A new train of family thought

family matters by rohinton mistry (faber, (pounds) 16.99)

IS family good for us, bad for us, something we should simply avoid altogether? It's a question that remains unanswered in Mistry's latest novel, which can only tell us, along with the pun contained in its title, that whatever family does or does not do for us, it certainly matters. And that the family romance, whether the Oedipal drama so fondly imagined by Freud, or a Lear-like tragedy, has a thousand and one permutations - at once personal and universal, it mocks the expectations we have of those closest to us.

Mistry makes a mockery of family trust in this first work of fiction for seven years. Set against the teeming tapestry of Bombay, he gently disabuses us of the notion that the family is the lynchpin of society, with tales of warring cousins, mutilated adulterers attacked by their own kin and fathers rejected by their children. Instead, he gives us a destabilised metropolis reflecting anarchic family values.

Family matters simply because it is so inescapable, according to Mistry. It rescues and shields us, just as it fails us and lets us tumble back into the dust. He employs an interesting metaphor in the novel for his view of the family: commuters on packed trains, leaving anxious citizens behind on their station platforms every day but stretching their hands out to those running in desperation alongside. The politically-inclined Mr Kumar, who describes this scene, sees it as a metaphor for Bombay as a whole, a city embracing all men and women as brothers and sisters, helping whomever into their packed world, making space for them in an already overcrowded state.

As an image of the family, this is immensely powerful, especially when Kumar attempts the same feat himself, only to be let down as no hands stretch out to pull him on to the train. He has made a fool of himself, relying on familial responsibility where none exists. It is a hard lesson to learn.

Nariman Vakeel, a 79-year-old Parsi widower suffering from Parkinson's disease, is also learning who will pull him into an already packed carriage, who will rescue him from the dust. Living in the home he bequeathed to his resentful stepchildren, Coomy and Jal, he is only a burden. When he breaks an ankle and is bedridden, he is swiftly dispatched into the home of Roxana, the only child Nariman and his late wife had together. She lovingly looks after him, even though her home is a tiny flat which she shares with her husband, Yezad, and two sons Jehangir and Murad.

Nariman's presence soon begins to affect the relationship between Roxana and her husband. The boys are drawn into the drama as they try to find ways of helping their parents and Yezad, after flirting with gambling to raise some much-needed cash, attempts to persuade his boss at work, Mr Kumar, to run for political office - with disastrous results.

Yet this story, however tragic, is a tale of so many families, Mistry tells us. The family romance is an endlessly recurring one. Nariman, like a penitent Lear, has a tale of love to tell that nobody wants to hear; little Jehangir devours Enid Blyton books by the hour and wants to anglicize his name to John; Yezad, smothered by guilt for the Mr Kumar's suffering, turns to religion.

All of these small, yet significant, stories are told with such loving attention that the hold they have on us becomes almost tangible. Mistry's novel is a masterpiece - an appellation that once was rare but has become hackneyed through overuse. Perhaps he may fashion that anew too.

Copyright 2002
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