Phew, just in time. Needed a birthday present for a young woman dear to me, an avid and thoughtful reader. Having waded through more junk than I cared for, I finally chanced on a beautifully written, riveting saga that tackles about everything under the sun, from colonialism to capitalism to technology and tyranny of corporations, from independence and interdependence in human relationships to courage and coconuts. Actually that last pairing should be the first in the list, both are corner stones in this multi-generational epic, and the former a decided trait not just of the main protagonists but of the author as well. She did not shy away from tackling multiple existential issues with breathtaking bravura.
Happy birthday, Shels, I hope you are drawn in by The Immortal King Rao as much as I was!
Vauhini Vara‘s debut novel is informed by both her own Indian heritage and her deep knowledge of the American tech and finance domain from her years as a technology correspondent for the Wall St Journal and editor and writer at The New Yorker‘s business section. Her familiarity and insights into the workings of that world provide the basis for the first of the three main storylines winding through the novel: the effects of colonial power and capitalism as systems of exploitation and extradition. It is embedded in the story of a man belonging to the Dalit caste of Untouchables, growing up on a coconut plantation in South East India and becoming a tech tycoon in the US (his corporation is called Coconut, not Apple… and located near Seattle in the near future, thus today’s photographs.) He eventually develops technology and algorithms that run the world as a share holder system which assigns “social capital,” with a governing Board that he chairs until his downfall. Instead of accomplishing its stated goal of enabling people to live in harmony, the shareholder system perpetuates and exacerbates economic divisions, with the global South falling into complete disrepair, poverty across the world unabated.
The man, the King Rao of the novel’s title, is both a victim and a perpetrator, conceived in violence and killed the same way. Before it dawns on you how he adapts to the hardships of his life by becoming transactional and rapacious himself, you have already been emotionally drawn into championing this underdog who is courageously fighting against seemingly overwhelming forces. This is remarkable when considering that his story is told through the eyes of his 17 year old daughter, Athena, who is herself a victim of his exploitation and narcissism. The relationship between father and daughter, and various other marital, familial and collective (dis)connections, is the second strand of the narrative. Sensitively explored but without pity, we are made to witness how love and despair can live hand in hand, longing for connection is mitigated by desire for independence, fear of loneliness transformed into possessiveness.
By the time we enter this story, the world is approaching its own demise as Hothouse Earth, with no scientific tools available to remedy what the Anthropocene’s despoliation produced. Small groups of resisters have decoupled from the system and live on small islands trying to be self-sufficient as collectives, facing rising sea levels with defiance. They are joined by Athena who escapes a life in isolation on another island where her father, outcast himself after scientific research produced tragic results, raised her completely alone. As it turns out, and this is the third main strand in the complex weaving of this novel, she is never able to completely disconnect from her father. His desire for immortality – his own consciousness transferred into next generations – led to his decision to implant a mechanism in his (embryonic) daughter that forever allows his memories and thoughts to appear in her mind. She, in turn, uses the tools he provided, to access the mind of others to exploit them for needs of her own, until that is put to an end, canceling “immortality” once and for all. Perhaps. We’re left hanging, confronted with hubris all too familiar, and the unanswered question of what life is really for.
If all this sounds too complicated, a convoluted mix of Bildungsroman, Sci Fi leanings and history lecture on the evils of colonialism/capitalism, rest assured: it is a romp to read, with no didactic finger wagging, just subtle invitations to think through some of the big issues that have affected the course of history. Vara’s depiction of the downfall of India’s flourishing economy and independence with the arrival of the British East India Company in the 18th and 19th century leave out some of the most horrifying statistics: Scientists now estimate that at the height of British Colonialism, more than 100 million people died prematurely as the result of institutional exploitation. That is more than the combined famine deaths in the Soviet Union, Maoist China, North Korea, Cambodia and Ethiopia. The way colonialism changed production, consumption and export is made visible (and graspable) in the description of the fates of coconut plantations.
The author’s description of the perils of technological advancement are balanced by depictions of some of its gains. Her’s is not a moralistic voice, strident declarations from a pulpit, but one of warning about hubris. The fact that she manages to give the various narrative strands equal weight is reflected in the reviews of the novel. Some focus on the economics, some on the relationships (men and women both nurture and abuse power, remarkably balanced depictions,) some highlight the unwillingness of the world to heed the warnings of science. All agree that this book is a marvelous accomplishment.(1, 2, 3, 4)
I find myself still thinking about the whole issue of seeking immortality, a desire not just now emerging when we’re facing the end of the world as we know it. Why, I asked at the dinner table, are people so obsessed with it, the early pharaohs of the world awaiting the next move in their gold filled pyramids, the Elmo Musks of the present investing their fortunes into neurotech companies like Neuralink, hoping to fuse brain content, memories and all, to machinery? For the foot soldiers, the rest of us across history, there’s always been an offer of “immortality” that doesn’t require imperial or tech billions: just buy into belief systems of rebirth, or religious visions of eternal afterlife in paradise, in corporal form, if so desired. All you have to do is obey, submit, and never challenge the hierarchy.
“What don’t you understand,” was the laconic reply. “People don’t like to think of their plans, hopes and desires will meet a final point of no return. The mystery of what happens after death might very well be filled with optimistic visions of renewed (or continued) existence until we have solved the riddle. And besides,” I was told, “neuroscience is nowhere remotely close to being capable of providing any of the things needed to transfer consciousness. We don’t understand how it is produced in our own minds, much less how to spread it amongst other living beings or computational machines. Write a blog,” I was encouraged, “on the promises and limitations of the field of neuroscience as it stands now. “
I’ll get to it, one of these days. First I have to wrap a book and come up with a birthday cake!
Indian Music today by Anoushka Sankar, Ravi Sankar’s daughter, playing the Sitar.
