Book Review of Home Fire

“Grief needed company, grief craved solitude; grief wanted to remember, wanted to forget; grief raged, grief whimpered."

After having spent years being a devoted elder sister to her twin siblings, Isma Pasha is finally free to live her own life. But even this freedom is tainted with anxiety about her sister Aneeka’s safety, and haunting memories of her brother Parvaiz who embarked on the dangerous path their jihadist father had followed years ago. Amidst all this, the handsome Eamonn, who’s the son of the newly appointed home secretary of the United Kingdom, enters their lives, and sends everything into a whirlpool, and thus begins a tale that explores the lengths we go to for the ones we love.

            

Longlisted for this year’s Man Booker Prize, Home Fire is a contemporary retelling of Sophocles’ Antigone. Kamila Shamsie wonderfully manages to add her own new elements to this Greek tragedy, while maintaining the core issues of the original. The characters created by the writer are immensely powerful; ones you get mad at, pray for, and sympathise with. With Isma and Aneeka, Shamsie weaves two starkly different women with such headstrong views and determination that you can’t help but admire their courage.

            

The novel is far from being devoid of flaws, but what it lacks in unity, it more than makes up for with its fluidity. The feature that sparkles the most about Home Fire is Shamsie’s effortlessly marvellous writing. It grips you from the very first page, and keeps the pace flowing. The story with its amalgamation of love, loss, betrayal, and sacrifice packs an evocative punch that’s bound to move you. Considering the political turmoil currently surrounding the world, this novel couldn’t have been released at a better time.

Rating: 4/5.

Book Review of Turtles All the Way Down

“Our hearts were broken in the same places. That’s something like love, but maybe not quite the thing itself.”

Aza Holmes is not your usual 16-year-old. She suffers from OCD, and it seems to control not just her thoughts, but her existence as a whole. When her wild best friend, Daisy, suggests that they should investigate the disappearance of the fugitive billionaire Russell Pickett in order to win the hundred-thousand-dollar reward, by getting in touch with his son, Davis, she’s apprehensive about it. But they do it anyway. And so begins their journey.

Turtles All the Way Down is a book I’d been waiting for, for five years. So, when it was announced, I was beyond exultant, and before I started reading it, I was beyond nervous. Now having finished it, I can safely say for the gazillionth time that John Green truly never disappoints. He indeed is a master of creating not just great and relatable Young Adult literature, but also extremely interesting and complex female protagonists.

We’re immediately introduced to the chaos that pervades Aza’s head, and not once does the author attempt to sugarcoat or romanticise her mental illness. Her anxiety and paranoia are presented in such a raw form that you almost feel like you’re being sucked into her spiralling thoughts; but this is done all while maintaining the wit and humour in the background.

Daisy as Aza’s extroverted best friend and Davis as her love interest are characters that add the necessary colour to her black canvas. Like always, Green never lets the age of his characters affect the bandwidth of their intellectual conversations. They discuss science, poetry, history, and give us a glimpse into the vast knowledge the author himself possesses. The story is gripping, evocative, and includes passages that make you stop and think. The dialogues are crisp, and the writing is supremely lyrical and seamless. The pace might seem a little slow at the start, but that’s a hurdle you overcome pretty quickly. In true John Green style, the open ending leaves the reader feeling both helpless and hopeful.

I closed this book with tears in my eyes, wishing to thank John Green, both for giving us a precious book after so long, and for creating Aza; a girl filled with flaws and insecurities and love. I want to give her a long, tight hug.

Rating: 4.5/5.

Basorexia

You think you know her just because you
Smeared her mascara last night?
Darling, her hips hold stories
That will tear down the walls of your
Hollow chauvinistic pride.
The lips you kissed incorrectly
Are ones she painted with the blood in her bucket
And then woke up to change the curtains.
Her purse carries dust, smoke, glitter, portals
And knives she sharpens before your morning coffee
On the same table you attempted to break
Unaware that she let the steel loose.
Don’t be fooled by her quivering eyelashes
They hold clouds darker than
The dress your hands are itching to tear off,
Storms that will nibble your tongue
And pinch your neck
All while she’s swirling her drink
With her one hand between your legs
And the other balancing her smirk.
Are you convinced that
Her moans are for you
And so are the half breaths
And fresh flowers
And old musk?
Sweetheart, she has read too much
To fall down the rabbit hole
She has doors in her backyard
To graffiti you’d never want to see.
The wooden clock will
Strike hellfire
Against your weak spider webs,
And soon you’ll be gorging
On perfect buttery toasts
As your delusions believe it’s you
Who wanted to ruffle her sheets
While she redecorates
With newer curtains,
Higher stakes,
Deeper talons,
And her smile carved in
A darker shade of red.

