The Archer Effect: A Lifetime of Stories

My love for reading probably began with my mother, Mrs. Rajalakshmi Kannan. 

Growing up, I would see her reading Shakespeare, Antony and Cleopatra, and then discussing it with my grandfather. Those images stay with you. There was something about watching them talk so passionately about a book, its characters and its ideas that made me want to be part of that experience too.

Going to the library during the holidays became a ritual through my childhood and teenage years. I would carefully browse through the shelves, deciding what to bring home, and then disappear into my books.

My mother and I would often go together. 

We would each pick a book, come home and start reading. Inevitably, one of us would finish first and have to wait for the other to finish so we could exchange books. Eventually, we decided two books were clearly not enough. We started taking four books on every visit, two each, and still somehow ended up waiting for each other to finish the ones the other had picked.

And of course, the books became conversations. 

We discussed the characters passionately, argued about their choices, speculated about what they would do next, and sometimes spoke about them as though they were people we actually knew.

Jeffrey Archer was one of the authors who became part of those years of reading. I read many of his books, but Kane and Abel was always special.

Like many readers, I was completely drawn into the lives of Kane and Abel. The ambition, rivalry, fortunes, setbacks and sheer sweep of their lives made the story unforgettable. More than anything, the characters stayed with me.

Some characters belong to the time in which they were written. Kane and Abel somehow seem to belong to every generation of readers.

Then came 2007, when I moved to Atlanta, US.

The bookworm in me developed a new weekly ritual. Monday evenings meant a trip to the library, followed by taco takeout and, more often than not, staying up far too late reading whatever book I had brought home.

It was during one of those library visits that I spotted The Clifton Chronicles.

Jeffrey Archer. A new series. And, in my mind, the next Kane and Abel.

I grabbed it.

Clearly, I had learned nothing about moderation.

I patiently worked my way through the first book, Only Time Will Tell, all 600-odd pages of it. And, just as I had hoped, I was completely hooked. Archer had once again created characters whose lives became more interesting than whatever I was supposed to be doing with mine.

The story moved beautifully. The suspense kept building. Every chapter seemed to have another revelation waiting.

So naturally, I reached the end expecting some sort of conclusion.

Instead, Archer left me hanging right in the middle of an unexpected twist.

I turned the page.

Nothing.

No resolution.

No answers.

Just the unmistakable feeling that the author had packed up his belongings and left me alone with the suspense.

I immediately searched our local library database for the next book.

Nothing.

That was when I finally Googled the series and discovered the truth. Only Time Will Tell was the first of five books in The Clifton Chronicles.

Five.

Apparently, I had not picked up a book.

I had signed up for a long-term relationship.

And yet, even my frustration was a compliment to Archer. The reason I was desperate for the next book was simple: I cared about what happened to those characters.

That, perhaps, is what has kept me coming back to Jeffrey Archer for so many years.

His greatest strength was not merely suspense. It was his ability to create characters who remained alive in the reader's mind long after the book was closed.

From library visits with my mother, waiting impatiently for each other to finish a book and then exchanging them, to passionately discussing fictional characters as though they were people we knew, to Monday evenings in Atlanta with a library book, tacos and a very questionable bedtime, Jeffrey Archer became part of my reading life.

Some books are finished when the last page is turned.

Some stories stay.

Kane and Abel stayed.

And now, with Jeffrey Archer gone, I realise something even more meaningful.

 

Writers may leave us. Words don't.

Extraordinary writers do something even more remarkable. They create people who never existed and give them lives so vivid that they outlive the person who created them. They leave behind characters, thoughts, choices and conversations that continue to live in the minds of readers they will never meet.

They remain immortal.

Jeffrey Archer may no longer be here to write another page.

But Kane and Abel are.

Harry Clifton is.

And somewhere, years from now, someone will still pick up one of his books, become hopelessly invested in a fictional life, argue about a character with someone they love and turn one more page long after they should have gone to sleep.

His new novel, Adam & Eve, was scheduled to be released just a day after he passed away. A new Jeffrey Archer book arrives in the world, even as the writer himself has just left it. Perhaps that is the most fitting way for a writer like Jeffrey Archer to remain part of the conversation. 

