A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry

"But his words of love and sorrow and hope remained muted like stones." ~ p. 692

I have read A Fine Balance twice now, revelling in Mistry's glorious prose like a pig in a field of truffles. I remember the first time I read it: crouched in a PIL booth in Pearson's old T1, using rough brown paper stolen from the bathroom to mop up unbidden (and embarrassing) tears, I tried to tell myself to stop reading in such a public place and but kept convincing myself that another chapter wouldn't hurt. That was years ago (seven? my goodness...).

Enter Book Club in February. Having finished our first (and hopefully annual) poetry reading, we sat around my living room trying to figure out April's read. As usual, in these times, I go to my bookshelves. There's always a stack of books I've bought but haven't read and, of course, books I would gladly read again. And there, from the top shelf of my patriotic favourites, Mistry called to me. I have, since that PIL booth, read most of Mistry's works published to date. I find him terrible and amazing, a true literary master, capable to drawing me into these people's lives - people so removed from my own life and yet so easily taking up residence in my heart. How is it possible, reading this tome twice that I'm still wiping tears (back of hand this time, but no less embarrassing), when I knew the outcome from the very outset?

But enough about me.

What praises may I heap upon this book that haven't already been laid at its feet. It's epic - truly, without exaggeration - spanning generations and detailing moments effortlessly. Seven hundred and thirteen tiny-print pages flew by. Every character, from stubborn widow to tailors, from reluctant student to Beggarmaster, from Monkey-man to Rajaram - every one is a lesson in a master class of character studies. But what really makes this book so special is its singular ability to bring the bitter cup of tragedy to the lips of the reader and have the reader drink of it deeply, forsaking its bilious content while, paradoxically, asking for more. Surely, that's the genius. Watching the four central characters weave themselves together into a tight and inevitable narrative is a joy that makes one hope for a happy ending, proving that "it did not always have to end badly." Are we fools to dream in the midst of such despair? Mistry doesn't think so - our hope and our belief in happy endings is what pulls humanity forward, through the darkest of days. I can't help but hope that, when I turn the page, it will work out. I am heartened that I am not yet so jaded. Perhaps therein lies the true brilliance of this work: not only its ability to make you drink from the bitter cup, but to convince you that the next sip will be sweeter.

I love this book. I am reminded of just how much as I type this at 2am, eye makeup smeared. Please read it; it's good for your soul (if you believe in such things).