Introduction

Short-listed three times for the Booker Prize, Anita Desai explores time and transformation in these artful novellas

Award-winning, internationally acclaimed author Anita Desai ruminates on art and memory, illusion and disillusion, and the sharp divide between life's expectations and its realities in three perfectly etched novellas. Set in India in the not-too-distant past, the stories' dramas illuminate the ways in which Indian culture can nourish or suffocate. All are served up with Desai's characteristic perspicuity, subtle humor, and sensitive writing.

Overwhelmed by their own lack of purpose, the men and women who populate these tales set out on unexpected journeys that present them with a fresh sense hope and opportunity. Like so many flies in a spider's web, however, they cannot escape their surroundings--as none of us can. An impeccable craftsman, Desai elegantly reveals our human frailties and the power of place.

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Excerpt

We had driven for never-ending miles along what seemed to be more a mudbank than a road between fields of viru lent green – jute? rice? what was it this benighted hinter - land produced? I ought to have known, but my head was pounded into too much of a daze by the heat and the sun and the fatigue to take in what my driver was telling me in answer to my listless questions.

The sun was setting into a sullen murk of ashes and embers along the horizon when he turned the jeep into the circular driveway in front of a low, white bungalow. This was the circuit house where I was to stay until I had found a place of my own. As a very junior officer, a mere subdivisional officer in the august government service, it was all I could expect, a temporary place for one of its minor servants. There was nothing around but fields and dirt roads and dust, no lights or signs of a town to be seen. Noting my disappointment and hesitation at the first sight of my new residence – where had we come to? – the driver climbed out first, lifted my bags from the back of the jeep and led the way up the broad steps to a long veranda which had doors fitted with wire screens one could not see through. He clapped his hands and shouted, ‘Koi hai?’ I had not imagined anyone still used that imperious announcement from the days of the Raj: Anyone there? But perhaps, in this setting, itself a leftover from the empire, not so incongruous at all. Besides, there was no bell and one cannot knock on a screen door.

I didn’t think anyone had heard. Certainly no light went on and no footsteps were to be heard, but in a bit someone came around the house from the back where there must have been huts or quarters for servants.

‘I’ve brought the new officer-sahib,’ the driver announced officiously (he wore a uniform of sorts, khaki, with lettering in red over the shirt pocket that gave him the right). ‘Open a room for him. And switch on some lights, will you?’

‘No lights,’ the man replied with dignity. He wore no uniform, only some loose clothing, and his feet were bare, but he held his back straight and somehow established his authority. ‘Power cut.’

‘Get a lantern then,’ the driver barked. He clearly enjoyed giving orders.

I didn’t, and was relieved when the chowkidar – for clearly he was the watchman for all his lack of a uniform – took over my bags and the driver turned to leave. It was night now, and when I saw the headlights of the jeep sweep over the dark foliage that crowded against the house and lined the driveway, then turn around so that the tail lights could be seen to dwindle and disappear, I felt my heart sinking. I did not want to stay in this desolate place, I wanted to run after the jeep, throw myself in and return to a familiar scene. I was used to city life, to the cacophony of traffic, the clamour and din and discordancy of human voices, the pushing and shoving of humanity, all that was absent here.

While I stood waiting on the veranda for a lamp to be lit so I could be shown to my room, I listened to the dry, grating crackle of palm leaves over the roof, the voices of frogs issuing low warnings from some invisible pond or swamp nearby, and these sounds were even more disquieting than the silence.

A lighted lantern was finally brought out and I followed its ghostly glow in, past large, looming pieces of furniture, to the room the chowkidar opened for me. It released a dank odour of mildew as of a trunk opened after a long stretch of time and a death or two, and I thought this was surely not a chapter of my life; it was only a chapter in one of those novels I used to read in my student days, something by Robert Louis Stevenson or Arthur Conan Doyle or Wilkie Collins (I had been a great reader then and secretly hoped to become a writer). I remembered, too, the hated voice of the gym master at school shouting ‘Stiffen up now, boys, stiffen up!’ and I nearly laughed – a bitter laugh.

All the actions that one performs automatically and habitually in the real world, the lighted world – of bathing, dressing, eating a meal – here had to be performed in a state of almost gelid slow motion. I carried the lantern into the bathroom with me – it created grotesquely hovering shadows rather than light, and made the slimy walls and floor glisten dangerously – and made do with a rudimentary bucket of water and a tin mug. To put on a clean set of clothes when I could scarcely make out what I had picked from my suitcase (packed with an idiotic lack of good sense: a tie? when would I ever wear a tie in this pit?) and then to find my way to the dining room and sit down to a meal placed before me that I could scarcely identify – was it lentils, or a mush of vegetables, and was this whitish puddle rice or what? – all were manoeuvres to be carried out with slow deliberation, so much so that they seemed barely worthwhile, just habits belonging to another world and time carried on weakly. The high-pitched whining of mosquitoes sounded all around me and I slapped angrily at their invisible presences.

Then, with a small explosion, the electricity came on and lights flared with an intensity that made me flinch. An abrupt shift took place. The circuit house dining room, the metal bowls and dishes set on the table, the heavy pieces of furniture, the yellow curry stains on the tablecloth all revealed themselves with painful clarity while the whine of mosquitoes faded with disappointment. Now large, winged ants insinuated their way through the wire screens and hurled themselves at the electric bulb suspended over my head; some floated down into my plate where they drowned in the gravy, wings detaching themselves from the small, floundering worms of their bodies.

