“The City of Joy” evokes mixed reactions in my heart. On the one hand, it inspires and fills the heart with hope; fills me with admiration for those who leave behind comfort, luxury and opulence to embrace squalor and filth in service of the poorest. It baffles me to think that “to become the poorest of the poor” could be the aim of somebody’s life, as is the case with Stephan Kowalski, the protagonist of the story; and this bafflement makes you think about life in a whole new light.
On the other hand, it shames me- the extent to which we have acclimatized ourselves to the idea of two Indias; the one of relative opulence that we reside in and the other India, which lives in slums, on less than a dollar a day, barely managing a square meal a day; where survival is life’s greatest challenge. I feel ashamed at the indifference we have developed towards the suffering that afflicts the lives of millions.
But then, the sheer magnitude of the maladies that our country suffers from has given Indians the ability to be sensitive and callous at the same time. We see so much misery all around that we become indifferent to most of it. But at the same time, on occasions, this tolerance breaks down and we are sensitized to the pain of others. 1
The City of Joy is the story of life in a slum of Calcutta called Anand Nagar (hence the title). Through the skillfully interwoven stories of Stephan Kowalski, the Polish priest who makes the slum his home and Hasari Pal the penniless migrant peasant, Dominique Lapierre paints a vivid picture of the suffering that is the fate of the poorest. And in the midst of all that suffering are scattered numerous stories and incidents of heroism and generosity and great lessons in hope and faith.
What is perhaps slightly embarrassing is the fact that it took a Frenchman to make me appreciate the herculean struggle that is survival for millions of Indians. This is the second book I’ve read where the plot has a “foreigner” live in a slum in a large Indian metropolis (Shantaram being the first). Both talk about the incredible zest for life and survival instinct of the people that inhabit these slums, the joie de vivre of their existence; the generosity, sharing, courage and extraordinary acts of heroism that mark their wretched existence. But then perhaps, it is the indifference I mentioned above that prevents us from appreciating these facets of the lives of the poor. (Or perhaps one needs to come from an entirely different world in order to fully understand and appreciate every aspect of another culture, but this is a digression.)
How many times have I looked condescendingly upon those indulging in vulgar drunken revelry and dance on religious occasions such as Ganpati, never realizing that a bottle of cheap country liquor on occasions such as those is perhaps the only respite, the high point, a momentary escape from a life punishing in its severity.
It is easy, and to a large extent right, to blame the poor and exploited for their fate- superstition, clinging to custom and rituals, lack of the scientific temper and most importantly, a resignation to one’s fate. But there is still much to be learnt from the book and the people it talks about. I am richer for having read it.
[1 - from APJ Abdul Kalam's autobiography, Wings of Fire.]
