This short book is a collection of reminiscences of the author during his early twenties. The author gets an opportunity to go to London in search of a steady job, as he tries to pursue his dream of becoming a writer.
The initial stories, of the fourteen in the book, talk about his life in England; how he arrives there and how he spends the years. Thereafter, the author decides to take the plunge and returns to India. The last five talk about his initial years in Dehra trying to establish himself as a writer. Though most of them are short the last “A Handful of Nuts” is a longer one, divided into chapters. In the author’s notes, he remarks that, but for the one at the last, all others were written contemporarily while the last one after forty years in contemplation.
The stories from London describe how he loathed the idea of anything other than India. He finds it tough to find peace with his people and the jobs he does.
“Even though I had grown up with a love for the English language and its literature, even though my forefathers were British, Britain was not really my place.”
“To be strangers without feeling like an outsider. For in India there are no strangers.”
“I had been away for over four years but the bonds were as strong as ever, the longing to return had never left me”
The author reveals his wild manners when he is forced to acquaint with a stranger and wild roaming when he alights from a train to explore an unknown village. He exposes his love life with his sweet romantic tales rather comically during his stay in England and at Dehra.
“Somehow our relationship seemed complete and whole and I passed the day in a glow of happiness.”
He amuses the readers with his metamorphic writings and limericks and explains jocularly why he wasn’t a poet.
“Our skin, I thought is like the leaf of a tree, young and green and shiny. Then it gets darker and heavier, sometimes spotted with disease sometimes eaten away. Then fading, yellow and red, then falling, crumbling into dust or feeding the flames of fire.”
“The skin cannot change the eyes. The eyes are the true reflections of a man’s age and sensibilities. Even a blind man has hidden eyes.”
“The last lines always fox me, one reason why I never became a poet, I guess.”
On return to India, he really finds it hard to take roots as a writer. He describes how he found it difficult to start and how he steadily climbed the ladder to become a writer. The book is a worthwhile read for anybody who wants to be a writer.
For me, the book is a must-read, certainly not to be swallowed but to be chewed and digested.
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