Grammar of the Void – Book Review

Somewhere in the author’s note, Satyarth Pandita writes that writing helps him stay sane amidst all the thoughts that run rampage in his head. I stopped and smiled, because that is exactly it. Writing is how we decide whether our thoughts need to vanish, be preserved, or explored further into something beautiful. My earliest writings were in the attic or kani as we have known it, scrawled into my Masi’s university books. She did not appreciate the vandalism. It did not stop me. I suspect Satyarth would understand.

Heading into the first story (The Birthday Gift), I half-expected a reference to Kashmir. After all, that is the backdrop to so many of our thoughts, especially for those of us who inherited Kashmir, either directly or through exile. But I was beautifully and unexpectedly transported back into a different part of my childhood instead. The soundtrack of Malgudi Days began playing in my head. The story touches on so many nuances of Indian life, things we have long accepted, but which so desperately need to change. Thought-provoking and well-written, it was a powerful opening.

There is something admirable in what Satyarth has chosen not to do. We all evolve, and so does our writing. You look back at something you wrote at a younger age and feel the urge to change the words, the phrasing, the setting. But what was written at an earlier age reflected your state of mind, your understanding of the world at that time. Updating it now would change the soul of the story. I am glad he resisted that urge.

My favourite story is The Betrayal, for all that it conveys. Satyarth takes us back to Kashmir, but not to the Chinars, the valleys, or the waterfalls. He takes us to guilt, to fear, and to what fear drives us to do to escape. Vinod’s trauma is guilt made flesh. I will say no more, for fear of giving it away, but in real life there were many Ravinders and Vinods. The story knows that, and it carries that weight honestly.

Synapse was a surprise, a clean, confident piece of science fiction that cements the author’s ability to shift between entirely different worlds and subjects. It is here that Satyarth’s scientific background reveals itself openly. The precision of thought, the comfort with neurological and biological concepts and the way he builds an imaginary world from a foundation of real science, all feel earned rather than borrowed. This is not a writer playing at science fiction. This is someone who understands the science and then asks what if. The story pivots on a moment that stopped me in my tracks. A professor explains to a writer why he alone can resist a machine that has learned to predict human behaviour:

As a writer, you hold the power of imagination, the ability to create infinite worlds, characters, and realities that defy logic. Fiction is your weapon, an unpredictable, boundless force that the machine cannot understand or counter because even you do not know how it will end.”