(Originally published here at The Sunday Guardian)
Phrenology, the popular 19th century pseudoscience, postulated that the size of an individual’s skull was vital for evaluating his mental faculties. A natural corollary of this central idea was that people with higher brow lines were inherently more accomplished intellectually, which led to the colloquial usage “highbrow” meaning “intellectually stimulating” or “highly cultured”. Quaint as the notion might sound, its anachronism pales in comparison to the kind of medieval chest-thumping and posturing often displayed by writers, critics and fans alike, when they find themselves on opposing sides of the highbrow/lowbrow “divide”. Into this already convoluted picture step authors like Paulo Coelho, Richard Bach, Khaled Hossaini et al whose works display a kind of cozy conformism to most genre conventions of the “tearjerker” while having occasional moments of original insight.
It is alongside thus infuriatingly “middlebrow” fiction like “The Alchemist” or “The Kite Runner” that Pavan K. Varma’s novel “When Loss Is Gain” finds a place. The first novel by the noted Indian diplomat and writer, it tells the story of Anand, a Delhi lawyer too busy burning the candle at both ends to notice that his personal and professional lives are falling apart. When Anand has a false cancer alarm (one can only guess whether this is the author’s little tip of the hat to Hrishikesh Mukherjee’s “Anand” where Rajesh Khanna memorably played a terminal cancer patient), he quits his job, his marriage and his old routines and tries to focus on the little things he missed out on earlier. Seeking to sort out the questions inside his head, our protagonist ends up at Wangsisina, a small village in Bhutan, amidst dazzling cliffs and streams all around him.
“I would wake up in the mornings and sit out gazing at the giant cliffs, or walk into the orchard and marvel at the branches of apple trees so laden with blossoms that not a leaf could be seen. The cliffs had a particularly haunting quality to them, always massive and brooding, but changing colours at different times of the day. At dawn they were grey, untouched by the sun rising behind; at noon they shone like gold; at dusk they glowed ochre, their shadows trying to hold on to the parting sun; and at night they were black, an unseen but looming presence somewhere beyond the river.”
The author, who is the current Indian ambassador to Bhutan, manages to string together several passages like these, paying tribute to the mountain kingdom and the natural bounties it has to offer (The Queen of Bhutan herself was present earlier this month for the book launch) . Varma’s love for the place comes across in these passionate descriptions of all things Bhutanese, and they briefly give the novel a shot in the arm. However, weak characterization and holier-than-thou, all too predictable, flowery spiritual hokum let down what could have been a genuinely moving story, despite being very much on the beaten track. Once again, the novel’s “middlebrow” tendencies take centre stage: the sheer convenience of the plot twists is often tough to digest. Anand just happens to bump into Bhutan’s ambassador in New Delhi, who very helpfully reminds Anand that Indians don’t need a visa to travel to Bhutan.
We are never really convinced about the protagonist’s true motivations from the outset. The middle-class bastion of Anand’s existence is breached a little too easily, he swings from renunciation to existentialism back to making puppy eyes at a nun-in-the-making effortlessly. From being a somewhat taciturn, morose fellow, he begins spouting Ghalib (The author has written a biography of Ghalib in the past, in addition to translating other Urdu works into English), Bulleh Shah and Nida Fazli at the drop of a hat. Just when you think Anand has settled down into a nice rhythm of gazing at the mountains and looking for answers to Life, The Universe and Everything Else, he has to fall for Tara, an Indian girl, similarly traumatized by her past, similarly looking to bury her old life forever. And all because Anand is reminded by Chimi, his host in Bhutan, that “You are not a monk and this is not a monastery.”
“When Loss Is Gain” also furthers another favourite stereotype of the “spiritual” middlebrow story: The Enigmatic Monk. The Paulo Coelhos and the Robin Sharmas of the world must surely smile at Varma’s monk Karma, a hard-drinking, swirling, singing ascetic who urges people to “Pirouette on the precipice!” because “There’s no point prancing about like virgins in the bordello of life”. The rather formulaic character of Karma, and its implications for the novel bring to mind the term “Magical Negro”, a phrase coined by director Spike Lee to describe the stock African-American supporting character frequently found in mainstream commercial Hollywood; someone who helps the (white) hero using his “special powers” or “insight”.
Given a little suspension of disbelief, the accessibility of Varma’s writing and the generally fast pace of the plot, the novel does make for a passable read while traveling. However, at the end of the 200 odd pages, one cannot help but get the feeling that the author was far better off writing a journalistic account of his travels in Bhutan, rather than going to all the trouble of procuring a confused protagonist, a preachy, moralizing plot straight out of 70s Bollywood, and of course, an Enigmatic Monk.
