Review

Chronicle Of A Life Well Lived: A review of Yasmeen Premji’s Days of Gold and Sepia

This review appeared in The Asian Age on August 29

Days of Gold and Sepia: A Novel
By Yasmeen Premji
HarperCollins
pp. 419, Rs 399
“No man’s life can be fully known or his tale entirely told,” argues the narrator of Yasmeen Premji’s (Wipro chairman Azim Premji’s wife) enchantingly evocative debut novel, Days of Gold & Sepia, “for a man’s secrets pass on with him”. “A man’s life may be pieced together from the places he lived in and the people he knew… most importantly, from the memories he leaves behind in the hearts and minds of those whose lives he has touched,” the narrator ruminates. 

This strand of thought colours Days of Gold & Sepia in good measure, so much so that the novel becomes an act of piecing together a man’s life, a life less ordinary, from the places he lived in and the people he knew. And, most importantly, from the memories he left behind in the hearts and minds of those whose lives he had touched.

Days of Gold & Sepia, then, is a rite of remembrance, a romp down nostalgia lane. It’s a story of vaulting ambition in the face of immeasurable adversity and the pangs of early adolescent love that’s doomed but remains lodged in the lovers’ hearts forever, like a lifelong ache. A novel about life and love and the many ways they intersect — life with its share of hardships, love with its quota of heartache — it also trails the forgotten glory and faded grace of “a life richly lived”. Essentially, however, it’s a tale of the inexorable cycle of change, both essential and inevitable; abject penury is followed by prosperity which gives way to poverty again, love leaves in its wake a trail of loss but fulfilment looms just around the corner.

In the novel’s world (just as it happens in the real world), everything — lives, achievements, fame, fortune — eventually end, but memory resurrects them, hearts relive them. “Our stories don’t die with us. They pass down from generation to generation, and even when we think they have been forgotten, somewhere in the universe they resonate, resurrecting at another time, in another place, however distant or far away,” reflects the narrator (in the Epilogue), who is the custodian of the stories of her forefathers.

Days of Gold & Sepia opens on the cusp of a new millennium.  It’s Mumbai, “a rabidly expanding metropolis”. The year is 2000. In the prologue, Shahina Lalljee, the narrator, stands on the threshold of the “grand old mansion” of her childhood. In first person, she apprises us, for example, of the builders who “hover around like vultures”. The surge of “a new tide, a new time” ensures the old makes way; “Life’s endless cycle must go on”. Tomorrow, they will begin to break the mansion down. But Shahina must take a “last lingering look” so that she could “remember it all when it’s no more”.
In the debris, she stumbles upon her grandfather’s portrait in sepia, a solitary reminder of his splendoured era. It is as if he is there to witness the narration of his own story.
In subsequent chapters, 45 in all, Premji turns the clock back to tell the story of Lalljee Lakha, a boy from a small village called Siddhpur along the Great Rann of Kutch, who goes on to become the “cotton king” of Bombay, overcoming the grinding poverty of his origins.  

When we meet him, it’s the winter of 1866. Lalljee is only six-year-old, and with his parents having succumbed to an epidemic sweeping across Siddhpur, already head of the family. Leaving his two-year-old brother Jappu with his elder sister Munni, who is married, Lalljee must make a journey to Gogha. On her deathbed, his mother had asked him to meet one Rehmu Panju who, as it turns out, was her long-lost brother. Rajjo, Lalljee’s mother, came from a well-to-do family, but had fallen in love with Lakha, an itinerant labourer, and eventually disowned by her family.
It is during his temporary shelter at Rehmu Mamu’s place that he falls in love with his charming cousin, Reshma. But their love is doomed: Rehmu Mamu couldn’t marry his daughter to an “orphaned beggar”. Reshma is eventually married away. And Lalljee has to learn to live with the memory of her lost love; Time passes, but Reshma continues to kindle his heart and soul.

The young boy’s loss triggers a resolve: “Lalljee swore then that never again would he let poverty deprive him of something he so cherished… He would become so rich, so powerful that there would be nothing he wanted that he couldn’t acquire, nothing he desired that he could not have.”

Through his incredible strength of character and good old values – honesty, integrity, humanity, compassion –  Lalljee writes his own destiny. From Kutch, he travels to Bombay on foot, penniless but with dreams in his eyes, in 1877. The city provided Lalljee a refuge from old wounds: “Bombay did not question your caste or creed, didn’t care whether you were a pauper or a king, for the city belonged to no one and to everyone. So, people came, armed with their ambitions… Fortune lurked around the corner, a dream away, a scheme away. The city kept their dreams alive and, in time, Bombay itself became the dream”.

Bombay fulfils all of Lalljee’s dreams. His story gets entertwined with the zeitgeist — the 1857 War of Independence, freedom movement, Great Depression, Independence and the “euphoria and mayhem” it left it its wake.
He marries, has children, acquires many cotton mills. But in a life which was “eminently successful and amply fulfilled” there were “the two things he had most craved he had not been destined to have: the woman he had loved and longed for, and a son he had sired.”
But such is life. You win some, you lose some. Perhaps a perfect world is only a mirage. Towards the end of his life, soon after he celebrates his 88th birthday,  Lalljee, looking back on his life, finds a parallel to his life in a Ghalib’s line:
Shama har rang mein jalti hai seher hone tak.”
The flame of life burns in every hue, before the break of day.”

Lalljee’s flame of life had burnt in the hues that his destiny had in store for him.

