Is this Proustian? Yes. The author has extraordinary powers of observation and description. He seems to remember the slightest details of living and presents them in the most significant way. Yet, I have to confess I only made it halfway through this book, which consists of three short novels. The first novel, "A Strange and Sublime Address," was quite wonderful and presented carefully constructed details of (I assume) the author's observations from childhood as he visited his uncle in Calcutta during his summer vacation. The "plot" is really the summation of observations and feelings as the summer eventually ends and the boy in the story has to go back to Bombay where he lives. The second novel, "Afternoon Raag," began to wear on me. Perhaps it was too much of a good thing, and I began to long for more activity, more action, a plot. With regret I had to put the book down, but I fault more the publisher than the author for putting these novels together when in fact they are better appreciated apart from one another, separated by time and space so that the reader has a chance to recover from one before throwing him or herself into another. I don't fault the author. He clearly is an amazing writer. I will definitely pick this book up again soon and read more of it when I'm ready to.

As someone whose childhood reading included Banaphool and Bibhuti Bandopadhaya(notably Adarsha Hindu Hotel), for me Amit Chaudhury's Freedom Song is another celebration of lyrical prose. I managed to read the British publication of the novel by the same name. As many reviewers have complained,here nothing happens in terms of events, yet everything seems to evolve in to a tapestry of human emotions recollected in tranquil prose. If you like to read Robert Ludlum or Stephen King instead of Chekov or Maupassant then dont waste your time and effort on Freedom Song. For the Indian readers I can say if you are missing Satyajit Ray since his death, here is an ersatz Ray. For the American audience this book can be described as some kind of a Jerry Seinfeldesqe rendition of middle class Calcuttans. Like Seinfeld no subject is a taboo for the writer including the undercurrents of Hindu nationalism surfacing in the Marxist state. However there is a slip showing in the facts narrated in this book. Writer alludes to middle class bengalis from Calcutta going away to Darjeeling and Gopalpur for vacations and pilgrimage respectively(page 51). If he meant Gopalpur in the neighbouring province of Orissa, then he must have meant Puri,with its sea beach and Jagannath temple. As some one hailing from there I can vouch for the bengali tourists flocking to Puri all year round in their Calcutta colors. I could not resist the temptation to include some of my favourite excerpts from the book.: >> But then during the curfew, when shops and offices,and everything else had been closed -ten days of nothing happening-.....It was as if a train they had been on had halted somewhere unexpectedly and they had been forced to take a holiday. She had found that he was not interested in discussing what was happening at all-the riots, the anger, more interested in rereading old copies of the Statesman which he had accumulated during the last week in a drawer. >>Pigeons rose suddenly into the sky between the buildings; their conversation evaporated rather than ended; the child began to make sounds as if it had had enough. (NOTE: Child is inanimate here and is referred to as it). >>When the meeting with the 'girl' and her parents was set to take place at an open air cafe near Salt Lake, Bhaskar, oddly,seemed both indifferent and cooperative and full of nimble self-assurance. >> Though the last cook, whose fragrant preparations of goat's meat and fish head dal were well known, had died two years ago of cholera, the present cook too had a reputation.>> >>But it was as if his recent eloquence in politics had left him inarticulate about personal matters. >>No one could decipher from her serenity that she had already seen in the same capacity a cost accountant, a marine engineer, and a lecturer.... >>'What did you think of her?' His mother put this question to him a few days later, deliberately absent-minded, as if she were questioning the air. A mongrel's bark followed the silence.

I came across this book in the college bookstore by chance and decided to buy it. I must say it was an extremely good decision. This is one of the most relaxing and beautiful books that I have read so far. Especially the first novel, "A strange and sublime address", was the one which I especially liked. I too, like Chaudhuri, used to live in Bombay and used to visit Calcutta every year during the summer vacations, and reading Chaudhuri was like reliving my own experiences once again. Chaudhuri in all three of these novels has no plot or particular story to tell, but goes on to describe day to day living and experiences. This is what I liked most in his novels. He brings out beautifully the modes of thinking and subtleties in behavoiur peculiar to the culture of the Indian middle class. Reading this book would give anyone a pretty thorough insight into the life of the educated urban indian middle class. In short, if you want to read a book without any melodrama, wherein all you have to do is surrender yourself to its prose and let its narration of seemingly ordinary events weave its magic around you, leaving you thoroughly refreshed in the end, then this set of three novels by Chaudhuri is definitely the one for you. Chaudhuri is excellent and is definitely in league with the other great Indian novelists such as R.K.Narayan who write about India and her life with such mastery and exquisite craftsmanship in the English language.Absolutely enchanting reading.

