Because the stories we tell define us

The title of this post is taken from the title of Nayomi Munaweera's introductory piece in the third volume of the Write to Reconcile series.

***

Last month, I stopped by the National Peace Council of Sri Lanka's office and my eyes fell on a stack of brightly coloured books, intriguingly titled 'Write to Reconcile.'

It was the last of three volumes produced by a creative writing project conceptualised and led by Shyam Selvadurai along with Nayomi Munaweera, Ameena Husain, Amrita Pieris and Shiromi Pieris. The project was housed at NPC, which is how the books came to be there. 

Young writers applied to be part of the project, which brought them together to listen to speakers and took them around the island on field visits. They posted story ideas and stories, which were discussed in two online fora. One story by each writer was selected for inclusion in these volumes. The point was for the writers to deepen their understanding of the war experience, especially from perspectives outside of their own. Three batches of writers were convened, each making up one of the volumes.

Stories in the first volume focus on the war experience. They are set in Colombo and Jaffna, for the most part. In the second volume, the stories are largely set in the Eastern Province, where the population has been ethnically mixed for a long time. The last volume allows us to see the present post-war moment from the outside-in. A professional editor or literature professor might find the writing quality uneven, but it is hard not to be moved by the stories, and the intensity of feeling that most of them capture. 

It took me six weeks to steal the time between this pressing task and that urgent demand to finish reading the three volumes of 20-25 stories each. While it is hard for me now to look back and pick favourites from which to quote, I will never forget the voices and images with which they have left me. 

A family fleeing their home as the war crept in on them, leaving behind a patriarch who would not budge. An encounter with a soldier at a well in a desolate village. The towering statue of Shiva over a beach where two friends played, who were to be separated because of inter-ethnic quarrels around the temple. Sisters weeping for brothers. Sisters volunteering to fight to spare brothers. Brothers living in the shadow of war heroes. Lost homes, surviving only in memory. Memories so unreal they become fiction. People across the island, across ethnicities, search for and wait for their loved ones to return. Most moving, these images are created by people who have not lived the experiences for the most part. Such empathy, so creatively expressed! 

Let me dip in at random and share some words from here and there:

Nayomi Munaweera, writing about her family home: "The year the war ended, the Tamil Family who had occupied our house for about three decades left it and the house was ours again. In a casual conversation with a cousin I discovered that the Tamil family was from Jaffna. They had been forced out from their own ancestral lands and houses by war. They had taken our house because their own had been taken by the Tigers. Their misfortune had become ours." (Volume 1, page 11)

Shan Dissanayake describes a father sheltering in one trench with his daughter, wondering where his wife is and whether she has survived the bombing: "Siva's thoughts turned to his wife and now he couldn't refrain from softly sobbing. Was she one of those bodies in that other trench? The thought was unbearable... He felt his daughter move in his arms. They had to get away before it was their trench's turn." (Volume 1, page 52)

Shailendree Wickrama Adittiya: "The days grew more silent. Not the silence during the war when lights were switched off early and people spoke cautiously to each other, not knowing whom to trust. This new silence was of the kind where one small movement could shatter the peace." (Volume 1, page 91)

In Nifraz Rifaz's story in the first volume, a young Muslim man who polishes jewelry for a living, is picked up by three men in a van, because he writes a letter for his English class assignment. The letter is addressed to Prabhakaran. For this, he is brutalised, even before they read the whole letter, which ends: "Mr. Prabhakaran, is this war that we are fighting really worthwhile? One day when we die it's just the grave that will shelter us. And it's just a very small space. Isn't it?" (page 117)

In Vindhya Buthpitiya's story, a father and daughter bring home the ashes of her mother, into a Jaffna that her sister died to liberate. "Homeland rings hollow in my ears, like the carcass of this house. An overwhelming sadness washes over the anger I cultivated in these years of exile and I allow myself to cry. I think of Juderaj's spirited sermons abruptly rendered meaningless in the face of everything we have surrendered and everyone we have sacrificed." (Volume 1, page 199)

There are poems in these volumes too. Kandiah Shrikarunaakaran describes life during the fighting years and the long processions of the displaced leaving their homes. 

"Electricity cut off,
life now aligned with the sun's cycle,
we turned pre-historic.
Kuppi lamp with scant kerosene
resisted the night feebly,
every spit of light weak
against the howling wind.
These lamps flickered and dangled
marking our scramble backwards in history." (Volume 2, page 57)

"Lorries, buses, carts, disoriented crowds,
jammed, unmoving, rooted,
no one sure where to go,
which way to travel to safety.
Salty water brimming the road on either side,
failed to quench our thirst.
Impatient, sleepless, sunburnt,
our tears of anguish turned
the salty water saltier." (Volume 2, page 59)

Deborah Xavier writes about two people haunted by one incident in 1983: A bus load of people heads out in search of shelter amid the riots. They include a pregnant woman and a woman with a baby. The bus is stopped, and attacked by armed thugs. One of them throws the baby to the ground and kills the mother. (Volume 2, pages 159-167)

There are stories of hope too. In Easwarajanani Karunailingam's story, a Sinhalese ex-soldier moves to Kilinochchi in order to help rebuild the town, and ends up adopting an orphaned Tamil child. The story describes the distress of the resettlement process. (Volume 2, pages 198-207)

