Over a decade ago, I walked up and down the aisles of the local Barnes and Noble because of an all-consuming curiosity which was ignited by some now-forgotten book review. (I would later work at that very BN during my senior year of college, in case you are unbelievably bored). I had picked up a torch for brown-ish fiction which burns just as brightly today as it did when I was a teenager. I found my quarry, picked it up very carefully and took it to the cash-wrap, where the clerk, on second thought, double-bagged it.
I went home and didn’t emerge from my room for two days; I waved away meals, plugged my ears to my father’s indignant screams about how I was missing class, I think I forgot to bathe, who knows. I couldn’t leave this tome, whose protagonist shared MY nickname. Upon reflection, I think I understand why you Potter-heads do what you do…oh, wait. I don’t. ;)
Vikram Seth’s “Suitable Boy” changed my life. It altered my expectations for literature, my perceptions of my parents’ histories, my conception of myself and what I wanted out of my future. Suddenly, I had a thousand things to ask my delighted father, about newly-free India in the 1950s. I looked at my mother, a freedom baby who was born right after India gained her independence with a new affection and appreciation; if Aparna were alive, she’d be my Mother’s age. I regarded all the other books on my shelves with a supercilious disdain.
I’ve read SB three-and-a-half times. It never left my bedside table; it’s been there for over a decade. My most cherished ritual involved briefly immersing myself in it before falling asleep every night; as soon as I finished the entire tome, I’d gingerly turn the book over and start it again the next night. Suddenly, I’m sad that my treasured font of comfort is dusty and untouched.
When you summoned the oneiroi, Suitable Boy, I never wanted to wake. How many nights did I spend in that liminal space between dream and reality, feeling like I was with Meenakshi or Malati as they went about their lives, the lives you divinely conceived and described? Hell, sometimes during those nocturnal sojourns I WAS Meenakshi or Malati. No book has owned me so completely since you, I don’t know if one ever will.
Though I am astonished that almost no one “gets” that you are what I’m referring to (TWO people in four years = no one, okay?), my entire “online empire” is a tribute to you— fotolog.net/suitablegirl, www.suitablegirl.com, flickr~suitablegirl, etc etc. No other book captured my heart or injured my wrists like you.
Lo, somewhere in New York, someone utters your name, saying one who shall come will put thee to shame? Blasphemy!
“Hunger’s Brides” puts other behemoths to shame, including Michel Faber’s “Crimson Petal and the White,” (848 pages, 3 pounds); Neal Stephenson’s “Quicksilver” (944 pages, 3.3 pounds) and the recent reigning champ, Vikram Seth’s “Suitable Boy” (1,349 pages, 4.1 pounds).
The plot of “Hunger’s Brides” revolves around Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, the 17th-century Mexican poet and nun whose vow of silence at the age of 40 was signed in her own blood. Her life and work have inspired writings by Octavio Paz, Robert Graves and Diane Ackerman.
But the book is more - much, much more - than an extended piece of historical fiction. It is also the story of Beulah Limosneros, a graduate student who immerses herself in the study of Sor Juana, and Donald Gregory, her professor and a serial adulterer. And in addition to narrative fiction, it is told in the form of poetry, dramatic plays, letters and notes in the margins.
Looks like they heard my wrists screaming for help:
But there is no escaping its size…To aid readers, the author himself has contributed some helpful hints. The book’s elaborate Web site (www.hungersbrides.com) features a slide show of “safe reading positions.”
Harrumph. Fret not, my long-adored lover, I glower at this uppity newcomer. That he should tempt my loyal heart is “INCONCEIVABLE”!