- Sayantani Sarkar.

Fireworks

Have you ever fallen asleep listening to music? When the song is slowly fading away into oblivion and the world stops being so noisy? That peace, is what I feel with you. Like I'm standing in front of the sea; like the sand is tickling my feet and not gulping me in. Like there aren't enough seconds or long sunsets for me to kiss you because oh my god I want to kiss you through it all; movie nights, grocery shopping, airy blanket forts, ice creams; all of it. Like there will never be too many metaphors to describe the cotton candy my tummy swallows every time you look at me, or the marbles in my throat when I have to say goodbye. Like the maps and continents could shrink and expand like the trampolines I want to jump on to reach the farthest horizons with you. Like finally being home and crashing on my favourite couch after a very, very long day. Because I've never really belonged anywhere, but the prism of your arms is exactly where I fit in. Because you've transformed my heart into a parachute plummeting and flying among snowstorms and fireflies. Because maybe, I might just be falling in love with you.

This Haven Has Horns

When my autopsy report arrives, they’ll say

I overdosed on drugs

Slit my wrists

Drowned;

But you’ll know the truth.

You’ll go back to your room,

And open the mahogany box

With the teal-blue mirror

And the coffee-stained notes

Filled with clues and cries

You were too busy to notice

While I tried to plead to you

When I was still alive.

Still alive

With my blood throbbing

In every vein with the joy

Of seeing your half smirk

By your rusty locker,

With the knots in my knees

On looking at the dried petals

Rotting on the floor,

The ones I’d left

By your cigarette case

A few thunderstorms ago.

With sheets upon sheets

On my guilt-covered bed

In the shadow-filled haven

I could no longer call home.

Then you’ll know

That demons are real

That they walk among us

Reading us fairytales,

Driving us to work,

Bringing us flowers,

Fixing our curtains;

That they have

Kind eyes,

Chipped nails,

Purple aprons;

That they don’t always wear masks,

And smell like humans.

- Sayantani Sarkar.

The Red Wolf

You have to apparate

Through her veils of apprehension,

To slash the loyal dragons

Protecting her castle.

Your high horses won't be enough

To fight her proud wolves,

Because her night lamp has seen

More ashes than your fireplace.

Your sneering horns and smug dreams

Of bounding her in a glittering cage,

Will be swallowed whole by the falcons

Petting the howls of her nightmares.

Her words claw deeper than her nails,

Her sword shines prettier than her gowns,

Her closet shelters hushed ballads,

With which she colours her warm walls.

Please understand her solitude

Isn’t a phantom you can exorcise,

Please don’t attempt to attack

The only friend she’s ever had.

Keep your glass slippers and coffin kisses,

And the pompous court and crown,

Rescue for her from the forest fire

The library at the edge of the town. 

- Sayantani Sarkar.

January 24

One day, years from now, when my daughter is old enough to have survived her first terrible encounter with Love, I’ll tell her a story. I’ll walk into her room, to a floor scattered with clothes and pearls and heartbreak. I’ll gently stroke her head, and push away the strands stuck to her salty cheeks, and look into the numbness swimming in her eyes. I’ll tell her about you. I’ll tell her that you weren’t just the guy who scored the highest grades or got selected in every team; you weren’t just the most popular or admired one. You were also polite, and kind, and empathetic. You held the door open for me; you walked slightly ahead so that the crowd wouldn’t come in my way; you took my trembling hand in yours while crossing the road. I’ll tell her that my first time wasn’t scary and rushed, and that you made sure it was magic painted in silence, and friendship dipped in passion; so that she’ll know how she deserves to be treated, because sweetheart, respect does have a face. I’ll tell her of how a gentle touch can make even the fiercest walls come crashing down in melody; of how the night was too fleeting for me to continue melting under the moonlight; of how happy you made me; of how I didn’t want it all to end. But it did, like all great things do. And I’ll tell her it’s okay. Because you know what? Some tales are so beautiful they belong in closed journals, crawling along the pages, in between the ribcages of two damaged hearts. She’ll finally understand that her first love won’t necessarily be the one she’s crazy about, but it also won’t be her last; that time will kiss and fade and heal the scars, and someday she’ll find her slow dance. As the comfort of this hope softly lulls her to a dim sleep, she might ask me to stay and reveal the ending, but I won’t. Because that adventure is only ours to remember; because that truth is just ours to share, and that promise I made is mine to keep, and I always will. In the Rubik’s Cube, in my poems, in me.