Readers still picking it up. Discussing it. And, inevitably, talking about him.

What a career. What a legacy of stories.

Thank you, Jeffrey Archer, for all those worlds.

Your stories remain.

A Magical Evening

 I have always believed that music is less something I listen to and more something I live with. There isn’t a single day that goes by without a playlist, often custom made for the mood, the moment, or simply the need to disappear into a certain soundscape. Over the years, I have written about the many genres that have found their way into my life and the many ways in which music has become such an integral part of it.

Lately, I have been drifting towards ghazals and songs of the yore, completely losing myself in the poetry, the textures, the voices and that inexplicable magic some eras of music seem to have. There is something about those songs that makes listening feel less like listening and more like slipping into another time.

So when Srikanth gifted me a ticket to a concert that brought together two very different musical worlds, it was a particularly welcome surprise.

On September 19, I found myself at Shilpakala Vedika for an evening with Sid Sriram and Purbayan Chatterjee.

A vocalist and a sitar coming together is hardly unheard of. Indian music has seen many such collaborations, and there have been some beautiful voice and sitar performances over the years. What intrigued me about this concert was not the combination itself, but what the two musicians would do with it.

Sid Sriram has a voice that is unmistakably his, rooted in Carnatic music yet very much at home in contemporary music. Purbayan Chatterjee, on the other hand, has taken the sitar far beyond the boundaries one might traditionally associate with it.

I found myself wondering what would happen when these two musical worlds met.

A little curiosity led me down a Purbayan rabbit hole before the concert. His collaborations and experiments span a remarkably wide musical landscape, which made the evening even more intriguing.

And then the concert day arrived.

Hyderabad welcomed it with rain.

The skies opened up, the roads slowed down, but none of that seemed to matter. There was a concert waiting at the other end, and I was quite happy to brave the rain for it.

I walked into Shilpakala Vedika, ticket in hand, with no particular expectations. I was simply there to listen. To surrender to the music. To revel in whatever unfolded.

There was, of course, some entertainment before the actual entertainment began.

Federal Bank had thoughtfully decided that a concert audience was also an excellent audience for financial education. Vidya Balan kept appearing on the screen, telling us about their schemes and plans.

It reminded me a little of Sterling Holidays. They lure you in with a discount and, before you know it, you are being given a detailed lecture on their holiday packages.

Thankfully, the financial literacy session eventually gave way to the reason we were all there.

Music.

Purbayan Chatterjee took the stage first.

And what a performer.

There is something fascinating about watching someone who has such complete command over an instrument. Purbayan made the sitar both intriguing and accessible. He spoke about the instrument, explained aspects of the music, interacted with the audience and then let the sitar do the talking.

And when he played, there was no mistaking who was in charge.

The precision, the speed, the ease, the sheer range of what he could coax out of the instrument. He managed to entertain and wow in equal measure.

And then came Sid Sriram.

There are singers one enjoys listening to. And then there are singers who make you wonder what the human voice is actually capable of.

Sid's range is extraordinary. And I don't mean just the literal range of his voice, although that itself is something to experience live. It is the range of his musical language too.

He moved effortlessly across genres and traditions.

Dolaayaam, Rangapura Vihara, Adiga Adiga, The Beatles, Inkem Inkem Kaavale.

All in the same evening. Sometimes it felt like he was moving between completely different musical worlds in the same breath.

He was in his element.

And what I love about Sid is that he sounds like Sid. Exactly as he does on a recording, except that live, you get to experience everything that a recording cannot quite capture.

His oneness with music.

He doesn't seem to perform music. He becomes one with it.

And somehow, he takes the audience there with him.

The voice, the nuances, the way the notes fall, the little shifts and inflections, the sudden movement into something unexpected. Watching it unfold live is an exhilarating experience.

After almost every song, came the inevitable chorus from the audience.

“I love you, Sid!”

Sid would acknowledge it with a smile, without missing a beat, without losing his focus, and then move seamlessly into the next song.

That smile somehow became part of the evening too.

Because one moment he is receiving an “I love you, Sid!” from the audience and the next he is singing a Carnatic piece with absolute discipline and concentration.

That kind of ease doesn't come from nowhere.

