The graphic novelist is a strange creature, viewing the world partly through pictures, partly words. The reader of graphic novels is an even stranger amphibian; part terrestrial, part aquatic, wholly confused and at sea. Adding to this delightfully confusing scenario is the latest offering from the high priest of this particular literary genre, The Harappa Files by Sarnath Banerjee.
The author begins by unabashedly leaping into autobiographical mode. He gets himself on to the page at the very outset and proceeds to play a sutradhar of sorts. Much later, fellow author, Ambarish Satwik, breezes in and out in the briefest of guest appearances (more like an item number, really) predictably musing over activities involving the nether regions. The acknowledgements page coming at the end of this book reveals that in composing this entire work of unadulterated madness, a great many illustrious minds have lent their individual eccentricities.
As the Harappa File commission is set up by the dodgiest of professionals from various strata of society, it promises to be the sharpest butcher's knife that will cut a society of anxiety into thin chewable fillets. Cut it does, and how! Every conceivable layer of society (ring-wing members from South Delhi, the eco-conscious housewife, the double-innuendo talking sari salesman from Kolkata, Marxists, Facebook enthusiasts, the lot…) is pressed into service to carry the message across. And just what is the message of this graphic novel? Aha! That is the abiding mystery for nobody is very sure, not the reader, not the sterling characters who grace this book, least of all the author…. But it is a merry ride while it lasts. The irreverent social commentary encompasses the entire urban matrix of the country and flits from matters like Delhi's infamous traffic snarls to the intricacies of consumer psychology and from Che Guevara to Jim Morrison. The scientist at work in his lonely citadel is well caught by both textually and pictorially, as is the isolated world of young modern-day genius. Coaching class culture and unreasonable pressures put on students to excel at multiple things will also touch a chord with most readers. What will touch readers the most (literally) and bring on an overpowering rush of olfactory déjà vu are, undoubtedly, Lifebuoy soap, Vicco Vajradanti and Boroline antiseptic cream. A lesson in how to be a geriatric let loose in Madras and survive the experience, gets a whole new meaning here. Nostalgia-evoking moments, many of them, are cleverly crafted by the author. Babudom and the ways of the babus get a special mention, much to the entertainment of the reader.
The illustrations are less complex than in his earlier work The Barn Owl's Wondrous Capers and contain much less drama. The sketches are straightforward, realistic and rendered in an unfussy manner with water-colours or crayons/pastels. The full page Goa drawing stands a stunning masterpiece. Love is tackled in all its complexities and variations and a generous use of colour and detailing is inexplicably reserved for the section on romance.
It takes precisely 15 minutes to go through this book and 15 more minutes to mull over what one has just read. But before one dismisses this as a gimmicky and self-indulgent exercise on the part of the author and his friends, one needs to pause. The very incoherence and arbitrariness evident in this book, obtusely, reflects society in all its fragmented and disconnected essence. And if that is not driving home the point, what is?
