 "Delhi, water wars and graphic notes from underground")
ALL QUIET IN VIKASPURI
Author: Sarnath Banerjee
Publisher: HarperCollins
Pages: 143
Price: Rs 799
Remember the first few scenes of Delhi Belly? An empty bucket misses its rightful share of water thanks to an inch of miscalculation by its owners. This early morning malady could be playing out simultaneously anywhere in Delhi — Khirki Extension, Daryaganj, Kalkaji, Seemapuri, Hauz Khas, Rohini. The game is clearly that of measurements. Miss-calculations, no matter how small, can ruin timetables, shatter domestic peace, cause heart attacks and start wars. While everyone knows no inch can be given in this battle for survival between man and water, only a few foresee the apocalypse waiting in the water-pipe-like depths of time. Sarnath Banerjee, a habitual meddler of histories, storyteller and miscreant of the artistic sort, is perhaps one of them. Or perhaps not.
Banerjee, who has excavated Kolkata/Calcutta/Golghota from “the dark armpits of history” (The Barn Owl’s Wondrous Caper), pulled the fragments of Delhi’s many corridors into “a heap of broken images” (Corridor), and made public the “world-shattering” Harappa findings (The Harappa File), returns to address that deepest of Delhi’s middle-class angst and goes chasing after its water-deprived future in All Quiet in Vikaspuri.
The author’s fourth graphic novel takes us to a parched Delhi that has become a hub of water-mafias battling it out for the corporatised natural resource. As the rich move to the greener golf gardens of Gurgaon and its gated communities, back in the capital, localities battle localities: Naraina versus Pitampura, Pashchim Vihar against New Rajendra Nagar, Alakananda versus Govindpuri. Players emerge: corporate kingpins, masked vigilantes, mass-murderers, fringe-elements, social-outcasts, heroes, legends. Somewhere in the mix is the mythical river Saraswati.
The fast-paced page-turner is packed with non-linear narratives, quirky characters and parallel plot-lines that build up a mystery that can be solved only if the reader wishes to do so. Those familiar with Banerjee’s works, however, would know that the mystery is never the lynch-pin of his graphic novels. There is much that happens beneath the surface.
In a recent interview to The Indian Express, Banerjee said the “book was commissioned by an organisation I won’t name and everything went well till I showed them the ink drawings. At that point they baulked and called me a communist. Can you believe it?” The first chapter does seem to have fallen straight out of a communist manifesto. The author introduces us to a town, whose once happy existence under the umbrella of a public-sector copper company, is disrupted first by the vagrancy of the global commodity markets, and then the quick-fix solution of privatising. Tambapur (tamba means copper) is reduced quickly to a ruin; its economic ecosystem is destroyed; unemployment increases as does the exodus of skilled labourers.
This section’s left leanings are bolstered by lines like, “A percentage of the Indian middle class thinks that corporates are benevolent philanthropic organisations who, in their hearts, desire the betterment of their fellow humans.” It is in the last pages of the book however, that you realise the preface is not all it seems, and Banerjee keeps more loyal to his own brand of subtle ironies, self-criticism and sarcasm than anything else. The book makes it clear that problems necessarily do not have plain, one-sided solutions.
From the swift 12-page starter, emerges Girish, the Psychic Plumber, who first appeared in The Harappa Files, and will lead the ensemble cast in the present story. Girish’s path leads to the place to which a major portion of displaced labourers from small towns usually flock in search of a better future — Delhi. Girish’s “origin story” will also remind the reader of Digital Dutta, a similarly recurrent character, appearing in the first two of Banerjee’s books.
While Harappa had its own charm, Vikaspuri brings back the good old days of Barn Owl and Corridor. Banerjee’s images had always been free from his texts. Not only do they add depth and dimension to the story in words, they tell a story of their own, which often clashes with the text narrative. In Vikaspuri, Delhi gets its own Batman, and it is not the words but his images that brings the vigilante to life. This disillusioned rich young man, who grows up to become an anti-hero of sorts, wields a camera rather than Bat-a-rangs. Banerjee’s vigilante stands for knowledge rather than for justice. Or he could just be out there having fun. The ill-fitting tights, and the pretentious pose, are as much a statement of identity as it is a critical comment on “vigilante justice”. Do we also see a thin ghost of Phantom in the drawing?
Finally, there are, what I call the “pinch” and “punch” sections. There are two considerably long sections of the narrative that do not particularly contribute to the sequence of the plot but are essential in shaping the book. The first, the chapter titled “Short termism”, is almost certainly a diversion. This is the “pinch” section. Banerjee covers everything from the birth of the Taliban to land acquisition to the Delhi Commonwealth Games to sexual harassment to whatnot as the varied effects of what he calls “short-termism”. This might be over-simplifying matters. On the other hand, you cannot help gasping at the author’s verisimilitude. A foil to the prologue, the chapter on short-termism forms the other half of the book’s critique on Delhi’s urban life.
The “punch” section comprises ten pages of simple graphic reportage in which rich boy Varun Bhalla is given a “news update” from his schizophrenic vision, a pint-size rural journalist. Just when you thought the author is ranting, he delivers a section, complete with facts, case studies, description and analysis of social processes, that slams you, nose first, into ground realities. Caution: sentences like “Twitter does not bring revolution, hunger does,” can cause your brains to explode. Water is only an excuse, a plot device in All Quiet in Vikaspuri. This is not a journal to water conservation. Banerjee’s graphic novel, instead, exposes the very soul of Delhi in all its quirky contradictions. It is as much a critique on the idea of development as it is of the critics themselves. In The Indian Express interview Banerjee admitted his reluctance to produce graphic novels, and how he seems to keep coming back to them. It is a good thing that he does.