Years of practice give an artiste the freedom to make something extraordinarily difficult look effortless.

The highlight of the evening was the collaboration of the artists- the musical conversation.

This was not simply Sid singing while Purbayan played the sitar alongside him. It felt like a conversation between musicians.

One would play, the other would respond. A phrase would emerge, another would pick it up. There was listening, reacting, improvising and making space.

And that was perhaps the most beautiful part of watching them together.

The fusion did not feel like two separate musical identities being placed next to each other. It felt like all the musicians on stage were having a conversation through music.

A special shout-out to the other accompanying as well. They stood out for me through the evening and added a wonderful layer to the entire experience.

This is perhaps what live music does best.

You may know the songs. You may have listened to the voices countless times. You may even know what is coming next.

And then you hear it live.

Suddenly, you hear it differently.

The concert high is real.

And when the music is this good, the feeling doesn't necessarily end when the lights come on and everyone walks out.

Some performances stay with you.

This one will.

For a long time, I suspect, September 19 will remain one of those evenings I remember not simply as a concert I attended, but as an experience I lived.

Music.

Magic.

And a little bit of bliss.

 

The Shiuli Magic

 

There is something about Bengal that quietly enters the heart and stays there.

I spent my college days in Durgapur, and somewhere along the way, Bengal became more than a place I lived in. It became part of the way I think, my appreciation of art and aesthetics, and my love for the simple pleasures of life.

From the aromatic chai at the roadside jhoops to hot bread pakodas eaten without much thought, from the endless variety of mishtis to the little food rituals that seem to belong to every corner of Bengal, there is an unmistakable warmth to its everyday pleasures. Nothing needs to be elaborate. A cup of tea, a plate of something fried, a sweet picked up on the way to the hostel, a leisurely conversation that stretches longer than intended. Somehow, Bengal makes room for all of it.

Yet, if there is one thing I will always associate with Bengal, it is the magic of the Shiuli season.

Shiuli, or Parijat, with its tiny white flowers and orange stems, has always felt like the heralding of Pujo to me. The moment those little flowers begin appearing, an entire season seems to arrive with them. One glimpse of Shiuli, and my mind is filled with a montage of Pujo, from the careful painting and intricate detailing of Durga Ma idols to the smell of fresh paint and clay, the bustle around the pandals, the bright sarees appearing everywhere, and friends making plans for pandal hopping. I can almost see the evenings spent wandering from one pandal to another, eating, laughing, talking, and simply being part of the celebration.

And then there are those autumn mornings.

There is something almost cinematic about an autumn night scented with Shiuli and the fragrance lingering in the air.

Many of my friends have told me about their childhood autumn mornings. They would spread towels on the floor before going to sleep, wake up in the morning to find them covered with fallen flowers, and gather them carefully for Puja.

They speak about it with such tenderness that, listening to them, I sometimes feel as though I had been there too. Their memories have somehow become a part of mine. A childhood lived yet again, through someone else's stories.

Some friends have also told me about Tagore's references to Shiuli and the poignancy with which the flower is woven into Bengal's cultural imagination. Perhaps that is what makes Shiuli feel larger than a flower. It carries a season, a landscape, a culture and an entire way of remembering.

I saw Shiuli scattered around my garden today morning.

Every time I see those little white flowers lying on the ground, something in me travels back to simpler times. Times when there seemed to be enough time to notice nature, talk about literature, wander around a campus on an unhurried morning, and have conversations that did not need to lead anywhere.

Maybe we Indians had mastered the art of la dolce far niente much earlier.

We simply never paused long enough to give it a name.

There was a time when doing nothing was not something that had to be earned. A morning could simply be a morning. A walk could be taken without counting steps. A conversation could stretch without anyone checking the time. Beauty could be noticed without being photographed. Memories could be made without immediately being documented.

Perhaps that is what Shiuli brings back for me.

It brings back the feeling of having time.

More time to look outside the window. More time to bask in the sun. More time to walk without purpose, talk without urgency, read without distraction, and simply get lost in the memories of the grand life we have already had the pleasure of living.

And perhaps that is the real magic of Shiuli.

It falls quietly through the night, and by morning, it has filled the world with beautiful thoughts and hope.