It was a difficult novel to pull off, with its vast canvas and rich cast of characters. But Premji does that with unparalleled panache and grace, not an easy feat for a debutante: the richness and lucidity of language is in absolute harmony with her vibrant characters, bristling with life. Classical storytelling at its best, Days of Gold & Sepia is dazzling in its scope, ambitious in its conception and delightful and heart-warming in its execution.
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Indus Creed, Unplugged: A review

Evolve
Indus Creed
Universal
Rs 175

Whoa! Indus Creed, the trailblazers of Indian rock who have both blazed the trail and trailed the blaze on the country’s soundscape, is back after a 17-year-long hiatus! And how! But, before I get to the how, let me look back at the who: A bit of the rock ‘n’ roll renegades’ history, just to freshen up your memory. Indus Creed, in its first avatar, was called Rock Machine, a sextet that was created in 1984 and featured Mahesh Tinaikar, Mark Selwyn, Ian Santamaria (vocals), Aftab Currim (rhythm guitar) and Suresh Bhadricha (drums). Soon, it went though many changes as its original members kept moving out and new ones moving in. It even changed its name and transformed into Alms for Shanti, a fusion rock band, that brought out a Hindi album, Kashmakash, in 2002. As Rock Machine, they cut two albums, Rock ‘n’ Roll Renegade in 1988, followed by The Second Coming two years later.

Uday Benegal, who had taken over Santamaria as lead vocalist soon after the band’s inception, is perhaps the best thing to have happened to the act. In its current avatar, Indus Creed has Uday (vocals, acoustic guitar) as its frontman, with Mahesh Tinaikar (electric and acoustic guitar), Zubin Balaporia (keyboards, vocals), Rushad Mistry (bass) and Jai Row Kavi (drums) joining the pack.

Now, back to the how. If you have a soft spot for rock (and poetry, if you swing and swear by Floyd and Morrison and Dylan and Cobain and Cohen), the band’s latest album, Evolve, proves to be a revelation. A revelation you’ll revel in, and feel glad and grateful you had. After all, how often do you listen to an Indian rock band belting out tracks — not imitative, but inventive and original — that are eerily reminiscent of songs that are anthems in the world rockdom, part of the vocabulary of the legions of the genre’s admirers?

It was Indus Creed unplugged as I hit out, with headphones in place, hours after the album arrived, transported, transfixed to the strong and deep undertows of their music, getting swayed  away by, and subsumed in, the sheer expanse of their sound. Granted, much of the magic Creed weaves is due to the Grammy-nominated venerable mixing engineer Tim Palmer — who’s famously mixed tracks for musicians and acts as varied as Robert Plant, Mark Knopfler, Pearl Jam and U2 — and New York’s Andy VanDette, who’s mastered it, but, certainly, there is more to an album than its mixing and mastering works.

The trip begins with the very first track, Fireflies, that picks up pace after a soft, soothing start, with a delightful guitar riff preceding the beautiful blend of the lead male voice (Uday, sonorous), alternating between frenetic and slow pitch, and drums (Jai, astounding). The song speaks of “dancing iridescence” in someone’s eyes like “fireflies”. The repeating strain, “Oh, the sun went out today, for reasons you won’t say and I just can’t look away, from those fireflies,” with some variations in the lyrics, is delightful.

Fireflies is a suitable precursor to the fireworks the Creed strings together subsequently. Next to follow is Dissolve, a lovely ballad and the album’s longest track (7.38), that is high on lyrics: “No more to run, I am one with my destination. I surrender, my throne I disown, this is my abdication.”

The Money makes electronica enjoyable. The strain, “Why did you take the money”, is angry and rebellious and a powerful statement on corruption in the public sphere. Even though the drums make the tempo flounder at places, the track reaches its glory towards the end.

Take It Harder is the real winner. A quintessential rock track, it’s Floyd-ish in texture and feels all the more better for it. No Disgrace erupts in your ears with its progressions mixed amazingly well. Uday and Zubin make a virtue of losing the rat race: “There’s nooooooo disgrace, in loooooosing the race.” The song reaches the zenith of its beauty towards the end with the lead voice, the guitar and the drums strumming a crescendo that fades out somewhat abruptly.

Come Around is soaked in nostalgia. The guitar gently works, acoustic blending well with electric. The fusion of drum is the song’s another highlight. I loved the way Uday introduces variation with “If you come around this way, if you come around this way, say hello”.

Bulletproof (Uday, Zubin, Mahesh and Jai) is fast-paced and opens and unfurls like an explosion, with its great guitar riffs set to enthral the hardcore fan. Goodbye stands out for the variation and experimentation in guitar work as well as in the pitch of the lead voice. Together with Bulletproof, the track is a proof of just how much difference can good mixing work make. “Take a bow, the ceremony went beautifully, picture perfect, everyone had a ball,” croons Uday. Take a bow, Creed, I had a ball.

Evolve unfolds like the very best of rock albums. The eight odd tracks are electrifying, intense, addictive and groovy, with some of them growing on you each time you listen to them, and make for high-octane listening experience. In many ways, Evolve symbolises the band’s own journey and, of course, evolution from hard rock to alternative/progressive sounds.

This ambitious album, with slickly produced (what I’d call) “Eastern rock songs” seeped in a great variety of atmospherics and rooted in the realities of our land, will thrill you, and then thrill you some more. I kept flicking through the tracks, amazed and incredulous and enamoured (not to mention giving in to a  bit of head-banging), and kept rooting for Creed, as if I were at a live performance, issuing whoops of delight, their music coursing through my veins, stirring my soul.

To put it simply, Evolve is (critics should always steer clear of hyperbole, but, clearly, I can’t resist) mesmeric. It’s a well-conceived and, more importantly, well-crafted album, and I’d even go to the extent of giving a shout-out to anybody who listens: “Go, buy it.” And, that, even if you don’t have any ear for rock.