While reading this book I was strongly reminded of Chekhov, exhorting a writer to feel compassion down to his fingertips. The stories in "Real Time" amply demonstrate how this is a key to good writing.
Amit Chaudhuri is one of the most promising writers from India, in recent times. Four novels old, he has been often accused of writing full-length novels without even a semblance of a plot. At times his writing does feel like one has prepared a delightful gourmet meal without adding any salt.

Beautifully crafted sentences, his cadences are that of a poet. There does seem to be a presence of Gurudev Tagore, which pervades all his writings. (Me no Bong)
Correct me if I am wrong here but the writer does seem to have a fascination for DH Lawrence and Joyce, with a fair sprinkling of Proust.
Flawed though he might be, Chaudhuri still remains one of my favorite writers. There is something endearing about the human life that he describes in his books and I hope that as he matures as a writer we shall be treated to a remarkable repertoire of novels and short stories.
In his latest offering, "Real time", Chaudhuri has brought out a collection of his short stories. I, personally, would give this book a mixed review.
"Portrait of an Artist" is a charming character sketch of "Master Moshai", an image that lingers in your mind even after you have closed this book.
"White Lies", "Real Time" and "The Old Masters" are other works where Chaudhuri has his genius on full display.

However, Mr. Chaudhuri has failed miserably in at least two of his narratives, "Prelude to an Autobiography" and "The Great game". The poet and raconteur seems have fallen an easy prey to one of those seven deadly sins - Envy!!
The other stories in this collection seem to be fairly well written, but a bit in the grey zone. We have much more to expect from Amitda.

Not his magnum opus -but a good read all the same.

Amit Chaudhuri's latest work is called: Real Time: Stories and a Reminiscence. Within the pages of this (all too) slim volume, he perfectly captures many small samples of Indian middle class life. Most of the stories are not really so in the classical sense. Instead they are essentially snapshots from various parts of life all framed in "real time".

I loved all the vignettes very much. Amit Chaudhuri is very gifted at describing subtle facets of everyday life that might escape the rest of us. His descriptions of apartments either in Calcutta (adorned with white curtains with printed flowers) or Bombay are accurate enough to induce a warm sense of nostalgia.

My favorite stories in the collection are: "The Man from Khurda District" and "Beyond Translation." The former is a simply told story of a chowkidar and his life that revolves completely around his employer. Beyond Translation details the summer reading pastime that the author enjoyed along with his Bengali cousins.

Most of the people described in Chaudhuri's stories are solidly upper middle class if not downright rich. In a wonderfully fluid poem, E-Minor, at the end of the volume, the author informs us "I disowned our Mercedes-Benz, took the 106 bus, but remained unable to solve my lack of want."

Real Time demonstrates very ably, how good Amit Chaudhuri is at portraying a slice of Indian society that, in my opinion, is not adequately represented in modern Indian fiction.

If old age is a second childhood, then surely, like childhood, it is a myth of youth's creation. Childhood, as recounted in Amit Chaudhuri's A Strange and Sublime Address, opens out in a concertina of sunlit and shadowy rooms, that expands and telescopes soundlessly, like ribs in the act of healthy breathing , without effort, without pleasure, without pain. Chaudhuri's childhood is coloured carefully within the line, defining recognizable shapes, where ' a ' is always an apple, but an apple in infinite regression, reflected endlessly in diminishing memories of grownups who mirror the world outside. It is always the most distant apple, the faintest and most dimunitive one which is the most desirable. But even desire is too strong a word for A Strange and Sublime Address, its hues are palest aquarelle and will not permit the brute flush of human want. Tender is a favorite adjective of the author's. It just about describes his prose. This incredibly beautiful book is not about childhood at all. It is about limbo, the unknown intermediate plane, whose very placidity suggests turbulence before and after. The idyll of childhood is an adult creation. Children themselves know their lives are urgent with fears, compelled by passions, and seismic with grief or love. Looking back is full of erasures.

