Bapsi Sidhwa's Ice Candyman figures among the top Indian novels, mostly popularised by Deepa Mehta's eminently watchable film' Earth' based on the novel. Ice Candyman reminds the reader of the Diary of Anne Frank – a very touching tale told by the protagonist of the harrowing time and the horrors faced by the Jews in Germany. While the Diary of Anne Frank is a very serious narration of her traumatic experiences, Ice Candyman has its moments of mirth and lighter vein.
Ice Candyman has been written in present tense as seen through the eyes of an 8-year-old girl who grows into a precocious child as she is the star witness to the indulgence of adults and elders. She is given all the freedom in the world to roam about with her Ayah and her paramours. The Ayah interacts without inhibitions with her companions like Ice candyman, masseur, knife sharpener, butcher etc. She has to contend with the antics of her admirers without much ado; perhaps she secretly enjoys the same, sometimes with a sense of shame. She is infatuated with the masseur while the Ice candyman is isolated as jilted lover filled with diabolic vengeance which is expressed in the later part of the story.
The book candidly describes various aspects of lower strata of society in pre-partition Punjab, particularly, Lahore, the constituent members being the Ice Candyman himself, masseur, sweeper, butcher, knife-sharpener, gardener, cook and other riff-raffs. The means of pastime for these people were ogling at Ayah and touching her in various ways, snatching the Dhoti of gardener Hari, prattling politics, pelting the politicians with venomous verbiage etc. Her friends circle represents different communities viz. Hindus, Sikhs, Muslims, Pathans and Parsi. They had bonhomie among themselves till the partition broke out.
Bapsi Sidhwa is a very skillful narrater. The description of events in the novel is down to earth. Scarcely anything is camouflaged as far as the thinking and experience of an 8-year-old girl is concerned who watches the goings on in the bedroom, lounge, park, road or her hiding place etc. Child psychology and child behaviour has been very competently interwoven by the writer in her story telling. She is able to bring out the frivolous side of Parsi community together with the dark deeds of the characters so ably developed in the novel. Her sketching of street fighting, mob fury and the holocaust of partition is indeed superb. She skillfully depicts the scene and activities in Hiramandi, the wellknown dwelling of prostitutes in Lahore. The description is very graphic as she draws up the bazar scene: "The covetous glances Ayah draws educate me. Up and down, they look at her. Stub- handed twisted beggars and dusty old beggars on crutches drop their poses and stare at her with hard, alert eyes. Holy men, masked in piety, shove aside their pretences to ogle her with lust. Hawkers, cart-drivers, cooks, coolies and cyclists turn their heads as she passes, pushing my pram, with the unconcern of the Hindu goddess she worships".
Sidhwa is a great architect of phrases; she is not hampered by the paucity of expressions as may be evident from her sketching of the protagonist's mother when she tries to massage her polio-affected foot: "Ever since Col. Bharucha tugged at my tendon and pressed my heel down in the Fire Temple, Mother massages my leg. I lie diagonally on the bed, my small raised foot between her breasts. She leans forward and pushes back the ball on my foot. She applies all her fragile strength to stretch the stubborn tendon. Her flesh, like satin, shifts under my foot. I gaze at her. Shaded by the scarf her features acquire sharper definition. The tipped chin curves deep to meet the lower lip. The lips, full, firm, taper from a lavish "M' in wide wings, their outline etched with the clarity of cut rubies. Her nose is slender, slightly bumped: and the taut curve of her cheekbones is framed by a jaw as delicately oval as an egg. The hint of coldness, common to such chiselled beauty, is overwhelmed by the exuberant quality of her innocence. I feel she is beautiful beyond bearing Her firm strokes, her healing touch. The motherliness of Mother. It reaches from her bending body and cocoons me. My thighs twitch, relaxed Her motherliness. How can I describe it? While it is there it is all-encompassing, voluptuous. Hurt, heartache and fear vanish. I swim, rise, tumble, float, and bloat with bliss. The world is wonderful, wondrous and I a perfect fit in it. But it switches off, this motherliness. I open my heart to it. I welcome it. Again. And again. I begin to understand its on-off pattern. It is treacherous.”
