Had she taken that final plunge into the darkness, her last sigh would have been one of relief. She would have not blamed anyone. Least of all her husband. She knew by then that he was very good at huge, monumental things like optimism and courage but could not manage the ordinary bits. Just like people who can blast the mountains but fumble helplessly with locks and keys….She tasted death on the tip of her tongue and braced herself. It was when she rose to jump that I began to stir inside her.
“I” the protagonist of Perfect Eight, narrating a first person account of herself, her mother, her father, them together, set against the partition, growing up in a small town, learning., surviving and most of all loving a man from the age when love is not even known to her. She is “Ira” which I discover much later but before that I discover her , her nuances, and even before that I acquaint myself with her mother. That how she “learns to smell grief from her even before it strikes”. The way her mother keeps escaping death , called or uncalled for. The times of partition through the eyes of a small girl, of losing her family, roots and whatever she thinks she can call her own. Of her travel from Lahore to Kanpur and growing up in a family, in a strangely warm atmosphere, where she is given shelter but not complete acceptance. Of getting married to Ira’s Papu and their turbulent journey from Missamari to eventually settling in the narrow lanes of Patiala.
He walked to the door and turned around “We were never children. You and I. We always had old, greedy, unforgiving souls. I knew even then that one day I would have you at my feet. Begging to be love. And you did come. But you didn’t beg. You spat love at me like an insult. And then you left. I didn’t know then that you would take my life away with you. But you knew it didn’t you? How the hell did you know that? Who taught you to love like that?
Thats Ira for me, it belongs to her and is just about her. She speaks fervently about each and every smaller and bigger shades of life, a small town life, lanes, patialas, phulkaris, and everything that makes a difference to her, in a very measured tone. The love for life, the love which she garners for Sameer, the love which clear mountain air and the sight of perfect eight gives her. The loop which, she mentally completes when she is with him. The love which she hides behind her garb, her paintings and the corners from where she quietly observes him. Its about living the life of a girl who is scared of believing that happiness can be “full”. Of loving a man with such deep passion and agony and yet never giving herself away completely. Of knowing that they would always be “divided by little commas”
If I picked up the book it was purely the title which attracted me “Perfect Eight”, the number which I know by heart for sincerity, perseverance, and most of all for being the balance it is. The number which has all my personal attachments, literally. Secondly, from the times of Rebecca (by Daphne Du Maurier), I have been a sucker for first person accounts, albeit that Perfect Eight finally reveals her name; while in Rebecca till date I dream of those different names I could have given to her.
The beautiful inserts and nazm of Sahir Ludhiyanvi and Kaifi Azmi leaves a subtle yet strong flavor of not just the express scenario but the implied one too. The country which struggles with the partition, Babri Masjid issue and the sad acceptance of remaining a “minority”, even if its your own nation. There are incidents which bring out a strong flavor to the fact that this a novel set in the heart of true India.
On and on the book is like a deep dark ember which burns through the heart of a woman, her vision as she sees through all the pain and strength; closing on the fact that in this chaotic world, “its only she , she has for herself” !! Of knowing that even though life completes its Circle, the unfulfilled Desires remain…
Aaj ki raat bahut garam hawa chalti hai
Aaj ki raat na neend aayegi
Hum sab uthen, main bhi uthun, tum bhi utho
Koi khidki isi deewar main khul jaayegi (Kaifi)