A StoryTeller

Storyteller. An interesting combination of two words. Not so much eclectic as simplistic and effective. It essentially means one who possesses the enviable art of churning out a variety of tales. A common assumption is that most, if not all the work of the storyteller is fiction, based loosely on mythology and personal experiences. Essentially, it defines a typical grandma. While doting on the grandchild, she effortlessly spurns tale after tale, sometimes woven into each other intricately. Magic, palaces, kingdoms, beggars all find their place in these tales.

The enviable aspect is the variety which the storyteller displays in the multitude of his stories. Literally, metaphorically and geographically, it spans from Kashmir to Kanyakumari, consciously imbibing tribes, cultures, lingos and even physical appearances of the land.

You will have noticed how very Indian my description has been. This is because since I was two, I more or less decided that there is no one who can spin a yarn better than my grandmother. Growing up to read quite a number of books by a plethora of authors, I can safely say my opinion remains unchanged. One unexpected writer to validate my feelings would be Jeffrey Archer.

Many say that Archer is the one who changed the Indian’s perception of reading. When ‘classics’ was so proletariat, Jeffrey Archer was bourgeois. Does your child need to start reading ‘good English, but not too much adult’ books? Jeffrey Archer is your man. Has it been aeons since you read a book from cover to cover? You will swear by Jeffrey Archer, I assure you. But this change in perception he brought about. Was it good? I think not.

I think Jeffrey Archer’s definition of storyteller differs greatly from mine. He took it as one man, one story, told a million times. It is, doubtless, a winning formula. David Dhawan uses it. Why, even the names were the same. At least Archer does not stoop to such low levels now.

At no point would I be calling Archer a bad author, no. Why, I might even be so bold, and in some views, hypocritical, to state that ‘As the Crow Flies’ would have to be one of my favourite books.

‘Only Time Will Tell’ is the latest of Archer’s ventures. It is broadly the same as ‘As the Crow Flies’. Throw in a bit of ‘Sons of Fortune’ and ‘A Prisoner Of Birth’ and you’ll see what I mean. It’s Butter Chicken, Chicken Tikka Masala and Chicken Do Pyaaza at a fairly middle class restaurant. The name may change, but they taste, just the same. (This could very well be a Bob Dylan line, or indeed, Snoop Dogg)

To begin with, the first few pages of the book Should state, that there are four more following this one, and they’re all, sequels. I feel this should be made abundantly clear all over the front, as well as the back. Above, below, or In the blurb would be just fine.

What ensues is a beautifully written, ‘unputdownable’ exciting piece of fiction. My problem, then? I wrote the same thing for three of his other books. What is far worse, the bits to follow were Also along the same lines.

First, the style. Jeffrey Archer has perfected this very ‘we all write our memoirs’ method of presenting the book. The book will always revolve around one main character, but the story is told by all the main characters. Chapters, or portions of the book are narrated by different people, possibly to narrate it from their point of view, while keeping the focus on the protagonist. Interestingly, sometimes, I have read the entire book with my protagonist in mind, only to discover later, that he was but a sidekick. One argument in his favour would be, ‘Why change a winning formula?’ I’ll tell you why. This is because in the conscious effort Archer has made to stick to this style, he has subconsciously failed to change the basic Script of the book. I know I have not been specific about these striking similarities:

The protagonist is poor and without friends. He lives in abject conditions, and the both the atmosphere in, and the home itself are squalid and damp. One of the parents will be caring, and the other will not.

The absence of role models of the peer variety is made up by bringing in one of the most important characters in the protagonist’s life. This is usually an old, poor, social outcast. To the reader, this is never obvious. Why is someone so knowledgeable, so elegant, so not-paedophilic a social outcast?

In all probability, this person will Not be related to the protagonist. This person, however, dies in or around the final third of the book.

The primary issue is now settled. The young protagonist, still impressionable, has some direction in life. The next major hurdle to be crossed is putting him in school. This is managed in some manner, the details of which are made clear later. Now in school, our protagonist goes about making friends. The closest friend happens to be, unlike him in the most obvious way. Rich. By rich, I mean filthy, stinking, positively skunk-like odour rich. But he’s a good kid. ‘Dil ka achha hai’. Often, the disparity is obvious, but the rich kid feels awkward, the protagonist is mature beyond his age, and all is well.

The next is when the parents of the rich kid intensely dislike the protagonist. In fact, it is One of the parents. The other’s views, however sympathetic to the hero’s cause, are never relevant, not until the bully parent relents anyway.

There is also a love story brewing, which is between the protagonist and the sibling of the best friend aka the rich kid. At this point, everything is utopic and nothing can seemingly go wrong. Which, as history and literature have always shown, Always means the contrary is Just round the corner.

The cause of the hatred of the parent towards the protagonist becomes abundantly clear in the ensuing chapters. There is a thick, one page of graphic romance included story between the two families. A romantic affair between the two families, and secrets kept hidden for a very long time are the essence of this portion of the story. This leads up to what is the Most interesting, but also the darkest aspect the story presents: Bluntly put, a brother and sister engage in sex, without being aware of the incestuous nature of it.

A few more chapters follow, none of which contain as much action as the ones that precede them.

This is essentially the story of OTWT.

As I have said a number of times, the story in itself is not bad. In fact, it definitely warrants a read, maybe even two. At the same time, for an author of his calibre, it is a definite letdown to see such predictability in the story, and such a callous approach to bringing something new to the table.

Time and again, I have confused the characters of this book with ones from the last. If this is happening to a reader, the author himself must be well aware of the goings-on.

There is some hope though. This book is the first of five, so hopefully, all the similarities have been exhausted. There is some trepidation too though. What if this ‘magnum opus’ (but in parts) of his, as the press seems to call it, turns out to be nothing more than an amalgamation of all his previous works? Is it really something to look forward to?

Final Verdict? Brilliant author, superb short story writer, unchanged in spite of jail time (that’s a cliché I never thought would be broken) and coolly earning his millions. At the cost of his fans though. Well okay. Fan. It should still matter.