“The sad truth is that the world belongs to men.” — laments a character in Saharu Nusaiba Kannanari’s debut novel, published by Context Books, ‘Chronicle of an Hour and a Half’. Not that we need a literary fiction to remind us of this “sad truth”, but Kannanari has made sure we live it, with a mirror in our hands in the form of his book, and reflect on our ‘not me’ syndrome.
Through the lens of this mob mentality, Kannanari exposes the ease with which moral outrage can be manipulated and weaponised, particularly in the age of social media. It takes precisely ninety minutes, fueled by WhatsApp forwards, for the mob to descend into a frenzy of violence.
Set in a fictional village named Vaiga, in Kerala, the protagonist of this story is not an individual but a mob—in every sense of the word. And if you think a mob is just a volatile amalgamation of disordered minds and unchecked emotions, wait till you turn the pages of this unputdownable novel. “Is there anything more exhilarating than being a part of the mob?” Through the lens of this mob mentality, Kannanari exposes the ease with which moral outrage can be manipulated and weaponised, particularly in the age of social media. It takes precisely ninety minutes, fueled by WhatsApp forwards, for the mob to descend into a frenzy of violence. The reader may think (and so do some of the characters) that the word ‘kill’ is being used casually. After all, one always expects people to calm down soon. But that’s exactly what never happens to a mob. They do not calm down until they really have killed their target.
The question is, who is the target of this mob?
At the heart of the mob’s fury is Burhan, the son of Nabeesumma, who is having an affair with Reyhanna. This would have been as easy as it sounds if it wasn’t for the three complicated identities that Reyhanna carried within herself—(no, religious and caste identities are not at work here)—first, she was a wife (to Sadique, whose kidney she carried inside her). Secondly, she was a mother (to two daughters). And third, she was fifteen years older than Burhan. In this affair lies a profound truth echoed by Milan Kundera in his novel ‘Immortality’. He writes, “Each of us longs to transgress erotic conventions, erotic taboos, to enter with rapture into the kingdom of the Forbidden… Loving an older woman or a younger man can be recommended as the easiest, most readily available means of tasting the Forbidden.” In Kannanari’s world, what may have begun as an unapologetic acceptance of Burhan in Reyhanna’s life, ended with “that bitch”—as the mob would come to call her—receiving a lifelong lesson for pursuing “Forbidden” pleasures.
At one point, Reyhanna confesses, “...I was living my lifeless life in a loveless marriage. But, then, when I met Burhan for the first time…in me desire took wings and rose from some deep repressed region inside me like a bird…He looked far too young for me, far too tall, but I couldn’t care less”. Burhan, on the other hand, may not judge himself for having an affair with a woman much older than him but was quick to confess that he slapped his friend for having an affair with his sister.
What is absolutely intelligent on the part of Kannanari in this narrative is his ability to include everyone in offering their individual perspectives on this scene, whether they are emotionally involved, or distant. “Who can resist a mob?”, writes Kannanari.
Interestingly, the factor that ignited the fire in the mob was a man’s inability to keep a secret—or perhaps, one could argue, his deliberate choice to reveal it. That Burhan is having an affair with a married woman older than him, was a gossip that did rounds on digital platforms like a fire burning over the society’s moral pyre. As scandalous as it may sound, it is equally intriguing to observe men succumbing to irrationality in response to an affair that challenges their imposed moral standards, revealing their underlying jealousies at Burhan’s attainment of what they could not. What is absolutely intelligent on the part of Kannanari in this narrative is his ability to include everyone in offering their individual perspectives on this scene, whether they are emotionally involved, or distant. “Who can resist a mob?”, writes Kannanari.
‘Chronicle of an Hour and a Half’, then, is not loaded with twists and turns, but with a visible agency to the reader to judge each character as the story unfolds.
‘Chronicle of an Hour and a Half’, then, is not loaded with twists and turns, but with a visible agency to the reader to judge each character as the story unfolds. Each individual—across the age spectrum—has been given a first-person voice, mirroring the diverse narratives of the same event we encounter on platforms like WhatsApp. It is as if everyone is crafting their own unique story, adding layers of flavor to the collective experience. But it’s the same platform that sparks chaos when a rumour about Nabeesumma and Reyhanna’s relatives starts circulating. Suddenly, truth becomes a casualty, and perceptions blur reality. The rumour was that Nabeesumma had been slapped by Reyhanna’s male relatives who were looking for Burhan after they came to know about his illicit involvement with Reyhanna. There’s an almost comical moment, where an eyewitness fails to confirm the alleged slap, yet such is the need to be a woman’s saviour in a man’s blood that he does not care for the whole truth. The supposed slap, one could say, filled Nabeesumma’s sons with fury and they hurried after these men to avenge their mother.
But what of the two women being avenged?
Kannanari’s attempt to give an unapologetic voice to his female characters almost succeeds at convincing the readers that Nabeesumma and Reyhanna, as mother and a wife respectively, were in no mood to be allured in romanticisation of either of the two roles. Almost, because while they knew that they wanted to break free, they also knew that they wouldn’t—and as it turns out in the end, eventually they really do not.
The world, really, belongs to men.
Kannanari’s narrative serves as a cautionary tale, urging us to consider the consequences of our actions and the stories we choose to amplify.
As we navigate our interconnected digital landscapes, Kannanari’s narrative serves as a cautionary tale, urging us to consider the consequences of our actions and the stories we choose to amplify. In the end, it is not just the characters of Vaiga who are haunted by their choices, but all who dare to look into the reflective surface of Kannanari’s prose.
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