I will re-read Suryana Kudure today, and thank the dead man for a moment of clarity from long ago. Here is Amit Chaudhuri being a prize ass, and missing altogether the important quarrel that he offered: Anantha is disappointed in, even repelled by, his old friend; but, oddly, hes also attracted to his air of sensuousness and freedom, his apparent unburdenedness. Venkatas domestic life is a mess; but he embodies an elemental, physical joy. Later in the day, in his house, he tells a reluctant and tired Anantha that hell administer him a head-massage; while doing so, he launches into a near-meaningless, extraordinary soliloquy. Newsprint and faeces mingle with one another in Blooms toilet; in Venkatas bath, Ananthas various tortured cerebral speculations dissolve into Venkatas rapturous pre-verbal utterance and the bodys sensations. Venkata is the storys subject, but, as Anantha knows, he will not be its reader; and its precisely the physical closeness and intellectual disconnectedness that Anantha feels for Venkata that impels and shapes the story, that gives its sense of thwarted desire and its calamitous ending. Anantha Murthy, the spokesman and propagandist for Kannada literature, and flagellant of Indian English writing, believes the bhasha writer belongs to an organic community; the vision of Anantha Murthy, the artist, arises compellingly from the conviction that no organic community is possible. telegraphindia/1050508/asp/opinion/story_4700327.asp
Posted on: Fri, 22 Aug 2014 15:39:02 +0000
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