed. Fine, I’m from the 21st century and aware of the “shit happens” code. But, it would be truly lovely if you could man up and TELL YOUR FRIEND. When Gautam tries to do the honest thing, of at least telling the poor girl, you go all,  “oh no, stop! Please don’t *whimper whimper*”


The story is long, and I am out of patience to recount your scummy ways. But, here is where I disagree. While the on-going debate on morality and sluts vs good girls is fine for Cocktail.

The real debate should be

Why did the bad scummy friend get away with it, in the end?
OR
Meera- stop cleaning book shelves and clean your moral code!

I expected, elaborate diatribes on the terrible friend Meera was!

So, dear Meera, repeat after me,

No matter how hot, I think my roommate and best friend’s , almost middle aged, semi balding boy toy is. I will not go after him. If I do, I will tell her. I will not be a passive-aggressive person, currently competing for Most Ungrateful Person Ever.

Sincerely,
Me.

Ishaqzaade - A Sociolgical comment on idiocy!

Ishaqzaade -I want my movie money back !

Two things will happen if you read any further:

1. Spoiler alert. I have no intention of hiding the lack of brilliance, which was the movie script.
2. You will realize that it is in fact possible to time travel. Habib Faisal (esteemed director of said movie) will take you on a beautiful regressive journey set in the picturesque town of Almora.

The movie revolves around a simple middle class town where electoral politics are de rigeur.
 Parma (local beefcake, strutting around with revolver and a toothy smile) is the Hindu grandson of Surya Chauhan. Zoya, waistcoat strutting (two marks to the stylist here for some authentic styling), MLA-wannabe, daughter of the Muslim political candidate.

Parma and Zoya hate and mouth off choicest abuses, to one another. One sunny afternoon, Zoya slaps Parma. Parma in turn holds a gun to her forehead and plays a game of blink. Zoya wins and Parma proclaims his undying love for her by accosting her, in a dilapidated government college, ladies loo. Undeterred, by his ability to scale water pipes and identify unknown exits out of the ladies loo, Zoya promptly falls for her Stalker Man Charming and becomes “pareshaan” (Side Note- Decent song)

Of course, the above abusive relationship is solidified, by Zoya giving up her womanhood as a gift. This, only when Parma marries her, in a shady garage attested by  his two charming friends.

Parma, reveals that he has now “ruined” Zoya and thus avenged, the one slap a year ago. Cue evil laughter and cocky strut as Zoya crumples into a “ruined” heap.

After a lot of bad editing and useless gun shots in the air, Zoya finds herself at Parma’s house. Her lost virginity, costs her Pop the elections. Of course, the reason being “the guy who couldn’t control his daughter, cannot control our town”. Control, being key here. Slow clap for this reference to democracy !

Parma’s mom meanwhile finds Zoy-crouching tiger hidden dragon on the terrace- trying to take the apple of her eye (5-time-graduate-fail) son’s life. Being a woman of reason, intellect and evolved morals, she quickly drags Zoya in, ties her up and proceeds to beat Parma.
Zoya now must, make good this deal and stay with Parma (Yes, Parma- he of the chivalrous, ‘let’s do it in an abandoned train’ move). Zoya must now live, with Parma. Because, without, she will be killed. You see, she is a maligned, dirty woman. Not only has she had sex, she has also married a Hindu.

 To prove her point and save their love, Mumma Parma takes a bullet and makes a hasty exit from this Magnum Dopus.

Once Mumma P has gone, it suddenly hits Parma. “Shite! I kinda messed up here- I will now say sorry and fix this”. Scoring one point for character turnaround, Parma takes Zoya to his favourite bar girls’ home for shelter. The bar girl is told that she must not touch Parma anymore. Zoya will hit him and Zoya will clean his wounds. It was like the Stockholm syndrome met an abusive relationship and had a baby called – THIS MOVIE.

Zoya truly falls in love with Parma, the day he stops her from dancing for fun with those “bar girls”. “Oh, thank you Darling, you controlling me and wanting to kill for me, is what makes us ISHAQZAADES.” The now happy twosome, decide to flee Almora, but not before meeting and pleading for Zoya’s dads forgiveness.

On the happy occasion of Mother’s day (when I saw this), we saw Zoya’s mum pleading with her dad to not shoot, at his only daughter. We’re not sure what he is mad at, a) that she was “used” by a Hindu, or b) that she decided to fall in love and marry him or c) because she cost him his seat ? Nevertheless, Daddy goes chitty chitty bang bang, on both their asses.

Eventually, the two political honchos form a coalition (no reference, to National politics here). The joint statement issued is- Lets kill ‘em fools, they will cost us some much needed religious fanatic votes. 

Meanwhile, the two lovers are running around the building saying stellar things like “ Hey, bruv! Let’s not have kids, they will also be hunted and killed like us. This is all so pointless”
Faisal, drove this shipwreck home by Zoya’s brain wave- “Darling, let us kill each other. I must admit, since I have no self respect and decided to fall for you post abuse, your arms are where I belong.” Parma- “nooo.. err.. noo”. They go on and shoot each other, three times, in the stomach.

Because, really, that’s how it’s done.

He spoke about Endings.

“When you're young - when I was young - you want your emotions to be like the ones you read about in books. You want them to overturn your life, create and define a new reality.”- Julian Barnes, The Sense of an Ending.

I hate it when I fall in love with a new book.

First, there is the regret of not having read it earlier. Of wishing, you were the first to read it and recognising the pure genius it was. Then, there is the anger that other people are reading it and loving it, or worse still not getting it. Then, the despair and wondering why you hadn’t thought of all those things the author said. When you read them, they’re quite plain to see. Your very own-  Wednesday d’oh moment.

Julian Barnes’s, Sense of an Ending, is a beautiful novella. Spun with little insightful sentences of pure magic- the book takes you on a ride of nostalgia, memory and regret. This makes me want to talk of regret and memory.

I always thought regret was a short- lived human emotion. Almost, like an indulgence. I regret x/y/z thereby, claiming that I know I could’ve/should’ve done better and next time --I really will. Don’t get me wrong, I love the Pollyanna intention behind regret- but I question its effectiveness. On most of us.We all hold close to us, things we regret and wish to redo.

Does this give us a different perspective in Round Two?

Do we really draw from the earlier regretful experience and phoenix-like respond to new situations? Or do the bits of us, even the regretful bits, mark and smudge every experience? Sure, post-Regret, we camouflage the bits better, but aren’t they always there?

Mr. Barnes and his wonderful characters talk so much about memory.

Memory, is one of my favourite psychological tools. 

All literature, poetry and art comes out of memory. But like all literature, poetry and art- memory is b****y convenient. As we go along, we change slightly the contours of what actually happened to what we thought was happening.

 It is easier and much kinder, that way.  The shock of realizing that you lived your life, formed your dreams, your regrets and plans based on a version of reality, would be too much to bear for the best of us.

What intrigues me is the point when the contouring starts.

Everything starts from a Moment.

As the Moment is unfolding-- we have already accorded intent, anticipated the outcome and judged ourselves silly. Of course, there is retrospective insight which we attribute to the Moment. The sum total of the aforementioned is what makes our precious memory. It is a beautiful amalgamation of all that we love and fear most- quite the devil spawn.

I could go on, but like Mr. Barnes said- “.. cockteasing is also a metaphor: she is someone who will manipulate your inner self while holding hers back from you.”