A critical analysis of the novel ‘Cutting for Stone’ by Abraham Verghese

This blog is dedicated to my boss who is a diligent anonymous follower of my blog, and who recommended the book below to me, which I have read and have the following criticisms:

A critical analysis of the novel ‘Cutting for Stone’ by Abraham Verghese

1.            The backdrop does not really reveal much

This book revolves around twin brothers born (allegedly) mysteriously to an Indian nun and a British doctor (always remember, there is no such thing as an immaculate conception, it’s only a matter of time before such stories are revealed as mere fiction not unlike Hang Tuah and gang), set against the backdrop of tumultuous events in Ethiopia, including an attempted military coup.

However, I feel that the backdrop does not really address the history of Ethiopia both from an international perspective as well as from the main character’s perspective. At the end of the novel, I had no idea what Ethiopia’s history was, and had to Google the same to get some answers.

In this regard,  Khaled Hosseini’s ‘The Kite Runner’ and ‘A Thousand Splendid Suns’ provide excellent reads both in terms of plot as well as the history of Afghanistan.

2.            Medical jargon

The author, Abraham Verghese, is a doctor. And like most doctors I know, they tend to forget that some, if not most, of their listeners / readers do not have medical background or knowledge, and (surprise, surprise) are not interested in medical stuff, otherwise they would be in the medical profession.

The author spends too much time writing about medical conditions, surgeries and the like in some detail which does not interest me at all. There is only so much medical jargon that one can take. I may condone it if it was actually important to the plot, but most of it was not. At times I felt like I was reading a medical text book. Not fun.

3.            Talk about the Ramayana!

If there was ever a competition on who can write longer than the Ramayana, this book will surely be in the running. The plot is fairly simple. But it just went on and on and on and on for 541 pages! Brevity is the soul of wit? Certainly not for this author!

4.            Conclusion

As long winded as the writer was, he did write well at times, but unfortunately the well written verses do not really stand out in light of the tedious and lengthy phrases  that seem to go on forever with no end in sight. On a scale of 1 to 10, (1 = sucks, 10 = must read) I’d give it a 3.

By comparison, books that I have rated as 9 include ‘1984’ by George Orwell and ‘The Sense of an Ending’ by Julian Barnes.

Sorry boss!

Ramblings...

There’s nothing like a bit of nostalgia to calm a restless heart. Going back to where it all started, where dreams were first planted in one’s soul, and after being carefully nurtured over the years, some blossomed into beautiful trees, trees that would provide shade and shelter to the people around one; whilst other dreams just wilted and faded away. Perhaps it was meant to be this way. Perhaps going back to where it all started is what one needs to start again – to replant those dreams that have failed, to nurture them and see where it takes one. It’s not too late; it can’t be too late if one is still alive. And while one is at it, I suppose there is nothing to stop one from planting new dreams – dreams that heretofore seemed impossible, but with time and experience, have become possible.

A picture paints a thousand words

iPad 2                : RMX,XXX
Cover                 : RMXX
Screen protector : RMXX
Router                : RMXX

The look on Dad's face when receiving gift : Priceless

Help me or don't help me - it's as simple as that!

When I ask you for help, I am well aware that I am asking a favour. You are not obliged to help me. So I’d appreciate it if you would just tell it to my face whether you are able to help me or not. If you can, well and good. If you can’t, I won’t hold it against you.

But if you can’t or don’t want to or won’t, TELL ME! Tell me so that I can ask for help from someone else, or figure something out on my own. Don’t give me the impression that you will help me and then make me wait for you while you give me the run around. It is disrespectful. It is shameful.

You think you’re letting me down gently by telling me you can help me, but then giving me 10,000 excuses about how you have to be everywhere else in this world. You think that by doing that, I will get the hint and understand that you really don’t wish to help me.

But you don’t realize that by telling me you’ll help me and then giving me excuses as to why you can’t, you are only delaying the help that I needed, help which I could’ve gotten earlier had you told me in the first place that you can’t help me.

So do me one last favour. The next time I ask you for help, have the guts to tell me to my face that you can’t help me. Not that I’d ask for your help again anyway.

Misery loves company

Sometimes I think I find my own misery. Like I cannot believe that I can actually be happy. Truly and genuinely happy. Or maybe I’m just afraid that the happiness won’t last. It never does. So before the universe puts a spanner in the works, I find my own misery.

Reminiscences

As cliché as this may sound, have you ever wondered why you were put here on Earth, right here, right now? I have asked myself this a million times and I’m sorry to say that I still don’t have the answer. If everything happens for a reason, then there must be a reason for my very existence right here, right now. Or in the bigger scheme of things, I am meant to do something, either minute or colossal, which may then trigger other events which in turn will trigger other events, etc. In other words, something in the future that is meant to happen will not happen without me.

I often entertain morbid thoughts, usually to do with my own mortality. Even when I am not entertaining such thoughts, taking a flight on a budget airplane during the monsoon season would soon put such thoughts into your head, trust me. So as I was sitting through some pretty rough turbulence, as usual I thought whether this would be the end and if so, I would actually be happy right then and there because I have nothing more to live for anyway.

And then this stray thought just comes into my head, telling me that it’s not the end yet for me because my mission as it were on Earth is not done yet. A random thought borne out of fear? God whispering to me? The universe reaching out to me? A voice from the past? A voice from the future? And no, I’m not schizophrenic.

Whatever it is, I have 17 years to find out what it is that I have to do, and more importantly, I hope that whatever history altering feat that I have to perform will be duly performed to the standards of the powers that be before 17 years is up. Maybe the fact that I die in 17 years is the thing that I’m supposed to do. In which case, how ironic is that? To survive 50 years of death defying accidents, murder, disease and other anything-can-happen nonsense, only to die in the end at my own hands.

Saying goodbye

Every time I say goodbye to my parents, I am transported back into my 6-year-old self, standing like a lost puppy at the door step of my kindergarden, being separated from my parents for the first time in my life. There is a feeling of helplessness and loss, like my whole world of warmth, security, protection, seclusion even – was all crumbling down like a house of cards. And the kindergarden teachers who pulled away a tearful 6-year-old that day were all wicked witches who ate little children for fun, and they would be sure to eat me for I was the fattest of them all.

Fast forward 27 years later, I still feel the same way every time I say goodbye to my parents. Like I am leaving the safest place I know into unknown, adverse and hostile territory where only the valiant and resilient will survive, for if you don’t watch your back, the world will surely swallow you whole. Nay, tear you to pieces, watch your tortured body and tormented soul fester in pain and agony, and then swallow every last piece of you, and then some.

Saying goodbye to them was never easy for me then, and it isn’t easy for me even now.