THE STORY THAT MUST NOT BE TOLD By Kavery Nambisan, Viking, Rs 499

One of the first things that the reader encounters in The Story That Must Not Be Told is a manuscript — an old, thick, yellowed labour of love — by the late wife of Simon Bosco Jesukumar. The latter is the old, grouchy and strangely active protagonist of Kavery Nambisan’s latest book. Living alone in his apartment in Madras’s expensive Vaibhav housing colony, Simon has only his cat, Thangu, and the memories of his wife, Harini, for company. However, far from being a run-of-the-mill, melancholy old man who sits on his easy chair and ponders the transience of life with helpless resignation, Simon is always on the go — he has spent the years following his wife’s death running from pillar to post in the hope of getting her manuscript published. And then one day, after having visited his son and daughter-in-law in Delhi — and having struck up a curious friendship with Pari, his daughter-in-law’s mother — Simon misses his train back to Madras. And with the train goes Harini’s manuscript, never to be found again.

After the loss of the manuscript, I did wonder about its contents, for it seemed to me that it would remain a story untold, as the title of the book seems to suggest. However, as I read on, I discovered two things; one, that the manuscript of the politically conscious, rigid and idealistic Harini was the result of a lifetime of believing in and studying Marxism; and second, the story of the slum, Sitara, located right next to the plush Vaibhav Apartments, is the heart of the book.

The Story That Must Not Be Told is chiefly about the human condition prevalent in an India that is becoming more and more urban. What makes the book compelling is the division of this condition into paths that go in opposite directions — one leads towards wealth and privilege, the other towards their absence — each being a result of the other. Nambisan shows of Madras what a glance at a busy, congested Calcutta street would reveal as well — the unsettling contiguity in which the rich and the poor exist.

Sitara is a vibrant, pulsating slum. Its inhabitants wake up every morning to the worst living conditions, send their children to the local one-room school and then make their way to Vaibhav, to cook and clean for the people who live there. After a day of witnessing the luxury available to the rich, and all the things that they take for granted, the slum-dwellers return to Sitara and the same conditions to which they wake up every morning. The inhabitants of Vaibhav remain largely passive as Sitara grapples with the absence of water, electricity and hygiene. They are able to lead their lives of comfort because of extensive domestic help and manual labour, most of which comes from Sitara. And yet, concerns of “safety and hygiene” make them squeamish about the existence of a slum at such close quarters, and they slowly galvanize themselves into action to destroy it. Simon Jesukumar is perhaps the only one who, after a cursory visit to Sitara, wants to help the people there in some way. It is when he decides to buy a water cooler for the slum school, after consulting the headmaster, Swamy — who also happens to be the neighbourhood butcher — that something awakens in Sitara. A sense of cold and disillusioned outrage, quiet and dreadful, rears its head, as Simon, his bohemian, opportunistic daughter, Sandhya, and her flamboyant journalist friend, PK, are kidnapped from the alleys of the slum by the mysterious Baqua, who “runs” Sitara. The three are subjected to hours of manual labour in trying conditions for, as Baqua says, if one wants to “help” another, one must first be in his shoes. Sitara, after that, is never the same for Simon and his daughter — for the better, perhaps.

Nambisan’s characters are superbly etched. In fact, in what seems to be a deliberate move, the characters of the slum-dwellers are explored beautifully and in detail, while the inhabitants of Vaibhav, as well as Simon’s own children, are just not as interesting. It seems that when one is not in need, one ceases to find ways to grow and evolve. Jamuna, Simon’s neighbour, grudges him help even when his cat is dying; on the other hand, Velu and Thatkan, two young boys from Sitara, come to the house every day to tend to the paralysed Thangu. There is a particular instance after Thangu’s accident, where the two young boys, with gentle, firm fingers, help the hapless cat expel days’ worth of waste. A lot of people might turn up their noses in disgust at the prospect, but the gratitude in Thangu’s eyes, described so powerfully by Nambisan, will induce tears (whether or not one loves cats). The chief agitator against Sitara, Chockalingam, is as funny as he is annoying in his mannerisms. However, the people of Sitara provide a delicious study in contrasts and nuances — from the good-hearted butcher, Gaffur, who raises the beggar, Swamy, well and leaves his meat shop to him, to the perceptive, plain-looking and beautifully complex Sentha, her tough and loving mother Egavalli, her loyal brother Velu and the bright Thatkan. Even the politician, known as the Nayagan, the quack doctor named Prince and Chellam’s cowardly, lewd and vicious friend, Ponnu, all have compelling histories.

However, a story that began in a beautifully controlled manner suddenly seems to lose its way — perhaps because there are so many characters and so many stories to do justice to. And it would be unfair to say that Nambisan does not do justice to most of them. But as the story of Sitara and Vaibhav continues, with Sitara gaining more and more momentum, there is a sudden loosening of the reins, and some crucial elements in the story never reach a conclusion. For example, one never gets to know what became of Pari and Simon’s flirtatious friendship; there is no clarity regarding the jealous and vengeful Ponnu, who is unable to find peace and satisfaction even after taking “revenge” on his happy friend, Chellam, by sleeping with his daughter, Sentha; even the story of Harini’s manuscript dies an untimely and abrupt death.

But the strangest occurrence in The Story That Must Not Be Told is the destruction of Sitara — a quick, clean job, finished in one night: the total disappearance of the existence of thousands, without a trace. All its inhabitants scatter, and Sitara’s “blood pulses elsewhere”. But Sitara’s destruction and disappearance are far too sudden and convenient — one is left feeling incredulous. Nambisan seems to be in a hurry to end the story and tie up all its loose ends neatly — but in that flurry of activity, she forgets that crucial details are sometimes more important than a resolute outcome.