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By:

Rupali Sethi

6 January 2026 at 8:01:30 pm

A Quiet Mirror of Life

Literature need not depend on extraordinary events to uncover extraordinary truths. A fleeting encounter, a childhood memory, a family ritual or an apparently insignificant incident can expose the deeper tensions of human nature. Sundar Viswam’s Mortal Remains and Other Stories, a collection of eleven stories, takes this route. Love, friendship, family, ambition, migration, morality, betrayal, prejudice and destiny emerge not through grand dramas but through ordinary lives. Viswam’s...

A Quiet Mirror of Life

Literature need not depend on extraordinary events to uncover extraordinary truths. A fleeting encounter, a childhood memory, a family ritual or an apparently insignificant incident can expose the deeper tensions of human nature. Sundar Viswam’s Mortal Remains and Other Stories, a collection of eleven stories, takes this route. Love, friendship, family, ambition, migration, morality, betrayal, prejudice and destiny emerge not through grand dramas but through ordinary lives. Viswam’s particular talent is to find the consequential in the commonplace: a kite, a wedding invitation, a rumour or a sudden turn of fate becomes a way into larger questions about how people behave. The title story, “Mortal Remains”, sets the reflective tone of the collection by asking what survives an experience in memory, in creativity and in the emotional lives of others. The stories repeatedly return to that question. What people carry with them, and what they leave behind in others, often matters more than the event itself. Characterisation is perhaps the collection’s greatest strength. Viswam does not arrange his people conveniently into heroes and villains. They are contradictory, ambitious, vulnerable and morally uncertain. In “Mortal Remains”, a writer’s compulsive attachment to his art becomes an exploration of creative obsession, loneliness and the uneasy relationship between life and artistic expression. “The Red Kite” turns childhood friendship and rivalry into a painful memory, showing how an apparently innocent episode can acquire significance over a lifetime. “Manda oh my Manda!” inhabits the uncertain territory between affection and self-interest, while “The Invitation” uses an ordinary social ritual to expose family bitterness. “Falling Out” examines the slow deterioration of friendship when concealed perceptions come to the surface; “Brother in Need” places adolescence against a backdrop of corruption and insecurity. The psychological force of these stories comes less from explanation than from behaviour. Fear, guilt, longing, jealousy and regret surface in dialogue, hesitation and silence. Viswam trusts such details to do much of the work, allowing his characters to reveal themselves rather than having the author explain them. The collection also acquires a wider social and philosophical dimension. “The God of Chance” considers the role of coincidence and destiny in human relationships. “Regrettably, Yours” offers a perceptive account of the immigrant experience, where professional achievement does not necessarily settle questions of identity and belonging. “A Matter of Principle” explores the uneasy distance between conviction and practical reality, while “Just Token” examines how moral compromise can begin with choices that appear too small to matter. In “Pleasanton”, the rumour of an Indian lottery winner unsettles a community and brings prejudice, aspiration, insecurity and curiosity to the surface. The common thread is consequence. Small incidents can produce disproportionate emotional effects; private compromises can reveal larger moral questions. Society, in Viswam’s hands, is not merely a backdrop but a mechanism for exposing character. His interest lies in the point at which chance becomes consequence and an everyday decision acquires moral weight. Viswam writes with clarity and restraint, moving comfortably between tenderness, irony, humour, social observation and introspection. His vocabulary serves the story rather than calling attention to itself. Carefully chosen details establish atmosphere without burdening the narrative with description. There is an appealing economy to the writing. That restraint is particularly effective in moments that might otherwise invite melodrama. Readers are consequently free to make their own judgments rather than being directed towards them. The result is prose that is accessible without being thin, and psychologically attentive without becoming ponderous. Ultimately, Mortal Remains and Other Stories succeeds because it treats human beings as complicated creatures rather than moral specimens. Its characters love, fear, desire, compromise, remember and regret, often simultaneously. Viswam does not hurry to judge them; circumstances and choices are allowed to expose their contradictions. The title therefore assumes a wider significance. What remains after an experience is rarely the experience itself. It is the memory, the emotional imprint and the alteration it leaves behind. Viswam finds these residues in ordinary lives and turns them into occasions for reflection. His stories suggest that profound literature need not search for exceptional lives. It can begin with ordinary people, provided the writer observes them with sufficient patience, empathy and curiosity. That is what makes the collection linger. Its stories do not offer easy moral conclusions. Instead, they encourage readers to recognise familiar emotions in unfamiliar lives — and perhaps to see their own lives a little differently. (The writer is a literary critic, book reviewer and scholar of Hindi and English literature.)

