This novel is divided into chapters, each talking about a person in the Miguel street, world war II forming the context. It reminded me of Catch 22.
It teaches a lot about how to observe and sketch people, and knit them into a narrative. It’s not a story bound by chains of cause and effect, there’s no journey this tale charts, and yet all the lives in Miguel street are woven so perfectly that one starts missing them with the narrator when he leaves it at last.
One particular thing I loved from this was that contrary to the classic novelists who take two pages to describe a broken vase, Naipaul, in a sentence or two can paint a picture. Here’s an example: “Only when we had left Port of Spain and the suburbs I looked outside. It was a clear, hot day. Men and Women were working in rice-fields. Some children were bathing under a stand-pipe at the side of the road. “
Miguel Street talks about the Port of Spain, while Paris, London and America linger only at the periphery. In my view, this locational shift marks an important inversion, conveying the story of a colony in the backdrop of a total war fought for the imperialist causes. He explores many important themes while keeping the fun of the narrative intact. The characters are all poor, struggling to find employment. The men beat their wives, sometimes they beat each other up. There’s problem of drinking, discordance, and yet, somehow, Miguel street holds itself together. Initially, I thought this togetherness was there because it was conjured up by the narrator, until I came across this line:
“I was disappointed…. because although I had been away, destined to be gone for good, everything was going on just as before, with nothing to indicate my absence. “
Miguel Street took me to an autumn evening in my village in 2008, when birds flocked back as the sun melted away into a russet smear, and people strolled back from their golden fields while the women burnt the cow dung cakes. You could hear the bicycle bells mix with the cow’s moo and it was a peculiar music only the good old village could make. Maybe this is what’s called Saudade- a home you can never return to.
roastedmoongfalis 