Pamuk's Other Colours

Orhan Pamuk's Other Colours is a collection of his selected writings which brings out a glimpse of his intimate views on family ties, politics, writing, writers, ethos and it's related pathos. Unlike in work of fiction where author talks to readers through portrayal of characters , this takes a dip into author's own mind, his trepidations, feelings, fears, melancholy, arguments. In this plunge you do not come out empty handed. In fact, you gather those precious things generously with both your hands. Just to give a glimpse of this enriching book, I have reproduced two short write-ups below from the collection:

Dead Tired in the Evening

I come home tired in the evenings. Looking straight ahead, at the roads and pavements. Angry about something, hurt, incensed. Through my imagination is still conjuring up beautiful images, even these pass quickly in the film in my head. Time passes. There's nothing. It's already nighttime. Doom and defeat. What's for supper?

The lamp atop the table is lit; next to it sits a bowl of salad and bread, all in the same basket; the tablecoth is checkered. What else? ...A plate and beans. I imagine the beans, but it's not enough. On the table, the same lamp is still burning. Maybe a bit of yogurt? Maybe a bit of life?

What's on television? No, I'm not watching television; it only makes me angry. I'm very angry. I like meatballs too- so where are the meatballs? All of life is here, around this table.

The angels call me to account.

What did you do today, darling?

All my life...I've worked. In the evenings. I've come home. On television- but I am not watching television. I answered the phone a few times, got angry at a few people; then I worked, wrote....I became a man... and also- yes, much obliged- an animal.

What did you do today, darling?

Can't you see? I've got salad in my mouth. My teeth are crumbling in my jaw. My brain is melting from unhappiness and trickling down my throat. Where's the salt, where's the salt, the salt? We're eating our lives away. And a little yogurt too. The brand called Life.

Then I gently reached out my hand, parted the curtains, and in the darkness outside caught sight of the moon. Other worlds are the best consolations. On the moon they were watching television. I finished off with an orange- it was very sweet- and my spirits lifted.

Then I was master of all worlds. You understand what I mean, don't you? I came home in the evening. I came home from all those wars, good bad, and indifferent; I came home in one piece and walked into a warm house. There was a meal waiting for me, and I filled my stomach; the lights were on; I ate my fruit. I even began to think that everything was going to turn out fine.

Then I pressed the button and watched television. By then, you see, I was feeling just fine.

***

Rüya and Us

1. Every morning we go to school together: one eye on the watch, one eye on the bag, the door, the road. In the car, we always do the things: A) wave at the dogs in the little park; B) knock back and forth as the car accelerates around a corner; C) say, "To the right and down the hill, Mr' Driver!" casting a sidelong glance at each other and laughing; D) laughing when we say, "To the right and down the hill Mr.Driver!" because he knows exactly where we're going, as we always take taxis from the same taxi stand; E) get out of the taxi and walk hand in hand.

2. After I have hung her bag on her shoulder, kissed her, and led her into school, I watch her from behind. I have memorized the way Rüya walks, and I love watching her walk into school. I know she knows I'm watching her. It is as if her knowing I'm watching makes us both feel secure. First, there is a world she enters and explores every day, and then there is the world we two share. When I watch her, and she turns, and she turns around to watch me, we keep our world going. But then she breaks into a run and enters a new life where my eyes cannot go.

3. Let me brag a little: My daughter is intelligent and knows what she likes. She insists without a moment's hesitation that I tell the best stories, and on weekend mornings she lies down next to me and demands her due. Because she knows who she is, she knows what she wants. "It should be witch again, she should escape from prison but she shouldn't go blind and she shouldn't grow old, and in the end she shouldn't catch the little child." She doesn't want me skipping the parts she likes. She tells me which parts she doesn't like while I'm still telling the story. This is why telling her a story means both writing it and reading it as the child who wrote it.

4. As with all intimate relationships, ours is a power struggle. Who will decide: A) which channel to watch on television; B) what time is bedtime; C) what game will be played or not played, and how this decision, and many other similar decisions, discussions, disputes, tricks, sweet deceptions, bouts of tears, rebukes, sulks, reconciliations, and acts of contrition will be resolved after long political negotiations. All this effort makes us tired and happy, but in the end it accumulates and becomes the history of the relationship, the friendship. You come to understanding, because you're not going to give up on each other. You think about each other, and when you're parted you remember each other's smell. When she is gone I miss the smell of her hair terribly. When I'm gone, she smells my pajamas.

***

This book is worth glancing and sipping in bits next time you are at the nearest bookstore. For me it had turned into an impulse purchase after twenty minutes. Although, now, after finishing the book, I don't regret it and guilt laden self is riding on a backseat.