It’s darkly funny, deceptively simple, and a necessary read for testing times.
In this gripping philosophical tale, a boy awakens beneath a tree in a forest in summer. He is soon joined by Time and his slave, a withered creature hooked on time and aching to disappear. The story evolves over the course of a year as a host of characters are drawn to the Tree for guidance. The unlikely cast grapple with choices and grope towards self-knowledge in a world where compassion is interwoven with menace. As the seasons bring great changes to the forest, we watch the child grow while the trials he faces mount. Then the time for talk and innocence passes as the forces of darkness rally, threatening the lives of his friends.
Lyrical, honest and heart-breaking, Time and the Tree confronts readers with a unique perspective on the challenges life presents. A wise and hopeful book, it is uplifting and unsettling by turns.
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An absolute powerhouse of a story. Reading this book is like being transported back to the fairy tales of your youth, but with a slightly modern twist. Róisín Sorahan has crafted an incredibly special story here that balks at categorization like it balks at convention.
The different sections of this book are broken up by the seasons, Summer, Autumn, Winter and Spring and every section deals with a different new beginning and a different end. The protagonists of this story, the Boy and the Tree, are not only good friends to each other, but to nature and the other living beings in the forest as well.
This book truly has all of the hallmarks of a fairy or folk tale, the whimsy, the moral, and the subtle darkness. 'Time and the Tree,' is a love letter to fairy tales that would make the Grimm Brothers or Hans Christian Anderson proud.
Just as the Weaver in the story weaves her spells, Sorahan wove the best elements of all of these classic stories into something new and different that shines with the magic and beauty of nature throughout.
The moment I started reading, I knew I was in for a treat and I was definitely not disappointed! I cannot recommend this enough to anyone who is wondering if it should be their next read! This gets five magical stars from me!
WHITE RAT IN INDIA
By Róisín Sorahan
I travel to tumble down the rabbit hole. I don’t want a predictable world.
I don’t want to say that this city reminds me of that one. I want to be
unbalanced. Feel lost.
It is a feeling completely other to the disorientation suffered by so
many who have stumbled into a dark, confounding tunnel during this pandemic. And
Alice is still plunging.
Amidst the fear, there is also hope.
The fall will end. Life will continue to be layered and lived. Challenges
ahead may seem less overwhelming. In the words of Alice, “after such a fall as
this, I shall think nothing of tumbling down the stairs!”
That is no small thing.
But for now, as we fall down, down, down, I think of other adventures and
Wonderlands that waited for me at the end of dark tunnels.
I recall a long night on a dark train in India. My sweat soaked clothes
stuck to me. Bodies littered the space around me. Small children’s wails
lacerated dreams. The stench was a weight in the air. The space enclosed me
like a coffin. I tried to sleep. Then I settled for just trying to breathe.
We fell down, down, down.
Then, in the pre-dawn
darkness, I alighted from the train with a soft thump, and the fall was over.
I brushed
myself off and looked around. The western desert station in Bikaner emanated
horror-movie menace. There may have been a flickering light bulb. I don’t
recall.
After three
months in India, I was accustomed to stepping gingerly over strewn bodies on platform
floors. And I was resigned to the riot of traders and swindlers that stalked my
every step. However, loitering at the railway exit I felt the wariness that
hovers over night-time travelers in dimly lit stations the world over. The transitory
flurry caused by the train’s arrival had settled, and I had waved off the swarm
who had bid to bundle me into the back of a rickshaw. When it was clear that I
wasn’t bargaining, the rabblel backed off to watch what I’d do next. I waited. It
wasn’t terribly exciting, but I was the only show in town.
The night
lightened and still my ride didn’t show. A family with three youngsters stirred
on the pavement in front of the station where they had spent the night. The mother
shifted the infant in her arms and breast-fed the child. The older boys sat up
grimly, neither looking to be fed or petted. Their eyes fixed straight ahead, haggard
and hopeless.
I had travelled
to Bikaner in Rajasthan to visit the city’s renowned rat temple. The creatures
horrify me, but I was drawn to the idea like the sight of a car crash. I
thought it might help me understand how a rat in India can rise to the status
of a god, while a child in the same country can sleep in the sewers.
By the time a
car screeched up and my apologetic host fussed profusely, even the traders had
lost interest in me.
Some convoluted
explanation was provided, which distilled down to the simple fact that I had
been forgotten. It didn’t matter. The sun, even at this early hour, was
parching my skin. I was heading to shade, a shower, and a bed.
