Skip to main content

“Franz Kafka’s Trial” – book review


What can I say about the man “K” who is on trial for a crime who knows nothing about? He is on arrest, but can go on with his everyday routine just as well as he used to do prior to that. The judge who summons “K” is clueless, officers who arrest “K” are clue less, and everyone seems to be part of a giant mechanism of portentous network that looms on to people and casts giant shadows, obfuscates the lay man from the authority behind the clouds.

The whole novel is reminiscent of “Who are you?” track by “The Who”. The courtroom is filled with people who nonchalantly applaud “K”; the judge, apparently pretends to listen, but is thumbing down the pages of a notebook that has nude pictures of voluptuous females. K’s innocuous remarks (or so he thought at the time) result in two officers whipped officially for a good whole day; his neighbour, a lady who works in the theatre is cross with him, for he accosted her the other night with nonsensical claims of his being put on trial; his landlady who seems to be deeply affected by the whole episode cries her heart out, but blurts a thing or two about the theatre lady’s affairs; K’s uncle, a man from the country side, who concerns himself with the case, reprimands K for the trial, censures his secretive affairs, makes it clear to him that the whole family is taking it badly.

But, nobody knows, K himself doesn’t know what he is being arrested for, what is the trial for? His inquisitiveness takes him to the courtroom- on a particular day when there are no hearings. The lady, whose house is the court room, approaches K with an offer of eloping with him. The office in the attic room of the apartment, the dusty room that suffocates everyone with air that one cannot inhale for its heaviness; the men inside, waiting in a long queue to submit their applications for a hearing; the student at the court room who carries the lady (literally, lifts her up in his arms) and takes the stairs to the attic before K to meet the Judge. The husband, poor fellow, is complaining to K about the judge and student misusing his hospitality, his wife….

“The Observer” sums the novel in one word-Enigmatic.


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

White Man's Diary

I have utter contempt for a man who is not passionate about the work he does; I am at loss for words to decipher the enigma of this world and its subtle nuances. Its really intriguing at the same time quite disturbing to know that there are people who consider the world a mundane place. It’s inconceivable to think that people are ingenuously assuming the shred of indifference. Permit me to feel flattered for being bestowed upon me the onus of enlightening the kind of people that were ostracized for centuries by the society of the enlightened, the kind that were never kind to themselves, the kind that wished to liberate themselves from all the desires that besieged them perpetually. History tells us that the people who managed to think beyond the obvious were invariably rewarded for having put up the act of thinking. People who lived on this planet earth 2000 years prior to now, had enough food for thought. An incredible amount of friction existed at every step they took in the evolutio...

Where British Steel met the Nubile Cultural Beauty.

Noughties have been a delight. My life began; I might be tempted to say-just as any other city’s did. But the fact is that my life began when angry gentlemen threw spades at each other. In sixteenth century, my rulers at Golconda founded me. Musi, my artery ran through me fresh and clear embellishing me for years. When plague besieged me portentously, my rulers wove one of the most beautiful monuments in India-Charminar, adorned me with the crown. But before the incumbent rulers at Golconda could flourish in the shadows of the great crown and meadows of the fecund land, Nizams defeated them in a battle. What was to come next, I would not have contemplated at that time, but looking back, I realise that the Nizams watered those shrubs of culture that sporadically rose in the rule of my previous rulers. What was to be quoted by Dr. Ambedkar after my inclusion in the united India - as home to all the riches and culture, so good to take upon the capital city status for a united India - grew...

Keyboard

In this land of square edges, people wear black square helmets with lines in contrasting colour drawn right at the top. With tapering stiff cloaks fattening at the bottom, we rest on this flat piece of charcoal Black Island. We stand tall, our bodies solid and inflexible, but the knees are lithe and give away. However, we are genetically designed to spring back up, stand tall and take the incessant knocking on our helmeted heads. Our life time varies; we hear news of islands, our contemporaries, wearing out with the frontline soldiers’ knees worn out of perpetual thrashing to their feet only to spring back and be knocked again. With a population of close to a hundred people, our island boasts a frontline soldier squad of 26. This squad is relentlessly battered; under a roar of stuttering knocks on the head, they are the ones who find their knees buckle before the rest of the population’s. More often than not, it is the ones who are guarding the left front, ones with ‘a’, ‘s’, ‘e’, or...