It is 3:00 am in the morning. The sky is violet with light traces of dawn, a slightly cloudy overbearing and the incessant heat of the summer keeps me awake as I finally mutter the last few words of the book, “Khazin-e-Firdaus, the Keeper of Paradise”. Taking a deep breath, I realised how ‘The Book of Everlasting Things’ had kept me captive within the folds and creases of its pages, that I was perhaps living in two worlds, first was my present and the other was within Lahore and France, cruising my way through Shahalami Gate, Wazir Khan Mosque, Anarkali Bazaar, Paris, and Grasse. I descended into the perfumistic ittars of Samir Vij and the illuminated nashtaliqs of Firdaus Khan like Alice through the rabbit hole. Bordering around the themes of Partition and World War I, ‘The Book of Everlasting Things’ intertwines the story of Samir and Firdaus, spanning for almost a century, beyond religion and time, separated by Partition, yet everlasting in each other’s memories, till the end.
“Can you imagine a heart, a single beating heart?
Well, divide the heart into two pieces. That is how it happened.
With a single incision, Hindustan became India and Pakistan.”
This novel, through its themes of separation and belonging weaves a powerful story spanning across generations through the medium of perfume and calligraphy which is the first of its kind that I have ever read in South Asian literature. Having read Aanchal’s earlier works, I was not surprised by the intricacy that went into the research behind this book, but I was certainly amused by the breadth of the knowledge incorporated into this fictional tale that it felt as if each character truly exists in some part of this realistic cosmos. As a grandchild of Partition, having inherited the heaviness of such a traumatic and magnanimous event, the grief and loss resonated the most with me. Aanchal with her lyric acuity brings life to each character finally building a generational bridge between the survivors and the inheritors of Partition.
Through her empathetic storytelling, Aanchal brews the stories of lost cities, where the main ingredient remains smell. The olfactory sense within the common man is quite under-appreciated, so when a story like this uses heavily-researched material to embrace the lives of each character, you begin experiencing smells merely by reading, and that is an extraordinary feat by the writer.
Yet, what enchanted me the most was the exploration of emotions and lives through mere perfumery. How does one enclose belonging within a vial? How does one dissociate from their roots? Can’t the past and present beautifully intermingle? Can I inherit memories and recreate them in liquid? Samir exactly tries to explore these various human emotions throughout his entire life engaging in love, loss, redemption, and belonging. While most of the memories are associated with his Firdaus, she fights a different battle within the changing demography of Lahore through duty over desire and ultimately succumbing to her only love, Samir. Both the characters, so human and delicate in nature, bring forward a certain realism, with their own virtues and vices, that it sometimes seemed I was a private spectator of their moments, supposedly reserved for the lovers.
Paired with these emotions, comes another aspect of the novel, which is its inspiration from the Great War or World War I. Indians, quite rarely known for their participation in the war, forms the basis of the story for both Vivek Vij and his nephew Samir Vij, in terms of inherited trauma of the war. Finding solace within perfumery, Vivek becomes the guiding light for Samir, whilst opening up a haunting past, to which Samir succumbs, devastating his curated present.
Therefore, amongst various aspects of this novel, I personally found myself in Anouk Adams and Samir Khan, each an inheritor of one part of Partition. Their shock, silence, questions, emotions of betrayal… I resonated with every part of them, finding a haunting similarity between their relationship with their respective grandparents and my life. Perhaps, there is always some truth to every fiction. The sense of finding refuge in a land for whom you are as good as a tourist, is painful especially when you share the same language, culture and ethnicity, yet find yourself searching for the vital element of identity through the fearful question of "Whom Am I?"
To be honest, I cannot encapsulate this beauty of a book within a few words, but I would like to say that this book will always induce a fresh set of tears, each time I re-read it, and I will fall in love with it again and again. An everlasting love so powerful, beyond lines and religion is terrifying, but worth every fight.
"Tumhari yaad ki kashti iss dil ki darya mein doob gayi hai."