She has very deftly painted the destruction wrought by the riots. She writes:
"Every bit of scrap that can be used has been salvaged from the gutted shops and .tenements of Shalmi and Gowalmandi. The palatial bungalows of Hindus in Model Town
and the other affluent neighbourhoods have been thoroughly scavenged. The first wave of looters, in mobs and processions has carried away furniture, carpets, utensils, mattresses, clothes. Succeeding waves of marauders, riding in rickety carts, have systematically stripped the houses of doors, windows, bathroom fittings, ceiling fans and rafters. Casual passers-by, urchins and dogs now stray into the houses to scavenge amidst spiders' webs ~: and deep layers of dust, hoping to pick up old newspapers and cardboard boxes, or any other leavings that have escaped the eye and desire of the preceding wave of goondas…
In Rosy-Peter's compound, and In the gaunt looted houses opposite ours, untended gardenia hedges sprawl grotesquely and the lawns and flower beds are overrun with weeds. There are patches of parched cracked clay in which nothing grows. Even the mango and banyan trees look monstrous, stalking the unkempt premises with their shadows A window boarded with newspaper, a tattered curtain, a shadow of someone passing and the murmur of strangers' voices keep us away It is astonishing how rapidly an uninhabited house decays. There are cracks in the cement floor of the Singhs' annexe and big patches of damp on the walls. Clouds of mosquitoes rise in dark corners and lizards cleave to the ceilings. It looks like a house pining for its departed -haunted -like Ayah's eyes are by memories of Masseur. She secretly cries. Often I catch her wiping tears."
While Bapsi Sidhwa, being herself witness to the horrific scenes in Lahore, as a child, has been able to prepare a genuine and sanguine canvas, her portrayal of Ice Candyman is :1 simply superb. He is a colourful character with a lot of versatility; he can act as a birdman and a god man and eventually as a goonda and a poetic pimp. As his endeavours to win over Ayah, the supreme seductress of the plot, meet with failure, he becomes an intensely jealous rival of the masseur and forever keeps a vigil over the goings on between the Ayah and the masseur. He eventually stoops to his lowest in arranging for the kidnapping of his beloved by the muslim mob. With the increasing tension in various communities, particularly enhanced with the arrival of train from India containing corpses, the Ice Candyman becomes bitter and a diabolic change is perceptible in his deportment. His infatuation with Ayah is maddening, rather insane, as he has no scruples in submitting her to th.e lumpens but wants to preserve her in the Kotha in all the paraphernalia of a prostitute. When the Ayah is rescued from the Kotha, the Ice Candyman is miserable and goes off his rockers. He pursues Ayah towards the Indian side of the border.
In her scheme of things, Sidhwa has given the pride of place to Rodabai, nicknamed as godmother, an ardent well-wisher of the protagonist "She sits by my side stroking me, smiling, her eyes twinkling concern, in her grey going-out sari; its pretty border of butterflies pinned to iron strands of scant, combed-back hair. The intensity of her attention is narcotic. I require no one else". From Chapter 17, godmother and his family plays a pivoted role not only in rescuing Ayah but also sustaining the interest of the reader in the entire story. In the film, godmother and her clan is conspicuously absent, perhaps because the producer Deepa Sahi decided to keep the theme riveted to the holocaust. In fact, the aftermath of the lifting away of Ayah is not shown in the film. The alacrity and intensity of purpose displayed by godmother in relieving Ayah from the cluthces of the Kotha syndrome is indeed marvellously spelt out: 'Affected at last by Godmother's stony silence, Ice-candyman lowers his eyes. His voice divested of oratory, he says, 'I am her slave, Baijee. I worship her. She can come to no harm with me.' 'No harm?' Godmother asks in a deceptively cool voice - and arching her back like a scorpion its tail, she closes in for the kill. 'You permit her to be raped by butchers, drunks, and goondas and she has come to no harm?'
Ice-candyman's head jolts back as if it's been struck. 'Is that why you had her lifted off -let hundreds of eyes probe her -so that you could marry her? You would have your own mother carried off if it suited you! You are a shameless badmash! Nimakharam! Faithless!'
'Yes, I'm faithless!' Stung intolerably, and taken by surprise, Ice-candy-man permits his insolence to confront Godmother. 'I'm a man! Only dogs are faithfull! If you want faith, let her marry a dog!' 'Oh? 'What kind of man? A royal pimp? What kind of man would allow his wife to dance like a performing monkey before other men? You're not a man, you're a low- born, two-bit evil little mouse!'... 'You have permitted your wife to be disgraced! Destroyed her modesty! Lived off her womanhood!' says Godmother as if driven to recount the charges before an invisible judge. 'And you talk of princes and poets? You're the son of pigs and pimps! You're not worth the two-cowries one throws at lepers!'
