BOOKS
Peak TimeAllan Sealy paints a fine likeness of unbearable being.
By Madhu Jain
THE EVEREST HOTEL: A CALENDER
BY I ALLAN SEALY
INDIA INK
PAGE: 333 PRICE: Rs 395
There's something of the solitary reaper coming through in
this exquisitely-crafted novel set in fictional Drummondganj, nestled in the foothills of
the Himalayas: a distillation of conversations with the self the author may have had in
some remote abode. I. Allan Sealy's new work does not have the epic sweep of his debut
novel Trotter Nama -- an affectionate and witty account of the Anglo-Indian community. Nor
does it have the exuberance of his take-off on Bollywood in the ironically titled Hero.
Nor the wide canvas of his travel book From Yukon to Yucatan.
The explorer's now hung up his boots and turned his gaze to a
microcosmic world: the Everest Hotel and its idiosyncratic inmates. Run by nuns, the
once-elegant hotel is now a home for the debris of society. It is watched over -- from the
roof, literally -- by its owner, the 90-something Immanuel Jed, a vividly-etched character
whose emotions and state of being range from the somnolent to the lyrical to the
diabolically explosive.
While this is a huis clos, albeit with black humour popping
up in the most unexpected places, the world outside intrudes, obliquely, like light from
Venetian blinds. Rumblings of a changing world outside, such as the Tehri Dam issue, the
demand for "Varunachal Pradesh" and stray acts of violence put the narrative in
a contemporary context.
Giving the novel an air of a requiem or a nod to the passing
of time and of an age are references to the cemetery which can be seen from the hotel.
Reinforced as well by the fact that Jed is working on The Drummondganj Book of the Dead,
Sealy's writing here is at its lyrical best. Taking his cue from the poet Kalidasa, he has
divided his chapters into various seasons, ending the way he began, with summer. He has
worked his craft like a lacemaker: intricate, delicate and measured. But sometimes he
overdoes it, whittling his prose down to nothingness. |