Vassanji146;s In-Between World

In the Toronto-based writer8217;s new novel, a Sufi shrine in Gujarat becomes the site of post-2002 contestations

The Assassin8217;s Song:A Novel
M.g. vassanji
viking, Rs 450
From east africa, where his previous work was set, award-winning, Toronto-based writer M.G. Vassanji moves to the land of his ancestors, Gujarat, for his latest novel, The Assassin8217;s Song. As in his last novel, The In-Between World of Vikram Lall, the narrative follows the protagonist from one country to another, in this case the United States where Karsan spends a substantial part of his adult life, before returning home in the aftermath of the 2002 violence.

His childhood home is Pirbaag, in the village of Haripir, the shrine of a Sufi saint on a dusty road some miles from Ahmedabad. It is an old shrine, older even than the city it now abuts. The saint is an enigmatic figure, a Muslim by birth but sheltered by Hindu gods and kings. His grave and the graves of his close ones, wives, followers, grandchildren, proliferate like a creeping vine, providing, even in death, a living to caretakers and sellers of souvenirs and hope to many despairing pilgrims.

His father is the respected Saheb of Pirbaag, a melancholy figure, loving yet withdrawn; his mother is a Hindu housewife given to worldly pleasures of the cinema and birthday parties. Their small world is a secular oasis where Hindu gods rest alongside Muslim saints, worshipped with flowers and tuneful ginans. Somewhere in the country, wars are fought, beloved leaders die, and the village around bristles with multiple prejudices. It is a microcosm 8220;a world in a grain of sand8221;, representing to Karsan though, a stasis that he cannot wait to escape.

By the time he returns, however, this world of ambiguous possibility has been destroyed by marauding mob. And his brother Mansoor, a casualty of the growing demand for clear allegiances, has become a 8220;real Muslim8221;, discarding the 8220;Sufi pufi8221; baggage and possibly consorting with terrorists. For his part, the middle-aged Karsan must decide whether to respond to the call of Pirbaag.

One could assume from this synopsis a certain dialectic 8212; made familiar by many alarmed media commentators in the wake of the Gujarat violence and, indeed, the rising tide of religious chauvinism in India over the past two decades 8212; between the universal and the sectarian and between faith and community. But that would be too simplistic. The Assassin8217;s Tale is a moving, complex, multi-layered work where contradictions are an accepted part of life and everything is, and nothing is, quite what it seems.

The philosophical and the quotidian, the rich and the tawdry co-exist in Vassanji8217;s imaginative world. If we are offered the profoundly wise figure of the Pir and the contemplative ambience of his resting place, there is also the suggestion of cheap magic, populist gimmicks and an almost Dan Brownish twist towards the end that leaves the reader wondering about the actual identity of the mysterious Pir. Similarly with violence: it is there in the world that the Pir is believed to have fled from 8212; 13th century Central Asia, it is there in Mansoor 8216;s childish game of Kathiawadi robbers, in the latent hostilities of the village and, of course, devastatingly in the incidents of 2002.

Vassanji constantly teases, with questions. About duty, for instance: Karsan, heir to the Saheb-ship, carries his destiny like an albatross, likening himself to Abraham8217;s sacrificial offering nbsp;8220;Isaac didn8217;t matter8221; in contrast to his carefree brother. Yet events pan out so as to force a reconsideration of the question of choice itself, and whether anyone is truly free to choose. Even more pertinent is the notion of equivocal space 8212; is it a strength or a weakness, given how avidly missionaries of various religious persuasions vie for Karsan8217;s soul?

Story continues below this ad

nbsp;There are no answers. Vassanji is never assertive even, for instance, when he lobs the hot question 8212; 8220;Why do Hindus and Muslims hate each other?8221; 8212; drawing an unusually direct answer from the abstruse Saheb. 8220;They don8217;t hate each other. They8217;re only sometimes afraid of each other8230;.8221; One gets the feeling that, having laid out his wares, the author shrinks to the margins. This also appears to contribute to the disconcerting jump from the slow, richly mounted section on Haripir to the rather pell-mell accretion of events in the latter section. America, the Saheb8217;s explanation and the riots all quickly follow each other and with a slight, disappointing suggestion of contrivance. And perhaps that too is an intended trickery, leaving one, as it does, feeling stranded and forlorn, rather like a dusty shrine glimpsed on the roadside from a bus and never passed again.