I'm both dazzled and disturbed by this short story collection, Blue is like Blue, by Vinod Kumar Shukla.
We get to know the heroes of the stories through not big choices or conflicts but small ones. Should the man go back and check if he has locked his room? Why is this leaf in his pocket? Should another man rifle through his friend's cupboards if left alone in the room? Why is this stranger carrying so much curd?
If this sounds like a lens turned on realistic, material life, you're in for a surprise. In Vinod Kumar Shukla's world, buses take off in air. People stand on oil drums when their old shoes pinch. Towns exchange houses; houses swap verandahs.
In between all of this are tucked away small revelations that sound incredibly familiar. Like something from your life. For example, a sudden, irrational dislike of the person sitting opposite you. An urge to cry on the street. Or wonder if you have a blue shirt. Or speak lies that serve no reason, white or otherwise.
The writer is a minimalist in some senses. I don't know if it was a translation choice or a simulation of the original Hindi, but the choppy sentences made it really tiring to read.
In other senses, the writer is a maximalist. No stray thought goes unrecorded here in these pages. Pieces of information are hung in the middle of a story for no reason. Lines come at you from every direction until you are turned around, completely lost in a paragraph. If you can call it that.
Sometimes the plot meanders like a river and each tributary is explored. Sometimes a dark cloth is abruptly dropped over the reader's head.
As I read this book, I wondered about the editor who let this author break so many rules. Is this even allowed? What if Vinod Kumar Shukla was someone else? Some nobody in a writers' workshop kind of milieu? I can imagine peers and instructors lecturing him about, say, the shape of a story, or character development. Maybe, in these times, he might have heard the "own voices" argument, or been made aware of the odd lack of women in the foreground.
And then I think, maybe it's good he was free to write like he wrote?
I didn't know what to think as I finished the book. Everything seemed a bit random and unsatisfying, and I felt something I can only describe as sadness.
I was in an airport bus around about that time. As I looked around, I began to notice things, notice people. I peered at a woman's carpet bag and tried to read the brand name. I wondered why the mother was travelling with a backpacker son. I smiled for no reason at a young girl across the aisle.
I think, and I say this without exaggeration, that I began to see stories. Stories that he may have written.
And instantly I knew I would be terrified to write them like him.
Is this really a review? A recommendation? If I were to attempt something in Shukla's style, here's what I would say: This book is not like a book. When you step inside it, you might find it too bright.