The book under review is not great. Certainly not a page-turner, boring in parts and difficult to finish. It is, however, very well-written. Indeed, this is an essential quality that every book must have. But in these mediocre times of bubblegum writing, when authors get away with easy and lazy writing to become bestsellers, this is reason enough for one to give a good review — or at least appreciate the effort. For at 82, Sylvia Dyer has definitely done a far better job of writing a book than most authors less than half her age.
Unfortunately, good language is not enough. Nor is the ability to paint vivid imagery with words. A writer has to be a master story-teller to be memorable. And that’s where the author falters, even though she has enough material. The Spell of the Flying Foxes begins with the days of the Raj in 1854 when a young man, Alfred Augustus Tripe, comes to India in search of Blue Gold or indigo. Leaving behind his life in England, he settles for the distant, untamed land of Champaran in north Bihar. Thus begins a family saga across generations right up till Independence.
Tripe marries an Indian lady, becomes the owner of seven indigo farms and reaps prosperity in the days when “dust turned to gold”. Those were the days of the flying foxes — for, it is believed that they augur prosperity. But things change soon with Tripe’s death. His only surviving son comes to live in India to take over the land. His daughter Gladys, on whom the novel is centred, is the author’s mother. So the book is, in fact, based on a first-hand account. And the author is witness to some of the defining times of modern Indian history: Partition, Independence and the land reforms that came with it, and even the 1934 earthquake in Bihar that measured 8.2 on the Richter scale.
Divided in three parts, Dyer gives a sympathetic account of her mother’s life in India. Part I introduces us to her as she is left alone with her children and an unscrupulous cousin bent on snatching her inheritance away after the earthquake destroys everything. Part II details the author’s childhood in the idyllic countryside. Dyer gives you a cosy picture complete with the simplicity of rural charm and beautiful landscapes. Sample this: “And the sun suddenly emerged, a ball of molten gold with vermillion dregs, growing clearer and brighter.” Or, “Masses of annuals in full bloom made it a fragrant, busy afternoon, sweet-pea fences and butterflies flittered drunkenly into our faces.” Another instance: “Smoke curling up in spirals from a multitude of village bonfires hung in the air in a diffused grey-blue belt.”
The book towards the end shifts to the pre-Independence era — 1942: the great change. Here Dyer tells you a story you seldom hear — not the account of an Indian or a Briton but of a people torn in between, of Anglo-Indians. These are accounts lost in the middle of valiant stories about Indians who sacrificed their lives for Independence and the British who committed atrocities against them. With rhythmic outbursts of anti-British “White dog, quit India” slogans and bubbling anger for the “oppressors”, India changed for these people whose roots were foreign but who belonged very much to the country. As Independence brought jubilation to Indians, to Anglo-Indians it brought “restlessness”. Unwelcome in the land their ancestors had made home, some fled, yet others were reluctant to go back to the country with “no sight of the bloody sun”. Inevitably, however, life changed for those who left and who stayed on, for the spell of the flying foxes was long over and along with it the days of gaiety.
Those were troubled times for the entire nation and since the author does not delve deep enough in the pathos of the Anglo-Indian situation, their story pales in comparison to the countless other chronicles of strife you’d have heard.
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All in all, the book, though lyrical in language, is unfortunately nothing more than that. Dyer brings alive a world long lost. But she is able to do that only in quality, not in substance. You know what it looks like and what life must be like in it but you aren’t sucked into it. At best, you remain an observer and a very apathetic one at that.
THE SPELL OF THE FLYING FOXES
Sylvia Dyer
Penguin
254 pages; Rs 299