If Oxford isn't your alma-mater, chances are you may not get exactly ecstatic about this one. This is the kind of stuff that can send an Oxford alumnus into nostalgic raptures, but to others, it's just a crash-course on life at Oxford and some Indian customs.

Chaudhuri's style is delightfully simple and elaborate at the same time. He tries to weave a story around life at Oxford. However, the desire to sketch Oxford and life therein has been so overwhelming that the story seems sometimes incomplete, sometimes irrelevant, and sometimes redundant.

At 133 pages, this novel (or "a collection of poetic musings" as Aamer Hussain of Times Literary Supplement called it) doesn't demand much of your time. Reading it may not be the best way to spend your afternoon, but if you are a sucker for elegant prose, go ahead. And if you ever had any academic connections with Oxford, this could very well be one of the best ways to spend your afternoon.

This book is not very large but it packs a big punch! It is esentially the reminescences of an Indian student in Oxford. The power and beauty of the book lies in the wonderful descriptions contained herein. I grew up in Oxford (and it is where I enjoy being the most even now) and Chaudhuri captures the essence of the town beautifully. His free-flowing, beautiful writing is what makes this book such a delightful read and it is an wonderful way of losing oneself in memories of one of the prettiest places in the world to live in. In addition the author intermixes his experiences of Oxford with his memories of India and especially of his time with his music teacher. A delight.

This book is beautiful, wonderful to read, hauntingly poetic, and one of my favorites. I have never read anything like this before, and I can bet that you haven't either. Sit with it on a rainy day with a hot cup of tea on your favorite couch when you have nothing else on your mind, and get lost in the reverie.

Yes, I see where the author is a very talented writer who can raise mundane, everyday experiences to a thoughtful new level. Perhaps it is my shortcoming and not his, but I need some kind of plot or a promise of a character's epiphany to keep me turning the pages. The book was set almost entirely in the apartment of the main character's parents, making it very claustrophobic. I recognize the art of the writing and the precision of the words, but I really did not enjoy reading it.

A New World, Chaudhuri's most recent novel, describes the summer spent by Dr. Jayojit Chatterjee, an economist in America, (and no, he does not know Dr. Amartya Sen!) who is back in Calcutta with his son, Bonny, after a divorce. Not much emotion rises to the surface, but Jayojit does mull over what went wrong with his marriage. His dad, the Admiral, meanwhile is busy leading a retired life complaining about the shoddy performance of banks and going out for his morning constitutionals. Joy's mother fusses over him and his son, frying "luchis" for breakfast and insisting that they eat them.

Chaudhuri does an absolutely brilliant job of describing the smallest of Indian transactions, such as a taxi ride or even business at the local bank. His sparse details of Jayojit's return to the US at the end of the summer, is heart-tuggingly accurate. In fact, this is the book that would tug at all kinds of strings for Indians across the diaspora. Chaudhuri's portraits of Jayojit's strained interactions with an environment at once familiar and strange to him are wonderful and something I could completely identify with. Also right on are the son, Bonny's, observations and comments about life around him. "Baba, what does "Kwality" mean?" he asks when he sees a van bearing the name on the streets. When his father explains that it is an ice cream truck, Bonny "lifts his chin from the (taxi) seat, and exclaims, "Ice cream?" as if, like doughnuts, ice cream was too outrageous to mention here."

While I loved all of Chaudhuri's precise details immensely (probably because of nostalgia stirred), occasionally his poetic descriptions of even the most basic of events started grating: "The sun dimmed, as if it had been snuffed out, and then kindled again as a cloud moved past."

I strongly believe that Amit Chaudhuri is a very gifted writer. His eye for precision is amazing. If he tightens his storylines, Chaudhuri will get a taste of an even bigger audience--something he most definitely deserves.

There is nothing gratuitous about this book. Chaudhuri uses sparse language to convey the feeling of loss. The main character in the book, Jayojit, through his divorce, has lost his confidence, his desire, and his place in the world. Chaudhuri is able to communicate this to the writer with descriptions of torpor in a hot summer in Calcutta. There is no real plot, just a description of a summer of pain and, one hopes, of partial rebirth. Chaudhuri's writing is reminiscent of Hemingway. Unlike many Indian authors today, he writes cleanly and sparsely and does not feel the need to provoke the reader.