Solo by Rana DasguptaMy review
rating: 4 of 5 stars
Solo
Painting the surreal landscape of love, relationshsips, society, bonds, politics comes naturally to Rana. His imagination creeps slowly and steadily binding the reader's thoughts and taking them on this experience that leaves them at the end of the ride either drained or mesmerised or floating.
Rana is an artist at work, his language flows, "On hot days, the smells become overpowering, and rain comes as a relief, washing everything away. The blind man sits by the window when the rain is heavy and he can hear the different patters of near and far: the silky spray in the trees, the heavy drumming on plastic water tanks, the hard scatter of roads and pavements, the different metallic pitches of car roofs and drain covers, the baritone trilling of tarpaulin, the sticky overflow of mud, the concentrated gushing of drainpipes ?and, for a moment, the landscape springs forth, and he is reminded of how it is to see."
"He raised his violin and played the things of sixty minutes. The colours, the thought. The uncippled nails, the oval pool of vision. the time, the need, and the sounds that break through from beyond. The book on the fence post. The other person drawing close. The normal emotions, the thing-at-hand, the body's suck and pump.
He did it in a couple of moments, which was another part of the feat"
His language dances with a range of ideas, like a butterfly flirting one moment and suddenly sucking at the flower the next moment drawing out a unique flavour and spilling the atmoshpere with a strange perfume.
where the real ends and where the surreal begins happens so easily that one keeps asking, how will this story end? where will this story take me? I used to feel that with fairy tales. They had overpowering and overwhelming strenghts and great imagination and Rana is most times a fairytale writer.
Solo is like that too. Its a journey that starts with the rich telling of the story of science, Bulgarian history, its society and politics through the dreams and memories of Ulrich -the failed musician turned chemist who somehow could never find his place in the world order.
I loved the first half of the book. the second half made me jerk out of comfort and sit up to keep a watch out for the surreal taking over the real and then it ends in a strange wisdom as mystical as life and its mysteries perhaps?
I think the dream that Ulrich sees in the second half is pivotal to the story's narrative. I would love to discuss this with Rana and figure out more.
An amazing book but only for those who are willing to shift from the mundane to the strangeness of dreams and the deja vu they bring each time they recur.
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