Reviewed by Sudha S. Balagopal

I was completely unprepared for V.K.Mina’s first novel, The Splintered Day, and did not know what to expect. Certainly not what I found! This is the kind of book that made me examine my own prejudices and preconceived notions.  

In The Splintered Day, Mina makes a bold entry into a genre of writing that most south Asians would hesitate to enter. The book opens up the whole cosmopolitan world of New York, especially to those who are not familiar with that world: a world where people from the Caribbean to India, black or white, interact in intimate familiarity, through relationships that blur the lines of sexuality.

I uncomfortably read the first few pages and then put the book down. For quite unlike any recent Indian writer that I have read, Mina’s work is overtly and frankly sexual.

As south Asians brought up in cultures where many topics are taboo and very few intimate details are discussed socially and within families, we carry a lot of inhibitions within us. I do admire the courage it takes to illustrate some of the steamier scenarios and issues in the book. Kudos to Mina for that gutsy ability!

However, when I did pick the book up again, I finished it, and realized that gutsy ability alone cannot sustain a book. While some may think this is book is brave and exploratory, to me, it all got a little tiring after a while. The book cries out at two levels. As a reader I perceived confusion in terms of identity. Then there is the confusion in terms of sexual orientation. Wanting and being with both men and women, searching for partners, or is it love? Or is it the inner self ultimately? All in all, a lot of confusion.

The style is unorthodox. The main character takes a while to figure out because she is called 'I,' 'Neelam' and 'Lili' alternately. Each chapter could be looked at as an individual episode or event, instead of being part of a book. The connection between chapters is there in terms of names appearing on the scene now and again, like guest stars in a movie. The language is young and hip, making me, a not so old mother of two, feel ancient. I also feel that there were so many 'extras' in this book, giving the characters little room to grow.

If I was a shrink, and I am not, I would say Neelam needs to talk to someone. Not that our characters need to be Miss Perfects. Most memorable characters in novels are lovely for their unique flawed ways. However, this one (I or Neelam or Lily) is not lovable. So desperate is she for love, that she hooks up with the worst, in relationships that take and take, without giving back. Despite this proclivity for unsuitable and unfortunate alliances, I don’t sympathize with the main character. The chapter in the book that touched me is called There’s no place like home. For the first time in the book, I truly felt sorry for Neelam, whose having a mother doesn't take away from her feeling motherless: unloved and without an anchor.

But that feeling dissipates quickly. For the book does not let me revel in that feeling. If literature is indeed a mirror of society, then this writer is mirroring for us a whole different world. A world that is, perhaps, difficult for all of us to swallow, including the ones that live in it and write about it.