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Journalism of Courage
The persistent rainfall through the month of September brought with it more time to stay home, eat hot pakodas with chai, and pick up books that have been sitting around for months. Here’s a list of four books I promised myself to read before they disappear into a faraway place called ‘Bookland’:
This one play, lies between the covers of books completely armed with dust and smell of crinkly paper, almost like the book was planning its suicide like Caligula himself. From one of the best absurd writers, this play made the concept of absurdism extremely fascinating. Camus’ version of this Romanian emperor, paves the way to think about a lot. Do we self-sabotage our own emotions of feeling wanted, to be loved, to be appreciated into an escapade that seeks and lives through nothing but logic? The portrayal of Caligula is historic, it is revolutionary, and remains relevant especially in today’s times when everyone has seeped into their digital screens, rather living the performative way of shielding onself with a mask called ‘arrogance.’
Lying in the shadows of reference books, my father’s copy of this book from Anees Jung, has been waiting to be opened, again. During my current reading of Attiya Hossain’s Sunlight on A Broken Column and Banu Mushtaq’s recent booker prize winner, the conceptual idea of the portrayal of Muslim women in literature has been fascinating me for a while now. Jung’s book articulates her encounters with Muslim women, the raw and young perspectives that find solace in pages of a book so beautifully crafted yet need to be given a breathe of fresh air, to recollect the perspective of Muslim women, who representation in entertainment and media, specifically in India, still remains underground.
Towards the existing mental sobriety and prowess I hold for Plath’s name in my heart remains incomplete without having read Bell Jar. What is most captivating is the fact that women from all walks of life and different backgrounds, find a piece of their heart, in what is to be one of the most disturbing pages of a book, written by the author. The kind where there is acceptance in recognition. Recognition and vulnerability of emotions in its deepest form.
They tell us to never judge a book by its cover, but I end up doing it anyway, and Rosarita is the perfect example. I have had my eyes on the novel since it came out. I believe the face of Amrita Shergill’s self-portrait is enough to distinguish why the book has so much value. The cover is also a reminder of a stark portrayal, of a young, beautiful Indian artist finding her way through Europe. This hint, caught in spicy Mexican delight, follows a woman who is set to unfold her own path amidst the various stages of grief and happiness.
