January 2010 In My Good Books

The cover of this thick book appears to be a photograph of a cloudy sky. There are a few patches of blue, but thick cloud is enveloping them, ready to snuff them out, and there is clearly rain, if not lightening in the storm. In the foreground is a thin pole balanced on a hand, which disappears into the bottom of the photograph. The pole has been painted with stripes in an attempt to make it look festive, but the paint is faded and flaking. Balanced on a perch at the top of the pole is a child, maybe four years old, a girl in a tattered and dirty dress. She appears to be suspended fifteen or twenty feet above the ground. With one hand she holds tightly to the pole with the other she reaches up, up into nothing, reaching to touch the sky.

If the photograph is real is cannot be taken in any country that has laws preventing child cruelty. The girl is one slip away from serious injury. Her life is being risked in some kind of sick entertainment for an unseen audience. She is alone in a world that doesn’t care for her. The image is perfect for this book. The four main characters are struggling to survive in 1970s India. They come together in a cottage sweat shop, making garments for export. We are offered insight into life at the bottom of the heap both in the rural villages and in the big cities. None of the central characters are winning in life, irrespective of their efforts. Other people make all of the significant decisions for them, and again and again they seem to make progress only to have it taken away. When I was at seminary I visited Pakistan and stayed in Lahore and in Islamabad. I visited shacks and shantytowns where the poor people lived. My host told me that what I was seeing was real freedom — the freedom to be poor on the streets and to have no one there to pick you up — the freedom to exploit and be exploited.

This book addresses what Dickens described again and again in his books about nineteenth century London. I would suggest that this book ranks with Dickens, not just in its subject matter, but also in the quality of Mistry's writing. We are not overwhelmed by the oppression of the characters, although we are always shocked by the heedless brutality of the oppressors. There are moments of beauty as well as moments of despair. Mistry's prose is fluid and surefooted. We become the audience for the tragedy, which unfolds. But the tragedy is not pointless. This book reminds us that in the countries where many of our goods are made there is a continuing exploitation. Even though the events of this book take place in a distant continent and in the (recent) past, they continue to this day. This is a reality check for glossy consumer capitalism.

So as you recover from the annual excess that Christmas has become, take some time to read this book. Take time to let it penetrate your soul. This may be fiction, but it is still true. Do not let yourself into the self-indulgence of guilt. Instead, as you start a new year, take time to think how you will respond positively to this truth. Dickens' stories changed people, and those people changed their world. What might this do for you?