Great Eastern Hotel
Ruchir Joshi
HarperCollins India
INR 1400
Twenty years of work have gone into this novel, a book already being called a ‘humdinger’—and, thanks to its sheer heft, even a doorstop. But its weight is not just physical; it carries the weight of years of research, meticulous writing, and rewriting to pin down an era with precision. The buzz is about its density of content—has there been a novel of such scale since A Suitable Boy? Before I lose myself in its weight, let라이브 바카라 get back to business—for a reader in bed, it라이브 바카라 a challenge on the wrist but unquestionably worth it.
The mind does jump back to Last Jet Engine Laugh but going back to the future is no help – this is set in the past and is firmly grounded in its time, a quieter more definitive piece that none the less reflects on the current time in its own way as the last one did.
The novel opens with a tsunami of mourning on August 7, 1941 the day of Tagore라이브 바카라 death, when the city teems with crowds jostling to join the funeral procession from the Jorasanko Thakurbari to the cremation grounds at Nimtala Ghat. Other events follow – the Japanese threat makes World War very real for the city, stirring anxieties about India라이브 바카라 fate and Independence as the Asia-Pacific conflict intensifies. The shockwaves of Japan라이브 바카라 attack on Pearl Harbour and the fall of Singapore only heighten these fears. Very little that defined the time and changed is missed out – Churchill라이브 바카라 engineered famine that flooded the city again, this time with the starving, the Quit India protests and Matangini Hazra not to mention the CPI-backed Tebhaga uprising.
Set against this backdrop Great Eastern Hotel is what one would call a period piece - ‘an teak’ in Joshi라이브 바카라 terminology - though far from creaking. One may have expected something like Shankar라이브 바카라 Chowringhee but it takes a while to get to the hotel – we’re sent to a hangar and a GI auction where Niru with her half Markin son is looking for a trumpet among what seems to be an orchestra of instruments. The war is over the GIs are leaving and then we go back in time to the churning seething day of Tagore라이브 바카라 death. The hotel doesn’t appear till later and in your mind you revisit the metaphor of Bengal as a hotel stuffed with different kinds of people from different places some of them regulars some there for a night or so and some on the make or out for a fix.
There are Kedar, Gopal. Imogen, Niru who the reader meets at the turn of a page, each with their own stories and each could have been a book on their own. Kedar the feudal lordling in love with a European and has an equal passion for art, Gopal is inducted into a blackmarket gang by the Ustad graduating from pocket-maar status, Imogen is the young memsahib with camiknickers while Nirupama and her jhola belong to the ‘party’. Joshi라이브 바카라 descriptions of their lives and relationships are detailed, so that they become part of a living, breathing canvas or perhaps part of a jigsaw interlocking to create a whole with the help of a narrator who is transcribing interview tapes and who will ensure Kedar라이브 바카라 paintings see the light of an exhibition. Yes, one does wonder how many main characters there are and occasionally losing track of who did what last before settling down to the main thread of the story. Joshi is aware of the problems that his vast canvas may pose and has his very Joshi narrator provide conversational or textual clues to what라이브 바카라 coming next like a Saraswati theme in a conversation continued from one context to another.
Details bring the novel to life—whether it라이브 바카라 the intricate sex lives of its characters, the textures of canvases, the rich descriptions of French cuisine, or an entire page dedicated to Gopal learning to load a handgun seek with the eye of a filmmaker. Though steeped in history, the book feels strikingly modern. Joshi라이브 바카라 tongue in cheek humour lightens the narrative, as seen in the playfully mismatched names—Gouranzeb and Aurangzeb—or in the way he sends up the language pomposities of Bengalis and even Parsis. One might almost miss the poetic section headers in the swathe of dialogue, ending with the grim jazz of Strange Fruit.
Beneath its grand sweep, Great Eastern Hotel remains a novel about politics—how the shifting tides of war and colonial uncertainty ripple through the lives of its characters. The fluctuating black market, the arrival of penicillin (a fresh opportunity for the Ustad라이브 바카라 gang), or Andrew라이브 바카라 posting to Rangoon—all serve as touchpoints linking the personal to the historical, reinforcing the larger political landscape.
As someone who lives in a World War II-era bungalow, once offering a clear view of the Lakes before modern buildings got in the way, I was interested in the novel라이브 바카라 careful road mapping. For those unfamiliar with Calcutta, it provides a sense of place through mentions of landmark buildings—some still standing, others lost to time. The nostalgia comes through very strongly in its references to the crisscrossing tram tracks of Chowringhee and Esplanade, a reminder that the city is now tramless.
We still live in a troubled time with wars on the fringes. Issues of fascism and anti-fascism persist while jhola-carrying students throng College Street, dilettante artists experiment with their canvases and pickpockets swarm the back gallies - though the renamed city while rich in hotels is perhaps more a Freeschool Street backpackers haunt.
Twenty years after the final full stop, this novel serves as a meditation on what was, what is and perhaps what will be. As readers lose themselves in its pages, they may find themselves reflecting, much like the characters, on the tides of history and the fleeting nature of place and time.
