Where Nothing Happens is the posthumous work by a man who published little but studied and reflected a great deal during his lifetime. It introduces us to an author who combined the heart of a poet with the mind of a philosopher and the spirit of a mystic. The test is astonishing—it is a rare combination of poetic sensibility, wonderfully descriptive prose, unsparing self-knowledge, insights into the self and its surround, flashes of sardonic humour and spiritual and psychic anguish. The book begins with a letter to his dead mother that immediately spellbinds the reader who, when he finishes reading this remarkable book, is loath to let the writer go.
"Another winter slowly setting in, the eighth after you left. You went during the onset of one. I remember the early morning mists outside your hospital window. But it was a mild winter and when we finally brought you back here to the verandah, back to your favourite place, we were in shirt-sleeves. There is a lot of mist now too, but the aureoles around the street-lamps at night bespeak pollution and aching lungs, not a fuzzy poetic delight."
Poignant scenes of love, longing, conflict and guilt—the Ur-stuff of all families—follow, are given life and made achingly palpable by some extraordinary writing. The autobiographical note flows effortlessly into the inner world of a lifelong ‘seeker’ after—Truth? Freedom? Redemption? Philosophical discussions are interspersed with observations on India. The aesthetics of the country’s past and the richness of its philosophical and spiritual thought are counterpointed by outbursts of disgust at its present disrepair. Some may bristle at the patrician disdain that pervades his latter observations but it too is part of Vijai’s unique voice that spoke in many registers. Where Nothing Happens has many levels, a faithful reflection of the author’s commitment to the Buddhist notion of multiple selves.
"I am a creature of luxury, not of comfort. Space, silence, time, balance, bareness, these are the founts at which I drink. Experience, sensation, excitement, I can only imbibe a little at a time. A squirrel, I take my modest nut and scamper into the uppermost branches of a tree; there, in shaded peace, I let the flavours expand on my attentive palate. It does not matter if it is bitter or sweet, acrid or mellow; the leisurely tasting is all."
A dense, complex book, beautifully produced and lovingly edited, Where Nothing Happens has both lightness and gravitas and deserves a leisurely tasting by all discerning readers.
