Point upheld. Deshpande has a febrile impulse: one is drawn into her world of Aiees and Helen Elevens, Munnas and Monas, Ravis and Rafiques...but only fleetingly. That's because her characters are real only momentarily. For the large part they remain cardboard and paste no matter how lovingly Deshpande evokes the smell of their armpits, the flavours of their food, the Hindi abuse peppered strains of their speech. One can smell the varan, the basundi, the prawn pickle, taste the thalipit. What one cannot do is sense the people.
In the end, this actress, given the dream opportunity of writing her own script, blows it. Wafer-thin plots, assorted cast of tiresome stereotypes: the beggar, the bugger, the don, the demon...
A pity. Because it could've been otherwise. Had Deshpande waited to convert knowledge into experience, impulse into insight. That's as much about age as it's about internal landscapes. Which in Deshpande's case seems to be an evolving one. Old Katy from Wicked stays with you. So does Aiee from Pickled. As does the image of the actress clawing at a 'sky full of stars', clinging to life even as she hurtles to death. Not to mention the haunting, haiku, stray images from the poems in the collection. Sample this: 'Remembrance fades the memory of your face/ Pocking it with worldly shades/ Nothing left/ No reflection, only an attic smell/ Are you a bird somewhere/ If you should ever see me/ Do sit on my shoulder/ Whisper reasons in my ear/ For grey skies and heartlessness.'
Can't wait for you to turn 30, madame!