Humorous situations created by Sidhwa appear to be pedestrian and hardly. rib-tickling although hilarious in the stated circumstances. The humour is, in fact, more frivolous than anything else as it is attributed to menial workers. Even the humour of Parsi society gentlemen leaves much to be desired -the real wit, satire and humour is somehow missing perhaps because the characters in the story are incapable of generating the same, although one of the book reviewer declared the humour of the novel refreshing: the jokes in the dinner party at his house, the satire or sarcasm in the Parsi gathering are stale: "Who does this Gandhi think he is?" Shouts an obliging wisecrack promptly from somewhere in the middle. "Is it his grandfather's ocean?" … I’ll tell you a story,' the colonel says, and susceptible to stories the congregation and I sit still in our seats. 'When we were kicked out of Persia by the Arabs thirteen hundred years ago, what did we do? Did we shout and argue? No!' roars the colonel, and hastily provides his own answer before anyone can interrupt. 'We got into boats and sailed to India!' 'Why to India?' a totally new wit sitting at the end of my bench enquiries. 'If they had to go some place why not Greece? Why not to France? Prettier scenery...' 'They didn't kick us hard enough,' says Dr. Mody, with hearty regret. 'If only they'd kicked us all the way to California... Prettier women!'
The high profile Gandhinagar Book Club recently reviewed in detail the Ice Candyman. One of the senior members Vinay Sharma, who lived in Lahore during his childhood and narrated his experience of the partition. He said that the book scarcely spells out the glory that was Lahore; it was a vibrant society where all communities lived peacefully. There was no question of neighbours attacking and looting neighbour contrary to what. has been indicated by Sidhwa in her story. Moreover, the kind of dining room brawl between the Sikh gentleman and the British IG of Police as described in the book was inconceivable in the higher echelons of society in Lahore.
Bapsi Sidhwa projects her view point through the mind of the child Lenny and succeeds in belittling Indian leaders like Gandhi and Nehru. To her credit, it may be said that even Jinnah was hardly spared. About Gandhi, she writes: "He is knitting. Sitting crosslegged on the marble floor of a palatial veranda, he is surrounded by women. He is small, dark, shrivelled, old. He looks just like Hari, our gardener, except he has a disgruntled, disgusted and irritable look, and no one'd dare pull off his dhoti! He wears only the loin-cloth and his black and thin torso is naked Considering he has not looked my way even once I am enraged by his observation. 'An enema a day keeps the doctor aways,' he crows feebly, chortling in an elderly and ghoulish way, his slight body twitching with glee, his eyes riveted upon my mother."
"Jinnah is incapable of compliments. Austere, driven, pukka-sahib accented, deathly ill: incapable of cheek-kissing. Instead of carnations he wears a karakuli cap, sombre with tight, grey lamb's-wool curls: and instead of pale jackets, black achkan coats. He is past the prime of his elegant manhood. Sallow, whip-thin, sharp-tongued, uncompromising. His training at the Old Bailey and uncompromising."
The crude Punjabi abuses and swearwords have been literally translated into English and mercifully, the amazingly expressive vocabulary of the English language has been skillfully used to express certain obscene events in a fashion acceptable to the discerning reader.
Certain phrases used in the book may provide good material to Sabira Merchant for her "What is the good word" programmes. Some examples:
Page # 2: Englishman quietly dissolves up the driveway from which he had so enthusiastically sprung.
Page # 4: Col. Bharucha is cloaked in thunder. Page # 7: Clucking clusters.
Page # 8: Officiating and anxious energy of Electric aunt. Page # 9: Soak in the commiserate clucking of tongues
Page # 27: Ice Candyman drapes his lank and flexible length on another bench. Page # 28: he represents a shady, almost disreputable type.
Page # 31: Astonishing tidal wave of relief and frivolity barrels over the world.
Page # 50: tossing a thin of disk of wheat on the fire until it is swollen with trapped air.
The writer has very interestingly translated some Hindi/Urdu idioms into English as they are used by various characters of the story. Some illustrations:
Page # 45: I'll chew you up and I won't every burp!
(Main kachcha chaba jaoonga aur dakaar bhi nahin loonga)
Page # 55: "Don't you think it's time their hands are painted yellow". (Ab inke haath peele kar dene chahiye)
Page # 76: They are from prosperous eating drinking households". (Wah Khate Peete gharon ke hain)
Page # 116: "Small mouth, big talk". (Chhota mooh badi baat:)
Page #158: "No one will touch a hair on your head". (Koi tumhara baa! bhi baanka nahin kar payega)
The novel is literally sprinkled with poetry pieces of Urdu poets but do not appear to be facilitating the flow of the story line.
An important point which may be noted is that the Pakistani writer has shown Hindus and Sikhs as the oppressors; while the converse is true in the case of stories written by Indian writers on partition, But the fact remains that Ice Candyman is an eminently engrossing and readable book.
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