Selective Outrage

Correspondent
May 9, 2025
2 min read

India’s left-liberal media has long prided itself on being the torchbearer of secularism, dissent and moral rectitude. In the aftermath of ‘Operation Sindoor,’ the precision military strike launched by the Modi government against Pakistan-based terror camps, it has revealed its not a principled commitment to peace or truth, but a disturbing penchant for ideological prejudice, performative sanctimony and selective outrage.


The operation itself was a textbook display of calibrated force and geopolitical prudence. Prime Minister Narendra Modi, often caricatured as ‘authoritarian’ by the ‘liberal’ English-language commentariat, chose patience over provocation. He consulted opposition leaders, held detailed discussions with defence chiefs and took key international stakeholders, notably the United States and Russia, into confidence before authorising limited military action. The symbolism of ‘Operation Sindoor’ was also carefully crafted: a pointed reminder that the attack’s real victims were Hindu women widowed by Pakistan-sponsored militants in Kashmir. The government’s briefings were also strategic and symbolic as two ranking female officers, one of them Muslim, were made the public face of the mission, underlining a new Indian confidence that blends military muscle with democratic pluralism.


But this was unacceptable for India’s entrenched ‘left-liberal’ press, steeped in academic jargon, Western validation and a knee-jerk hostility to anything remotely ‘Hindutva.’ That a Muslim officer briefed the nation on ‘Operation Sindoor’ was branded ‘tokenism’ by such commentators. Others crudely alleged that the April 22 Pahalgam massacre was the logical culmination of reported atrocities against Muslims since Modi came to power in 2014.


The semantic nitpicking over ‘Operation Sindoor’ was maddening. An editor of a prominent magazine dubbed the operation’s name as ‘patriarchal’ and coded in Hindutva tropes. In a bizarre case of moral inversion, sindoor was likened to symbols of ‘honour killings’ and gender oppression, ignoring both its cultural resonance and the cruel reality that these women had lost their husbands in cold blood. For years, India’s ‘secular’ commentariat nurtured a preordained binary: the Congress may be flawed but was at least ‘secular’ while the BJP was an inveterate ‘fascist.’ Thus, the 2002 Gujarat riots are always focused upon but the Congress-backed pogrom of the Sikhs in 1984 is either downplayed or rationalised. Terrorism in Kashmir is tragic, but state retaliation is ‘jingoism.’ A strong Muslim voice in government is ‘tokenism’ but its absence is ‘exclusion.’ Even journalistic rigour is selectively applied. When Pakistan claimed to have downed Indian jets, some Indian outlets rushed to amplify the story before verification, inadvertently echoing enemy propaganda.


Dissent is vital in any democracy. But when its becomes indistinguishable from disdain, when editorial choices are dictated by ideological conformity, then the press becomes a caricature of itself. Ironically, many of these journalists enjoy robust free speech and loudly lament India’s supposed slide into ‘fascism’ from the safety of their X handles. Yet they turn a blind eye to Putin’s repression, Erdogan’s purges or Xi Jinping’s camps. In their eyes, Modi remains the greatest threat to democracy even as they broadcast their outrage freely, without fear of censorship or reprisal. ‘Operation Sindoor’ was a statement of cultural self-confidence. That confidence has rattled those who have spent their careers gatekeeping Indian discourse. Today, their monopoly is over. The people are watching and they no longer believe that the emperor has clothes.

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