The Complete Works of Saki (H.H. Munro) - Short Stories

Saki is a remarkable satirist of British high society from the pre-World War I era. I have been laughing out loud at his accounts of characters and situations that can only emerge from a master story-teller's pen. There is hardly any comparison possible with P.G. Wodehouse who is a much gentler wit. Saki can draw blood with his humor. He made me feel attacked (a century after he first wrote these lines!) with these words "When [Sophie] inveighed eloquently against the evils of capitalism at drawing-room meetings and Fabian conferences she was conscious of a comfortable feeling that the system, with all its inequalities and iniquities, would probably last her time." (from the story titled 'The Byzantine Omelette'). As Noel Coward writes in his introduction, his style likely works only in the rigid social hierarchies of pre-WW England. The word 'aristocracy' does not quite trip off the tongue while discussing Saki's object because they are so richly satirized that they appear quite comic. Empire repeatedly features as a living, pulsing entity that the nobility feeds off and feels a proprietary pride over. The uncanny and horrifying likewise are a recurring character, like a reptile  creeping through a lush surfeit of delicious fruit, like the sharp edge of a bejewelled rapier. All that being said (and I am only midway through the short stories), he is incredibly, laugh-out-loud funny and is easily the most irreverently entertaining British wit I have encountered.

James Herriot: If Only They Could Talk, It Shouldn't Happen to a Vet, Let Sleeping Vets Lie, Vets in Harness, Vets Might Fly

As I return to my childhood bookshelf after many wanderings abroad, I am struck by how well these books have weathered my changes. Much of my childhood reading now feels trite, cliche-ridden, or downright boring. These books, by contrast, are now wildly funny. When I first read these in my teens, I cringed through all the veterinary-protagonist's awkward moments, felt more embarrassed than amused by his stories of learning to be a vet in rural England. Now I can laugh and even feel a strange kinship with this city man falling in love with rural farming England. Stories of birthing cows, injecting sows, and operating upon dogs are told with a light touch, never slipping into too much gory detail and never losing a sense of humour about his predicaments. The beauty of the Yorkshire landscape he inhabits is a supporting character throughout the narrative, never more vivid than when he tells the story of his enlisting in the war effort but remaining nostalgic for his beautiful home and wife. This is light reading, gentle on the spirit. It doesn't ask for much from the reader except some compassion and, perhaps, many giggles. The one thing that grates on my new eyes(I am reading this after postcolonial theory after all) is the presence of empire - the ease with which characters leave for Burma, Canada, and Madagascar is a bit disconcerting. India features briefly as a cuisine that he looks forward to but does not get to taste. All of which leaves me wondering how this gentle, relatable storyteller would relate to his postcolonial readers.

Midnight's Children by Salman Rushdie

This tattered book once lay on my parent's bookshelf, respectably clothed and almost new. The year was 1995. I was in Class Eight. The bookworm of the family. Who will try to read anything. Anything.

All the erotic fiction in the house mysteriously vanished when my mother caught me with a Mills and Boon in Class Six. Midnight's Children was obviously fair game for my marauding reading eye.

I struggled through two chapters. Nothing made any sense. I struggled through two more. My grandmother had to get her eye check up and I carried the book with me. I wanted to appear important and intelligent in the waiting room. I struggled through one more paragraph in the waiting room. "You are reading such big books!" said the nurse in the waiting room, with approval. The purpose of the book had been served. It had impressed someone. I put it away.

I picked it up again when I was doing my bachelors' in English literature. I couldn't put it down. My understanding of Indian history is haunted by this book. My understanding of self and wanderlust and humanity is shaped by a passage from this book - I copied it down carefully in my little book of quotes. "We name distant stars like they are our pets....and this is the species that kids itself that it likes to stay home!" or something to that effect, Rushdie says.

Rushdie was my first encounter with magical realism. Even the later encounter with Garcia Marquez did not dull the exquisite wonder of Midnight's Children.

In another city now, I still carry the book with me. I've re-read it only once since. My parents don't miss it. It has left an indelible impression on me. Tattered, falling apart, I lug it around with me - to the places I studied in, to the city I work in. If I had to give it away, I would give it to my favourite second-hand bookseller on Mount Road in Chennai. Maybe it will impress someone else, somewhere in this city I call home. "Imagine," they will say, "a book once cost only Rs. 30." I hope they will be impressed by its magical content too.

An entry for the 'My oldest book and its memories' contest


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