The novel begins with the irritating and overused technique of some characters offering to unload their life experiences on the writer. The moment the character, Atit, the protagonist, begins reciting his tale, the story picks up. There are hiccups in the beginning, with the author struggling to introduce the characters, to give readers a feel of the setting, explore his feelings, and so on. Once that’s done, it’s almost smooth sailing, as the characters come alive. Readers, especially young ones, will become hooked to this realistic portrayal, which could be happening in any of our lives.[break]
Just as the love between Atit and Saya, it could be sprouting in the hearts of any of the readers. The initial awkwardness, the gradual friendship and intimacy, the tenderness, the spats and quarrels – the incidents might be long drawn out, but they are mostly justified, as they let the readers follow the tale of love with ease.
Bhattarai writes in clear, lucid, slick prose, not much unlike the simplicity that Narayan Wagle, and then Buddhisagar, displayed in their fiction. It’s the language we think and speak in. But the difference is that Bhattarai’s approach is even more fresh, his characters are almost all young and unformed, their dialogues are what any collegiate would speak. His ability to pick people off the streets and make them talk on paper is his biggest strength.
The lingo of the youngsters, their thought processes, the way they gorge on pani puris, chiya and churot, log onto Skype at the drop of a hat, shoot pictures for a Facebook profile, spend nights texting each other, drink wildly before an amorous night – it’s so now, so today, so us. It’s what has almost never been explored in a full-length novel in the Nepali language, though plenty of stories have done so.
It would be difficult to talk of the plot without revealing it, for it moves ahead in a linear fashion, capturing the romance with glimpses of strained family relations and combined fieldworks. The subject matter itself isn’t a page turner by any stretch of imagination, but by the time the romance develops into a full-fledged affair, readers are emotionally attached to the protagonists, they actually want to know where it all goes. When a character’s proposal is accepted, they are elated, and when the lovers suffer, it’ll make them want to protect the fragile relation. And after all this, after readers go through anxious waiting and sleepless moments along with the protagonists, the writer decides to disappoint them with the climax, which is anticlimactic, to say the least. We might forgive him for this, though, and agree that it adds to the overall contemporary feel and style of the novel.
But what we can’t forgive him for is the tediousness that he sometimes insists on thrusting into the pages. The almost obsessive desire to record the amount of money spent, whether Rs 27 for tea or Rs 400 for snacks, is definitely bothersome; it sounds like the diary of an efficient accountant. Similar is the case of his insertion of minute details, such as the time for the train’s arrival or the name of his dormitories, or a discussion on buff and egg – the superfluous information will make readers want to scream. The writer’s constant repetition of certain matters also takes one away from the novel’s charm.
But the author has done a commendable job with his characters, allowing them to grow and develop and express. Saya, especially, is very lifelike, with her willfulness and strength. One can’t help feeling, however, that although Atit is a likeable, affectionate, appreciative boyfriend, there’s a lot of autobiographical characteristics embedded in him, and hence the need to always prove himself the hero.
With this issue comes attached the issues of misogyny, a palpable feature in all kinds of fiction authored by males. This novel isn’t an exception, laying the blame much too easily and squarely on a female’s shoulders, dubbing them as vague and ambiguous, and objectifying them. The glimpses of misogyny aren’t out of context or exaggerated, but not particularly comforting, either, particularly from a young writer.
The young author should also have paid better care to the way he used English words in the novel. There’s an abundance of English words, which is quite natural when used in dialogues. But English could have been left out in the rest of the narration, especially because a few words have been lousily used. Substituting ‘combine study’ for ‘combined studies’, ‘Ma convince bhayen’ for ‘convinced’ and saying ‘frusted’ instead of ‘frustrated’ is simply not done. Also, once, Saya is opening the ‘bottom’ of Atit’s shirt instead of the ‘button’. For the linguist, it’ll take away from the pleasure of the lovemaking scene, not that it’s written well in the first place, it’s one of the few places where the writer lapses into grandiose words and expressions, spoiling the contemporary feel. Leaving that apart, the novel has been edited well, with barely half a dozen typos, although the sentences are sometimes so staccato you wish they had been left as they were instead of being brutally cut midway.
A three-page long outpouring of the protagonist’s heart will leave readers with goose bumps; it’s packed with so much raw feelings. The pain and the longing are tangible, they make you want to reach out and hug the character, they remind you of people who have wronged you, and also those you’ve deceived. Also, young readers will simply love the retorts between the characters, the sarcasm, the undertones, as relations fall apart and are built anew. For this is the way we think, we talk, we act.
And that’s why, in the end, Summer Love is the story engraved in the heart of each and every collegiate; the story many think of jotting down, but which only Bhattarai has managed to write.
The writer, currently pursuing her M. Phil., is too much in love with reading and writing to do anything else.
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