[amazon_link id=”0547577451″ target=”_blank” container=”” container_class=”” ][/amazon_link]Title : The Artist of Disappearance
Author : Anita Desai
Pages : 176
Publisher : Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
Rating : 3.5/5
Source : NetGalley / Publisher ARC

Anita Desai’s latest book “Artist of Disappearance” is composed of three novellas. Each is about art and the artist, and presents a problem or a predicament, and later it’s natural, life-worn resolution.

The first, “The Museum of Final Journeys”, is about a civil servant posted to a remote village where there are not many sources of entertainment. Bogged down in his day-to-day work, he retires almost somnolent with boredom each day. One day, however, an old man approaches him with a plea. A museum of treasures lies hidden in one of the large, decrepit homes in the village. The contents of the museum, for paucity of funds, and the diminishing fortunes of the owners, lack good care and will the Government of India assume ownership? Besides the treasures in the home, there is also one large treasure outside it – an elephant who’s upkeep is draining the remaining resources of the household.

The second, “Translator Translated”, is about an English teacher, Prema who harbors great love for her native tongue, Oriya. In a chance meeting with a former classmate Tara, now a publisher, Prema is afforded the opportunity of translating to English, the works of the Oriyan writer Suvarna Devi. Prema is very proud of herself and imagines an instant sisterhood with the writer who she will get to meet at a publisher sponsored event. The event does happen but the great meeting of the minds, as imagined by Prema, does not. Later when Prema is to translate another work of Suvarna Devi’s she finds her enthusiasm and appreciation waning, until she cannot resist making “beneficial” changes to the original work during translation. . .

The third, “The Artist of Disappearance”, is about a reclusive orphan Ravi who creates for his own pleasure. His work is secretly done, but his pleasure in his art is destroyed when his precious hand-crafted garden is discovered . . .

Desai’s wistful stories are framed around a decrepit, depressing India; apathetic civil servants are ineffectual in the face of decaying treasures, an English teacher, single and lonely yearns for a few scraps of appreciation in a world where smart girls finish first and dowdy spinsters cannot even form a bond with an esteemed idol, and an unwary artist, hidden away in a rural village, wants only the solitary pleasure of creation, but can’t have even that.

All three novellas are steeped in melancholy and seem to belong to a slow-moving, languorous world. In the first story I found myself almost transported to the sepia-colored world of a 70s Sanjeev Kumar film where the shawl-wrapped protagonist, spends his days in desultory work, and his evenings, listless and lethargic, in the creaky chairs of a remote circuit-house (old government lodging, generally of the British era). In these stories, hubbub is absent; if these stories were film, we would probably need background music. In these quiet worlds minor urges get magnified and minor reflections gain prominence. Desai’s characters think loftily, but lack conviction and will. They live life on the fringes, aspiring to be better and stronger but almost always failing.

The writing is exquisite; Desai creates unforgettable details, bringing out the hidden pathos in everyday lives. Her words and her long sentences reflect life quite realistically and bring out the incongruities that we would smile and shake our heads at; I can’t help laughing, picturing in my mind’s eye the helpless, tethered elephant and the worried caretaker. So also, there is the government babu, who with good breeding recognizes that he is talking down to an old man but is brusque anyway. There is Prema who might be better than Tara, but cannot bring herself to do, with wit and some stridence, what “smart” Tara can. Yes, it is an unjust world, and never more so than in this book.

In each novella Desai seems to highlight the frail human condition – a condition that we might a cry a river for, had we the time. Her stories tells us of the little sadnesses that break your heart, and it isn’t even anyone’s fault; that is just how it is. Even as I appreciate Desai’s skill, I recognize that these relatively plot-less stories are more about the telling, the experience, than the before and the after.

I was not immediately taken by this book, but the stories grow upon you with reflection. Beautifully written, this is an evocative, thoughtful read.