I first interviewed Jeet Thayil at the Jaipur Literature Festival a few years ago, when it was smaller and not quite as manic. And then we did a more in-depth interview for a show 'Out of the Box' that aired on CNN-IBN - we shot with him in Delhi, at the launch of his book of poetry 'These Errors are Correct', at his hotel, at his friend Gauri Gill the photographer's exhibition - he's quite patient, at that. There's no doubt that Thayil's made his name as a poet and musician.
Last year at the Jaipur Lit Fest (all roads lead to JLF! And as an aside, you'll hear more about our programming as D-day comes closer), Thayil gave audiences a taste of his first novel, 'Narcopolis'. The excerpt was funny, with the swearing and insulting of almost all Indian ethnic groups, all read in this lilting, musical sort of bass tone.
First, the dictionary definition of narcopolis: A cemetery, esp. a large one belonging to an ancient city.
Sounds like he hit the nail on the head - the title totally matches the book. So far, I've only been able to describe 'Narcopolis' as deeply sad, and "a mood that lingers". I'll have to try better than that. But to give you sense of what I'm talking about, part of the first line.
"Bombay, which obliterated its own history by changing its name and surgically altering its face, is the hero or heroin of this story, and since I'm the one who's telling it and you don't know who I am, let me say that we'll get to the who of it but not right now…"
It's a fascinatingly long sentence, and right off the bat, you get the voyeur's kick of watching drug addicts indulge themselves. You get a sense of the wonder and awe with which they go about the ritual of smoking opium.
This book has to do with "blue smoke", opium, drug dens, heroin and above all Bombay, Bombay floating in what the narrator might call "vampire dust"… Distorted souls, pimps and whores, "regular" guys harbouring thoughts of uber-violence and then the results of that violence, race consciousness, religious intolerance, the riots, aging and inadequacy and death. It's almost paralyzing to watch things fall apart, as they must.
What's disturbing is the love that pours out for the art of smoking opium. Love and awe and wonder. And as a reader you can't help but wonder how many lives have been wrecked in the process, because this is more than a post-card, it's an oil painting of a tribute, in a way.
Dimple is the heart and soul of this, and hers is a heart-breaking tale in many ways. This eunuch who seems to have broken several hearts in the process of her trade isn't someone you can pity, far from it, she's hard as nails, but slowly wastes away, right in front of you.
Mr Lee is an interesting character and through him Thayil reveals his knowledge of China, distorted family dynamics, class dissidence and losing a homeland.
Thayil gives you the best seat in the house to watch the world get stoned and see life slip away, but it's not for the faint of heart.
You see the end of a cycle -- the opium dens have to make way for seedier dens in a way, the business gets dirtier, and all of Bombay, and the characters of Narcopolis have to make way, as the era changes.
It's a disturbing read, and an intense one, but maybe I can't improve on my original reaction, after all, "a mood that lingers".
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