I pushed back my chair and rose so precipitately, the chowkidar came forward to see what was wrong. I saw no point in telling him that everything was. Instructing him abruptly to bring me tea at six next morning, I returned to my room. It felt like a mercy to turn off the impudent light dangling on a cord over my bed and prepare to throw myself into it for the night.

I had not taken the mosquito net that swaddled the bed into account. First I had to fumble around for an opening to crawl in, then tuck it back to keep out the mosquitoes. At this I failed, and those that found themselves trapped in the netting with me, furiously bit at every exposed surface they could find. What was more, the netting prevented any breath of air reaching me from the sluggishly revolving fan overhead.

Throughout the night voices rang back and forth in my head: would I be able to go through with this training in a remote outpost that was supposed to prepare me for great deeds in public service? Should I quit now before I became known as a failure and a disgrace? Could I appeal to anyone for help, some mentor, or possibly my father, retired now from this very service, his honour and his pride intact like an iron rod he had swallowed?

Across the jungle, or the swamp or whatever it was that surrounded this isolated house, pai dogs in hamlets and homesteads scattered far apart echoed the voices in my head, some questioning and plaintive, others fierce and challenging.

If I had not been ‘stiffened up’ in school and by my father, I might have shed a tear or two into my flat grey pillow. I came close to it but morning rescued me. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

Introduction

Anita Desai ruminates on art and memory, illusion and disillusion, and the sharp divide between life’s expectations and its realities in three perfectly etched novellas. Set in India in the not-too-distant past, the stories’ dramas illuminate the ways in which Indian culture can nourish or suffocate. All are served up with Desai’s characteristic perspicuity, subtle humor, and sensitive writing.

Overwhelmed by their own lack of purpose, the men and women who populate these tales set out on unexpected journeys that present them with a fresh sense of hope and opportunity. Like so many flies in a spider’s web, however, they cannot escape their surroundings—as none of us can. An impeccable craftsman, Desai elegantly reveals our human frailties and the power of place in The Artist of Disappearance.

Discussion Points

“The Artist of Disappearance” is the title of one of the book’s novellas. It is also the title of the book. Why do you think the author decided to use this title to represent the entire collection? What different expectations might you have had if the book were titled The Museum of Final Journeys or Translator Translated?



In this book, the author has put together three individual novellas about people in isolation, either by force or by choice, as they explore the power and limits of art. In what ways are these stories alike? How are they different?



Although there are certainly moments of joy and pleasure for each of the main characters in the three novellas, each is singed with the main character’s disappointment or discontent. Which resonated with you as a reader the most—the high or low points of these characters? Do you think the author is more successful at making you feel her characters’ highs or lows? Is your answer the same for each character?



The scenes of this book take place in India, both in city and rural locations. Do you think this book could have been set in any other country? Are the stories universal enough to translate into other settings, or do you feel too much of the unique culture would be lost, resulting in an altogether different book?
In the second novella, “Translator Translated,” the author changes points of view between characters and also varies between third person and first person as well as past and present tense. How does this affect your reading of the story? What do you think went into the decision to cast certain passages in certain styles?



At the end of “The Museum of Final Journeys,” the narrator admits that, years later, he sometimes has regrets. “Could I have done more?” he wonders (Page 40). Why didn’t he? Do you think he will ever check on the museum that once interested him? Why or why not? If you were in his shoes, would you?



In “Translator Translated,” Perma sees the publication of her translation as “the crowning moment of her life” (Page 68). This was around the middle of the novella. Having read through to the conclusion, do you believe it really was her crowning moment? Discuss the importance Perma gives to her publication with the group.



Do you believe Perma had the right to take the liberties she did with her translation? What might she have done differently? Describe how her publisher, Tara, handled the situation. Do you agree or disagree with her response?



In the conclusion of “Translator Translated,” the scene is ripe for conflict when Perma runs into the brother of the author whose work she rewrote in translating (Page 92). Instead of a conflict, they have a pleasant exchange. What does this say about the two characters? Why did the story have to end this way?



10. Perhaps the most complex novella of the book is the title story, which weaves together the stories of Ravi, a recluse who lives in the ruins of his family’s home, and a film crew coming to the area to shoot a documentary. Whose story was it easier for you to relate to as a reader? Whose story do you believe more closely reflects your own world view?



11. Ravi’s character seems a bit difficult to pin down at first. What did the author do to help you, as the reader, better connect with Ravi, the protagonist of “The Artist of Disappearance?” Did your opinion of him as a boy differ from your opinion of him as an adult?



12. Do you believe Ravi will return to his glade? Or will his obsession with matchbox “constellations” become his new occupation? Discuss the similarities between Ravi’s infatuations with each. Which one do you believe better fits his nature?



13. To end the final novella (and the book), the filmmakers find the “perfect ending” to their documentary. Instead of the artful ending of Ravi’s glade, they gravitate to the dynamite explosions and workers with shovels and pickaxes excavating the hillside. Why do you think the filmmakers (and the author) chose this scene to end the documentary, story, and book?



14. Each of the novellas features a grand work of art that, at one point or another, becomes the focus of the main character’s attention: a museum, a translation, a garden. How are these works alike, and how are they different? Compare and contrast the relationships between character and art in each novella.



15. Anita Desai is a critically acclaimed and widely read author. Have you read any of her other books? If so, how did it (or they) compare to this one?

Weblinks

»	Publisher's Book Info
»	Anita Desai's web site

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