A book that is perhaps as challenging to review - and by review I mean judge - as it was to write. Chaudhari's restraint is stifling at times; his minimalist narrator divulges little; and the reader, while understanding the rationale of the repose of the novel, invariably ends up asking for a little let-go. But apart from the fettering of the narrator, there is something more structural that one may also decipher and unequivocally cede to the writer: the dexterity of design inherent in the inception of this novel. 'A New World', if one looks finely, is a feat of literature, really - one that will not blow you away, but tend to you with sleep-inducing, sultry caresses - like the pre-monsoon weather of the city of Calcutta that it so obliquely yet aptly describes. Chaudhary reads like a mixture of Joyce and Woolf and, a tad bemusingly, Naipaul. The details, as in the consciousness of Jayojit Chaterjee - the divorcee from America who is spending a vacation at his parents' house in Calcutta with his son, vacation-rights with whom he has recently won in a court battle with his deviant wife - are the meat of the novel. His somnambulant views of the irrelevant and unimportant happening and meetings and objects are pretty much all there is to this book. But there is a blended hint of post-colonialism, of East meets West, of the complexity of filial obligations. And like an undercurrent below all of that, there is the paricular treatment of the content with a linguistic certainty that faintly resembles the wand of the great 19th century novelists - more specifically, their twentieth century embodiment in Naipaul. Chaudhary, while invoking memories of many masters of yore, adroitly avoids getting clubbed with any one in particular. His voice is original, and his subjects, as uninteresting as they are; and his plots, as sub-plot like as they are; are nevertheless a direction for the novel that is - quite surprisingly by the end of the book - very novel indeed. 'A New World' ails from a fuzzy ineptitude in realistically chanelling the content of conversations, but even that passes along, for Chaudhary convinces you with his abstruse development of characters to such degrees, that after a time you understand and accept the fact that his characters - bound by relations of blood as they are - have nothing to say to each other, except sharing the banalities of every day life. In this way, even the deficiencies in Chaudhary's writing seem to work in his favour, which is predominantly due to the choice of plot and setting. There is realism here, but it is a somnambulist realism, which serves the purpose of justifying most of what Chaudhari does in this book.Many reviewers have blamed Chaudhary of giving us nothing in his novels. But Chaudhary's work, as one intelligent reviewer noted, is not the stuff of novels, but of what might happen between novels. By doing so, it fills a space in modern literature, and questions, knowingly or unknowingly, the Jamesian notion of the 'interesting' requirement being imposed on this art form. A novel - if a definition was to be winnowed from Chaudhari - can be a celebration of language; can be a somnolescent drifting away of life, captured in words; can be an evasion from the heart-wrenching emotions that surround its characters. A novel, certainly, can also be defined by what it is not. And for sensitizing us to this interpretation, Chaudhari deserves an emphatic thumbs-up.
Not everyone can capture the slice of Calcutta so well. The narrative is intense, choice of words simple yet sharp, making the characters lively. It also has a surprising pace, which makes the book addictive, almost irresistible. Consequently, this book can’t be put away unfinished, easily.The story has a stickiness too, an immediacy of loss, or acceptance, that is central to all our lives, regardless of race, religion, or the part of the world we inhabit—and contrary to what stickiness might conjure—in storytelling, it is one of the difficult aspects to develop, in a way of defining the boundary for the readers to remain not just content, but identify with. This stickiness, to my mind, and experience, elongated my pleasure of experiencing this story. Jiyojit Chatterjee, a professor of Economics in the US, is on a visit to Kolkata to meet his father, a retired Admiral, and his mother. Jiyojit has been divorced for an year—his wife has the custody of their seven year old son, Bonny—and is suspended in the present where his world is contained by his son, his father and mother, and a Kolkata that he is too cynical to explore or appreciate. Told with an uncanny tenderness, the story traces Jiyojit’s tryst with a truth he can’t put behind easily. His sense of dislocation echoes his deepest uncertainties and fragile assumptions of a future he isn't yet prepared to think about. Overall, brilliant. The complex interplay of words and punctuation add an unparalleled depth to a story well told. Enjoyed thoroughly. Highly recommended.
What do You think about A New World (2002)?
Oh Calcutta! I go weak in my knees whenever I pick up a book on the dilapidating city of erstwhile grandeur. This Sahitya Akademi Award winner tells the story of a man living in USA, who after getting divorced comes to visit his parents in Calcutta and then goes back. Or goes to Calcutta and comes back. And nothing major happens in between this coming and going. But what we are shown is an understated and subtle vision of a small Bengali family. Chaudhuri's charm is in the depiction of daily chores of a middle-class family, be it in the arguments over buying a washing machine or in the society meetings. My best sequence comes towards the end when the main character prepares to leave Calcutta. So simple, yet so moving! However, I was disappointed by two things. First, the dialogues many times feel artificial. It becomes evident that someone else is putting words in the mouths of characters. Second, I expected some major event to happen somewhere in the narration. But Chaudhuri deliberately maintains a sublime low-tone throughout, which in a way is the strength of the novel. Not recommended for those who want a dynamic and strong story but strongly recommended for those who want a laid back narration that explores the characters like one would in real life - slowly, but never completely.
—Shishir Chaudhary
Did not work for me one bit. Tried my best to find something I could appreciate in the 200 pages but no, I did not see the point in anything at all.This being the author's first book I read, it wasn't a happy initiation. The book meanders around details and does not tie them to any meaning; it was like going on a road trip inside your own house.I think I understand what Chaudhuri was trying to do here - a portrait of Bengali family life sounds like something I want to read, but the unconvincing speech and dialogues, the needless emphasis on food, digestion & related troubles (no clue why the author goes on about this) & the absolutely characterless protagonist, all of them made for a pretty listless Sunday read.Very disappointing.
—Sairam Krishnan
