The Illicit Happiness of Other People (Book Review)

The Unputdownable Wittiness of Manu

In my opinion, mystery novels, owing their existence in a large part to the deluge of ‘Detective’ stories that thrived primarily because they piqued reader’s curiosities, have now run their course. A concept, an idea, a fundamental premise can only be replicated, albeit with necessary variations to keep intact a notion of originality, so many times until the dam of creativity is breached, after which innovation picks itself up from the driver’s seat and disappears into the cargo compartment of a dead vehicle. Simple yet engrossing plots, with requisite decoys, diversions, obscure hints, misled pursuits will at the end of the day bow down to the, now almost mechanical looking, revelatory whodunits in a master-swish of a vulgar display of remarkable deduction, grit and intelligence and that too in so formulaic a manner that most mystery novels just appear as intelligent potboiler masalas. The genre is not to be blamed, for it was its very popularity that led to the deluge of stories that diluted its appeal. That’s why I began with saying that such stories are now in their terminal stages of existence. But, what if mystery story-telling is re-invented in so innovative and delectable a manner, that all its best aspects are retained, including a pacy plot, without falling into any previously well-entrenched pigeonholes? That precisely is the remarkable achievement which ‘The Illicit Happiness of Other People’ (IHOOP) by Manu Joseph is.

Some of the Indian writers who I like reading, share one peculiar quality; which is they powerfully demolish our social pretensions in a very empathetic flourish of their pen, without throwing any of those pretensions to erudite ridicule or literary snobbishness. Their writings, including Joseph’s underline a certain universal humanism that is utilized to denude Indian society, especially its middle class. Joseph has already proven himself as a punchline king in dropping compact and satiric wise-cracks that turn inside out, the objects of his aphoristic treatment. ‘He had two children, a girl and a boy, which emphasized his normalcy’ explodes inside your mind like a thought bomb that suddenly exposes an ever-present, yet invisible truth about our middle class families.  ‘It is the misanthrope alone who has clarity’ also indicates a shared sentiment of these tribe of writers, who employ justifications for stark cynicism, not to shower despondency, but to bring out an alternative perspective that is already there, but not yet observed because of our illusions formulated through centuries of blind social and cultural inculcation. ‘In the fog of ambiguities and mysteries, he desperately searches for truths because truth usually shows humanity in a poor light.’

Manu Joseph has, with this book ensured his place amongst those Indian writers who have achieved brilliance in holding up mirrors to ourselves, in a playful manner while refraining from didactic skullduggery. The foregone statements are comments on things ancillary to the main substance of IHOOP, yet so significant, that they deserved praiseworthy mentions. Moving on to the actual essence will require highly flowery commentary of a level unattainable for me to perfectly capture IHOOP, despite my proclivity for purple prosing. Nonetheless, I would venture towards speaking of the brilliant way in which the suspense was maintained, in the way Unni was portrayed piece by piece from scattered descriptions, in the way the Chacko family - in its middle class penury, in its shambles of a family unit, in its unspoken social ostracization - was caustically presented through the family's minute and major losses. One might at times feel a crack line developing in one’s heart while going through the tragicomedy, yet feel curiously pleasant. This display of just how damaged the characters were, without any contrived indulgence into emotional porn, runs tightly alongside Ousep’s investigation of Unni’s personality that is shattering in itself as an idea.

It’s quite an intimate view of a family, so much so that one tends to feel voyeuristic for knowing too much about the family’s failings, like for example when Mariamma does not raise her hands up at a congregation because her blouse was torn at the armpits. The buffoonish but dogged investigation conducted by Ousep into his son, Unni's motivations for committing suicide maintained a steady suspense and keeps egging one to page-turningly discover what lay ahead. Also, Joseph continued a largely sexist portrayal of women from his previous offering, but compared to that novel, I was convinced this time that his only intention perhaps is to take the reader into the innocent depravity of a thinking male, before he becomes evil enough to cross acceptable boundaries. Joseph dexterously handles kids too and brings great life to their side-roles dominated in large parts by grades and performance in entrance exams. Reading parts involving Thoma were a pure delight, in the way he perceives the world through his naive adolescence and experiences tragedy through the prism of confused comprehension, which goes a long way in promising a faith that he might emerge out of his elder brother's world-view built on bleak pessimism and cynicism feeding off eclectic philosophies. This book reads like a strong piece of music that begins enticingly, makes you wonder about the whole idea of the music in the middle and in the end, delivers a resounding crescendo in powerful dense rhythms.

Image from here.