I had the pleasure of reading Shubhangi Swarup’s Latitudes of Longing, and I must say, I was swept by wonder and emotion. This was one of the finest books by an Indian author. The book was a journey, a fantastical voyage to fantastical places. Each character—Girija Prasad, Mary, Plato, Thapa, Apo, and Rana—was written so melodiously that it felt they were standing next to me, laughing, wondering, weeping, lamenting.
But the most beautiful thing about this novel was that it never went through the sieve of an MFA degree. What I mean by that is that it does not follow the tedious ‘rules’ of storytelling. It says f**k you to the 5 act structure of telling a story. It doesn’t have the hero’s journey, the conflict, the god damn resolution at the end. It is written just how life is, random, beatific, intricate, confounding, but ultimately breathtaking.
Some notable highlights from the book.
Chanda Devi, trained in the straightforward ways of Sanskrit literature, is oblivious to the English obsession with wit as a higher form of intellect. She interprets her husband’s remark in earnestness.
Swarup, Shubhangi. Latitudes of Longing (p. 23)
**
A prison guard stands in Plato’s cell. The orders are simple enough, so Plato can’t understand why he must repeat himself incessantly, destroying the silence. Silence is hard work. Sometimes, Plato wishes his heart would stop beating so that his body could stop pulsating and his chest stop heaving. The silence then would be pure.
Swarup, Shubhangi. Latitudes of Longing (p. 141).
**
At the peak of its brightness, the sun begins it slow journey towards annihilation. The light that falls on the earth goes from burning red to shades of yellow, fading into white. Eventually, darkness takes over. Emptiness is all that remains.
Swarup, Shubhangi. Latitudes of Longing (p. 162).
**
***For someone who has lived alone for all his adult life, this one made so much sense***
He begins the day by soaking his clothes. He then does the dishes before returning to finish the laundry. Having lived alone for most of his life, he is used to the daily rituals of domesticity. No tragedy, emotion or assault is big enough to let go of the washing.
Swarup, Shubhangi. Latitudes of Longing (p. 186).
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*** about India***
This land is a complete land. It has its own desert, sea, glacier, rivers, even its own unique sun and rain which it doesn’t share with the rest of the world. The elements are the rulers. They are the gods, the monsters, the rebels, the revolutionaries, the dancers, the smugglers, the generals, the kings, the poor, the rich, the lovers, the children, the parents. The elements are human.
Swarup, Shubhangi. Latitudes of Longing (p. 206).
**
He often wondered why he was afraid to part with it. Emotions, he believed, were only cosmetic. They held no value in the face of the commercial transaction most people called life. Yet, he was unable to wipe the cosmetic stuff off himself.
Swarup, Shubhangi. Latitudes of Longing (p. 227). (Function). Kindle Edition.