I wasn’t ready
for my encounter with crazy, so I stalled my departure to the temple and rested
up out of the glare in my host’s home on the edge of a town that has built its
tourism trade around the 16th century Junagarh Fort, camel safaris, and
a fetish with rats.
The rat temple
is dedicated to Karni Mata, a 14th century mystic who was believed
to be the reincarnation of the Hindu goddess Durga, the supreme mother and
creative life-force. Unsurprisingly, several legends surround the reason for
worshiping the 20,000 or so sacred rats, known as kabas. It is said that Karni
Mata attempted to bring back to life the son of a grieving storyteller, who was
one of her clansmen. However, Yama, the god of death, refused to restore the
child, claiming that it was too late as his soul had already been reincarnated.
The mystic and the god then came to an agreement that all of Karni Mata’s tribe
would be reincarnated as rats, under her protection, until they could be reborn
into her clan.
During my time
in India, I had become quite the temple aficionado. I rang the bell on entering
to wake the gods. I watched the priests dress figurines in the morning and dab
their plastic bodies in rose-scented water. I had saffron and rice daubed on my
forehead.
And now, done
with flirtations, I was intent on getting down and dirty in the fabled Karni
Mata Temple, where, if my planets aligned, I might spot a rare white rodent,
considered most auspicious, amidst the grisly brown swarm that ran rampant.
I took a bus to
the small town of Deshnoke, about 30 km from Bikaner. Hawkers selling rat
treats had set up stalls outside the temple. Passing under the ornate eaves and
through the solid silver doors, an excited crowd surged forward. I held back, in no hurry for whatever
might present itself.
Pausing before
the breach, the building was well worth a moment. It was built by Maharaja
Ganga Singh in the early 1900s. The rats’ royalty status was reflected in the
gilded gates and marble façade. But for all the embellishment, there was no
escaping the fact that what we had here was a horror load of rats. The sour
smell of well-fed vermin rose like a smoke signal, while netting covered the
open courtyard to protect them from birds of prey.
I didn’t need
to be told twice to watch where I was walking, but aside from the desire to
avoid stomping on a critter I was warned that a false foot leading to a dead
rat would mean that I would have to replace it with a gold rat effigy. I inched
forward.
It was like
entering a 19th century pleasure den. Plumb fellows lolled stupidly
in shaded corners, sated with sweets, milk and ground nuts. Twirling their
whiskers, others languished on fret-work railings, which acted as sofas over
which they draped their huge balls. At any moment, I expected to see paunches
patted, whisky poured, and cigars produced.
In the
meantime, temple guardians topped up bowels of milk, which they placed at
scattered intervals across the floor. Barely deigning to glance at the subjects,
who prostrated themselves on the filthy floor, rats gathered around the rim and
lapped up the nectar.
Many of the
devotees who had travelled with their families had come great distances. Their
excitement was colourful, noisy and infectious. Youngsters were encouraged by
their parents to poke the rats, which appeared to be far too replete to mind.
Bare feet were shamelessly flouted in the hope that a rat would run over them,
as this was considered extremely lucky. Skittish children, who had the good
sense to skip out of the way if a livelier fellow looked set to cross their
path, were given admonishing looks and encouraged to overcome their aversion by
offering the offended soul some sweets.
Believers sat
on the floor between the railings which led to the inner sanctum that held the
image of the deity, and where the priests conducted their rituals and handed
out Karni Mata’s ‘Prasad’. This is the leftover nibbles that the rats first
sample before the believers are lucky enough to finish the job. It is, quite
literally, the food of the gods, and considered sanctified. I declined, in the
belief that avoiding plague would be blessing enough.
Arms crossed,
feet covered, smile strained, I felt like the only sober person at the party.
Then the excitement racked up another notch. A temple guardian hurried over and
led me to where a group was gathered around a hole in the temple wall. A white
rat had been spotted. Elation mingled with tension. The subject of all the
attention refused to bolt from its hole. Treats were waved in whiffing distance
of its trembling snout. Bodies pressed closer. I found myself as anxious as
anyone to catch a glimpse of its snowy face.
It was slow, it
was nerve wrenching but, eventually, the quivering ancestor made a brief
appearance to perform a snatch and grab. The supplicants went wild. I admit, I
was carried by the euphoria. “A white rat!” I heard myself gasp. Someone must
have spiked my drink.
In India, anything is possible. Therein lies its lure. It cannot be defined by experience or expectations; nor will it limit itself to boundaries. In India, a child will scavenge in filth; while at another table, a rat will dine like a lord. There is no end to the horror one can encounter; equally, there is no border to this Wonderland.
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