Author: Sarnath Banerjee
Publisher: HarperCollins
Pages: 143
Price: Rs 799
Remember the first few scenes of Delhi Belly? An empty bucket misses its rightful share of water thanks to an inch of miscalculation by its owners. This early morning malady could be playing out simultaneously anywhere in Delhi — Khirki Extension, Daryaganj, Kalkaji, Seemapuri, Hauz Khas, Rohini. The game is clearly that of measurements. Miss-calculations, no matter how small, can ruin timetables, shatter domestic peace, cause heart attacks and start wars. While everyone knows no inch can be given in this battle for survival between man and water, only a few foresee the apocalypse waiting in the water-pipe-like depths of time. Sarnath Banerjee, a habitual meddler of histories, storyteller and miscreant of the artistic sort, is perhaps one of them. Or perhaps not.
Banerjee, who has excavated Kolkata/Calcutta/Golghota from “the dark armpits of history” (The Barn Owl’s Wondrous Caper), pulled the fragments of Delhi’s many corridors into “a heap of broken images” (Corridor), and made public the “world-shattering” Harappa findings (The Harappa File), returns to address that deepest of Delhi’s middle-class angst and goes chasing after its water-deprived future in All Quiet in Vikaspuri.
The author’s fourth graphic novel takes us to a parched Delhi that has become a hub of water-mafias battling it out for the corporatised natural resource. As the rich move to the greener golf gardens of Gurgaon and its gated communities, back in the capital, localities battle localities: Naraina versus Pitampura, Pashchim Vihar against New Rajendra Nagar, Alakananda versus Govindpuri. Players emerge: corporate kingpins, masked vigilantes, mass-murderers, fringe-elements, social-outcasts, heroes, legends. Somewhere in the mix is the mythical river Saraswati.
The fast-paced page-turner is packed with non-linear narratives, quirky characters and parallel plot-lines that build up a mystery that can be solved only if the reader wishes to do so. Those familiar with Banerjee’s works, however, would know that the mystery is never the lynch-pin of his graphic novels. There is much that happens beneath the surface.
In a recent interview to The Indian Express, Banerjee said the “book was commissioned by an organisation I won’t name and everything went well till I showed them the ink drawings. At that point they baulked and called me a communist. Can you believe it?” The first chapter does seem to have fallen straight out of a communist manifesto. The author introduces us to a town, whose once happy existence under the umbrella of a public-sector copper company, is disrupted first by the vagrancy of the global commodity markets, and then the quick-fix solution of privatising. Tambapur (tamba means copper) is reduced quickly to a ruin; its economic ecosystem is destroyed; unemployment increases as does the exodus of skilled labourers.
This section’s left leanings are bolstered by lines like, “A percentage of the Indian middle class thinks that corporates are benevolent philanthropic organisations who, in their hearts, desire the betterment of their fellow humans.” It is in the last pages of the book however, that you realise the preface is not all it seems, and Banerjee keeps more loyal to his own brand of subtle ironies, self-criticism and sarcasm than anything else. The book makes it clear that problems necessarily do not have plain, one-sided solutions.
From the swift 12-page starter, emerges Girish, the Psychic Plumber, who first appeared in The Harappa Files, and will lead the ensemble cast in the present story. Girish’s path leads to the place to which a major portion of displaced labourers from small towns usually flock in search of a better future — Delhi. Girish’s “origin story” will also remind the reader of Digital Dutta, a similarly recurrent character, appearing in the first two of Banerjee’s books.
While Harappa had its own charm, Vikaspuri brings back the good old days of Barn Owl and Corridor. Banerjee’s images had always been free from his texts. Not only do they add depth and dimension to the story in words, they tell a story of their own, which often clashes with the text narrative. In Vikaspuri, Delhi gets its own Batman, and it is not the words but his images that brings the vigilante to life. This disillusioned rich young man, who grows up to become an anti-hero of sorts, wields a camera rather than Bat-a-rangs. Banerjee’s vigilante stands for knowledge rather than for justice. Or he could just be out there having fun. The ill-fitting tights, and the pretentious pose, are as much a statement of identity as it is a critical comment on “vigilante justice”. Do we also see a thin ghost of Phantom in the drawing?
Finally, there are, what I call the “pinch” and “punch” sections. There are two considerably long sections of the narrative that do not particularly contribute to the sequence of the plot but are essential in shaping the book. The first, the chapter titled “Short termism”, is almost certainly a diversion. This is the “pinch” section. Banerjee covers everything from the birth of the Taliban to land acquisition to the Delhi Commonwealth Games to sexual harassment to whatnot as the varied effects of what he calls “short-termism”. This might be over-simplifying matters. On the other hand, you cannot help gasping at the author’s verisimilitude. A foil to the prologue, the chapter on short-termism forms the other half of the book’s critique on Delhi’s urban life.
The “punch” section comprises ten pages of simple graphic reportage in which rich boy Varun Bhalla is given a “news update” from his schizophrenic vision, a pint-size rural journalist. Just when you thought the author is ranting, he delivers a section, complete with facts, case studies, description and analysis of social processes, that slams you, nose first, into ground realities. Caution: sentences like “Twitter does not bring revolution, hunger does,” can cause your brains to explode. Water is only an excuse, a plot device in All Quiet in Vikaspuri. This is not a journal to water conservation. Banerjee’s graphic novel, instead, exposes the very soul of Delhi in all its quirky contradictions. It is as much a critique on the idea of development as it is of the critics themselves. In The Indian Express interview Banerjee admitted his reluctance to produce graphic novels, and how he seems to keep coming back to them. It is a good thing that he does.