Without possessing an understanding of the cultural nuances relating to Indian life, I am sure I’m missing a lot of the subtleties in Amit Chaudhuri’s collection of short stories, Real Time.
Having said that, two things about the collection bother me. The first is how so many of the stories seem to ‘fizzle out’, lacking any kind of conclusion, punch, attempt at meaning. In their not being ‘completed’ in some way, they are more ‘whimper’ than ‘bang’.
More alarming, however, is the final section: ‘E-Minor’ and ‘Chasing a Poet: Epilogue’. It is a prose memoir, plain and simple (whether the author’s or a fictional character’s is irrelevant). And yet Chaudhuri has chosen to break up the text as if it were poetry, even inserting blank lines to suggest stanzas. And all this without making any attempt to change the prosaic nature of the language. It simply isn’t poetry: it doesn’t have the rhythm, language or ‘feel’ of poetry. It’s prose, plain and simple. And being broken up in the way it is, the pseudo-poetic layout makes it really hard to read; incredible really, knowing the author is employed as a professor of creative writing…
I had other work by Chaudhuri on my ‘to read’ list, but now I’m not so sure.
Ian Gouge - Writer 