A review by nevermoreliterature
চৌরঙ্গী, by Sankar
4.0
That day, when the clouds were mercilessly pouring upon the dry and oft - trodden pathways of The City of Joy. Sankar, standing in a bookstore, was casually flipping through the pages of a book, when few lines caught his eyes. Visibly shaken, he looked up to find the silhouette of the famous Grand Hotel, bravely resisting the ravaging downpour, on the other side of the street.
And just like that, 'Chowringhee' was conceived.
The story is about 'Shahjahan Hotel'. An Incarnation of grandiose. Our main protagonist, almost akin to a flesh and blood human being. And the vibrant set of characters, we come to hate and love over the course of the long journey, serve as it's beating heart. Sankar himself is the narrator. And the book is a banquet of stories witnessed through his eyes. In a labyrinth, where deceit is the usual norm and where tenderness is found in the most unexpected places.
Easy language. Capacity to draw an usual reader in. Memorable characters. Satisfying story arcs. A timid yet leisurely pace. The glitters and facades of high society. A tale of poignancy. Contributes together to make this almost 450 page ride as comfortable as it gets. A striking example of how to mesh the nuances of popular fiction into well written literature.
Initially labelled pulpy and for the masses. 50 years, 120 editions, English, French, Italian translations later, "Shahjahan's untiring red lights are still flickering", without losing a single beat.
While we celebrate the book for all its greatness, one needs to go back to the lines Sankar read on that fateful day,
'Our life is but a winter's day :
Some only breakfast and away ;
Others to dinner stay and are full fed ;
The oldest man but sups and goes to bed ;
He that goes soonest has the least to pay.'
And just like that, 'Chowringhee' was conceived.
The story is about 'Shahjahan Hotel'. An Incarnation of grandiose. Our main protagonist, almost akin to a flesh and blood human being. And the vibrant set of characters, we come to hate and love over the course of the long journey, serve as it's beating heart. Sankar himself is the narrator. And the book is a banquet of stories witnessed through his eyes. In a labyrinth, where deceit is the usual norm and where tenderness is found in the most unexpected places.
Easy language. Capacity to draw an usual reader in. Memorable characters. Satisfying story arcs. A timid yet leisurely pace. The glitters and facades of high society. A tale of poignancy. Contributes together to make this almost 450 page ride as comfortable as it gets. A striking example of how to mesh the nuances of popular fiction into well written literature.
Initially labelled pulpy and for the masses. 50 years, 120 editions, English, French, Italian translations later, "Shahjahan's untiring red lights are still flickering", without losing a single beat.
While we celebrate the book for all its greatness, one needs to go back to the lines Sankar read on that fateful day,
'Our life is but a winter's day :
Some only breakfast and away ;
Others to dinner stay and are full fed ;
The oldest man but sups and goes to bed ;
He that goes soonest has the least to pay.'