This quote captures the gist of this novel, or anti-novel as some critics have labeled it. The novel captures deep etched memories of the narrator from his table tennis playing days (while being very honest about to his playing capabilities), his soft ball cricket playing in the front yard, and of course the fond memories of the girl that he is in love with - for the majority of the novel. While, clearly biographic, there is a spanner in the works with the statement that not all statements and episodes found in this narration are true - and that some are fiction - which leaves us to question whether the statement in question too is fiction. While not an easy read by any stretch of imagination, the narrator comes across as being giving an honest account, and the fact that these reminisces can easily take the reader to his or her own fond memories make the book that much more enjoyable. So much so that the reader would think that he or she could make an sketch of their memory photo slides, if not for their reluctance to share it with the wider world. In that sense this book could possibly be termed as the narrator's coming to terms with his life so far, and burning the corpse of memories that were bound to him, and moving on. The last chapter, titled 'coming home' suggests just that.
"Our memory is a continuing photo slide. We retain moments and people in snap form - as they engage in some action which, in turn, is fossilized and frozen: deposited in a rack where our memory collects. The earliest memory of someone doing something. But, there is an involuntary expectation in us that we remember and collect, the others, too, would have retained and preserved." (page 300)
Outside of his deep etched memories, both fond and otherwise, contemporary happenings of the period that this book was written in, make the book even more interesting - since these are from the recent past - not older than 17-18 years back. The waging of war to defeat the LTTE, author's stance on the topic of self determination of the non-Sinhala races in Sri Lanka, cricket - of which the author has good memories - an example of which is where Champika Ramanayake sent Hansie Cronje's off stump cart wheeling ( the joke about Ramanayake in my circles was that Ramanayake will bowl one gem of a delivery per tournament ), Rugby, especially politically infused rugby when Navy SC was more equal than others, all figure in here.
Vihanga's name came up when one of my friends' mentioned that he was looking out for Vihanga's books for his daughter who is an under-grad at Ja'Pura. Then we got took to talking ( we as in my small reading circle), about Vihanga's work. Still I was undecided on reading - leave alone buying a book of his. But then a random 4th floor visit to Perasaviya, got me looking at a single copy of FOG - and the back cover blurb - made me give it a try ( plus, if am to follow Vihanga - I wanted to buy something to mark the purchase of my new spectacles, having lost my pair in a 170 or 190 bus). Vihanga has stated in an interview that he's not worried about how many read his stuff. And frankly I might not read much by him ( for he himself has stated that he considers this his best book), but am on the lookout for Music.Death if I can find it.
The above comments by no way means that each sentence of this book is readable. At a guess there is at least 30% of the book that a reader may not be able to connect - but that didn't worry me, for what connected was quite good - plus there is hardly a story here so that the misses don't really matter ( or I read it as such).
If this is your kind of book you'd absolutely love it. But there's only one way to find out - plus I think this book is quite difficult to find.
Rating: ****
First published - 2011 (self publication)
