Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami

Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami. What an experience it has been! My first Murakami and I’ve never read anything quite like it. The storyline twines itself around a 15-year old boy, an adorable old man and his equally adorable companion and an enigmatic lady. All of them are in the process of letting go of something and gaining something else in the process. Now, would I classify the book as fantasy, philosophy or something else? I would not get there. There’s no point trying to jam something as fluid as this within the confined spaces of genre. This book, like I said at the beginning, is an experience. I do not venture out to 'review' this book because that would be doing it injustice. I will only share what it did to me. The beginning was like sitting on a flight, venturing on a holiday to a foreign country for the first time. There are mixed feelings of fear and excitement. As I go deeper into the book, I get into a dreamlike state—a feeling of being led by the hand while sleepwalking. I feel the dream makes sense only to me. It might sound vague and meaningless if I relate it to someone. I see beautiful things, feel beautiful thoughts about belonging, memories, metaphors, books and music. I chuckle at the sweet, innocent moments (Nakata’s“Liter ady” and his understanding of idioms). I cringe at the violence and underage sex but thankfully, it is just a dream and I know these events will end soon. Once again there are gentle emotions that envelope me with warmth. At a point, I know the dream is ending, I don’t want it to. It gets exciting. I don’t exaggerate when I say I feel my hands trembling at the turn of each page. I read some parts twice. I don’t want to miss anything. I hear myself saying aloud, “Oh no…” “Kafka, just go.” “Hoshino, please do something.” “Oh damn, it’s him!” And then, it was all over and I wake up with a sigh, unable to think of anything else for the next few hours. I then thought of the author himself. How fatigued, yet exhilarated he must have felt to give shape to all those thoughts and ideas. I must have been something like childbirth itself. Perhaps all authors go through their own struggles, but I felt it for the first time. It takes a lot of strength, courage and brilliance to be able to put abstract thoughts in words.

Interpreting a beautiful dream is as important as the dream itself. So, I think a large part of the credit must go to the translator for putting words into a wonderful order, without disturbing the original pattern. Just like it happens in the book, someday, I’d like to discuss this book with someone—the hidden meanings, the references, the parts that I didn’t quite grasp, parts that made me feel I’m “…not very bright, dumb”. And mull over “the accident” and “the murder”. Thinking about it, how nice it would be to come across people, including strangers willing to discuss films, music, books and even philosophy with us. Now, that would be a dream-come-true for me.

A few passages from the book that I loved:
About first impressions: “…a shadowy smile playing on her lips whose sense of completeness is indescribable. It reminds me of a small, sunny spot, the special patch of sunlight you find only in some remote, secluded place.”

About books: “When I open them, most of the books have the smell of an earlier time leaking out between the pages - a special odour of the knowledge and emotions that for ages have been calmly resting between the covers.”

About parental pressure: “When they're treated like that, children start to crawl inside a shell and keep everything inside. It takes a lot of time and effort to get them to open up again. Kids' hearts are malleable, but once they gel it's hard to get them back the way they were.”

About anger: “Are anger and fear just two aspects of the same spirit?”

About the unsaid: “Putting (the answer) in words will destroy any meaning.”

About memories: “If you remember me, then I don’t care if everybody forgets.”

“Lost opportunities, lost possibilities, feelings we can never get back. That's part of what it means to be alive. But inside our heads - at least that's where I imagine it - there's a little room where we store those memories. A room like the stacks in this library. And to understand the workings of our own heart we have to keep on making new reference cards. We have to dust things off every once in a while, let in fresh air, change the water in the flower vases. In other words, you'll live forever in your own private library.”

The book is full of such gems and I couldn't make note of all of them. But I don’t worry because I know I am going to revisit it one day.

A Missed Chance

Today, I am filled with shame and anger at myself. For having missed a chance to do my bit as a citizen of the country. I have lost my chance to vote, thereby losing my chance to sit and complain or even expect anything from the State.

For reasons best known only to the hubby and me, we have never lived in the same residence or locality for more than two years at a stretch. The thought of getting documents updated every time was daunting. It is my fault that I shuddered at the countless pillars and posts I had to run to and from. It is my fault that I wasn’t bold enough to face the indifference of the officers in the civil supplies office, the passport office, the transport office,  who I knew by several bitter experiences didn’t  care if I’d taken a day off from work or if I’d even resigned my job to effect a change of address in my records.

I say, fear. You could call it laziness or even indifference.

It was my fault that I didn’t keep myself well-informed about procedures. What does one do if one doesn’t have any of the ‘accepted’ address proofs? My bank in which I have a salary account did not insist on an address proof. Suited me fine, because I didn’t have one. Gas receipts suddenly found their way out of the accepted list of address proofs. And so I lost the only proof of my existence that I was flaunting everywhere. A passport is a valid address proof. But how can I change the address in there? Show them the ration card but that has the old address too. Get it updated. Show them the address proof. What proof? Rental agreement. Telephone bill. Sorry boss, not on my name. Ever heard of vicious cycles? So I sulk my way back to my state of non-existence, wondering how if me, a working, independent woman has so much problem in proving her place of residence, then how would the average stay-at-home wife prove her place of residence. Heaven forbid if any of these two women dared to break free from their marital homes. The never-ending bureaucratic queue sounds more frightful than social stigma!

March 2016. Having lived incognito for more than 4 years, I realised I must do something about it. Assembly elections were looming large. I was more anxious than the contestants themselves. I wanted to vote. Even my 8-yr old daughter had an Aadhar Card (issued by the school) but I didn’t have one. I was on annual leave. Unable to bear my whining and whimpering anymore, the spouse took me to a place where the Aadhar Card registration was being done. We went armed with rental agreement, telephone bill and the by-now famous gas receipts. I was even ready to argue that I was indeed the lawfully wedded wife of the address-proof holder. To our surprise, there was no queue. The process was a breeze. It only took as much time for me to blink in the photograph. The process was done. Guess what, they didn’t ask us for the address proof. I was thrilled. I knew I could finally apply for a Voter ID and actually vote. “Optimistic Ignoramus!” sniggered the Universe.

April 10. I get the online Aadhar Card but not the physical card. I tried to apply for the Voter ID with it. But don’t we love anti-climaxes? What does the online Voter ID form ask me for? Yes, my address proof! April 20. The online registration for Voter ID closes.

May 13. Hurrah! My Aadhar Card arrives by post finally. Too late my dear!
May 16. The day of the Elections.  My participation in the democratic process— a few speeches to my dad, envious laments to the spouse showing off his black mark, silently nursing the loss of a photo op (rather a selfie-op) and a huge rant on this blog page. Sigh!

And I know I can’t find a hair-breadth’s fault with the new government because I haven’t participated. I guess I have to chuck my conscience and pair up with my brethren, who in spite of holding every valid card/proof, decided to go away for the long election weekend to posh destinations. Together, we will blame the new government for bad roads, rising prices, pollution, water problem, garbage, too much rains, too little rains, Aniruddh’s bad music, Kohli’s break-up...An exciting five years ahead!