The war hero in Ruhini Katugaha's story tells his little brother, a doctor, "Ethnicity is what we choose to put on ... not something we get from our father's surname. The war is never going to be over little brother, if we think like that. When we are done with this war, we'll find something else to fight over and then something else." (Volume 2, page 262)

Krishanth Manokaran describes the homecoming of a grandfather and granddaughter. There is joy and love but also the memory of unnecessary death. "Krishnan had taken his motorbike to drive Sugi to the market and gunfire had broken out on the A9. Who fired first they didn't know. The army blamed the boys. The boys blamed the army. What solace did that give to a father?" (Volume 3, page 27)

In Adilah Ismail's story, a court clerk's memories of her own rape at the hands of a soldier are triggered by the hearing of a gang rape case. We also meet the judge, stepping out for a cigarette break and reflecting on what it would mean to find the accused guilty--would his evening walks "contain a frisson of fear and a wariness of strangers"? (Volume 3, page 105)

Volume 3 includes a story that imagines life in a free Eelam, with trade blockades from Sri Lanka causing acute food shortages. People run blackmarket stores and as the one he is visiting is raided, the protagonist hides: "Calming his breathing his mind did a strange thing to him then' he was once again back on that beach in Mullivaikal. He could hear the screams of injured thousands ringing in his ears. He remembered how the salt of the Nandikadal lagoon bit into the raw wounds across his legs and arms. He did not feel regret then or now, only a bone-deep weariness that this life of his had been lived with so much struggle." (A.A., page 167)

The quotations I have selected are merely an indicator of the riches in these three volumes. The books have been printed as part of the project but they are not widely distributed, I think, and that is a pity. I would hope that a publisher would at least publish a selection that could be available in stores, not just in Sri Lanka but across the region. 

Understanding the human impact of conflict is not just important in places where there has been conflict but also in places where are readier every day to escalate the level of violence in ordinary interactions. We are touchy and we are quick to anger. We do not learn history so in any case, we know none to remember. We raise statues for those who teach compassion but show no mercy for the infractions and imperfections of others, even when they are imagined. These heartbreaking stories must be widely shared so that we all learn how fragile our lives are, how precious our dreams (and this world) and how vital to our survival are values like cooperation, reconciliation and forgiveness. 

You can access the anthologies here:

Write to Reconcile Volume I

Write to Reconcile Volume II

Write to Reconcile Volume III

***

I want to close with a poem I loved, although it is really not about the war. I think it would resonate with anyone who has used boxes of paints or crayons with European names--prussian blue, for instance. How am I supposed to know what that means? (From Volume 3, pages 94-95)

Crayola Eyeseby Sukhee Ramawickrama

From childhood,
my Crayola-trained American eyes
recognise
Cherry Red
Royal Purple
Robin's-Egg Blue
Peachy Pink.

But here there is
Train Ticket Lavender,
Thambili Orange,
Milk-Tea Brown
which is creamier than
Spicy Pahe Brown.

Paddy Field Green is a favorite,
as is Floor Polish Red.
Poya Day White
 a shade crisper than
Jasmine White.

Indian Ocean Turquoise
endless, shimmering.
But nothing is brighter
than Little-Boy-School-Shorts Blue.

How can I begin to understand,
How can I allow myself to write,
When I am just starting
to truly see colour? 

Politics and fiction

The title for this post should probably be "Why I love fiction set in a political context."

I just put down Seema Goswami's 'Race Course Road.' I wanted to read it when she first posted about it, finally bought it last month, and picked it up during a sleepless spell the night before last, only to read it compulsively and finish it last night.

I read it playing the usual game one does with such novels, especially those set in India, asking, 'Now who is this supposed to be?' and 'Who is this character based on?' It is easy enough to guess but you realise that the answers do not make a difference to the simple but absorbing story, which is truly fiction. All the characters come alive, seem realistic, and you really want to know what is going to happen to all of them. It was just a really good storybook and I recommend it for weekend reading, holiday reading and definitely, reading on a really long flight. I mean, you can read it whenever you want, but best to read it when you can indulge without interruption--I found it hard to put down.

Seema Goswami's long years as a reporter show in all kinds of detailed references to the politics of the last twenty years, enriching the book.

I loved that the book tells a story, you can see Goswami's view on various issues (especially if you read her columns), but there is no hidden message. It is a clever book but it does not sit on a pedestal, pretending to dispense wisdom to lesser mortals--a problem I have with a great deal of contemporary Indian writing. People try too hard to impress and overload their stories with everything they know, layers of messages and too much else besides. In this book, the author brings a great deal of knowledge to her storytelling but the book is not about how brilliant she is--it is a book about the people whose story she is telling us. That has become a rare quality in this pretentious world we inhabit.

The only quibble I have with the book is the extremely tiny and light print--not the author's fault. But if you read it on a Kindle, and if the publishers produce an easy-to-read edition, I would say this is one of the most fun books I have read in the last year.

***

As I read 'Race Course Road,' I realised that I am very easily drawn into fiction--in any medium--that is set in a political context. I have binge watched 'Madam Secretary' earlier this year. I have 'Yes Minister' and 'Yes PM' bookmarked. I loved the political parts of the Jeffrey Archer's Clifton Chronicles (which I really enjoyed on the whole!). This context is what I really enjoy about Nayantara Sahgal's writing.

I want to acknowledge that a lot of other novels also merit the label 'political'. So maybe in the Indian context, what I mean is really a 'Lutyens' novel, to borrow a term from Goswami? Something that fictionalises Parliament, parties, elections and so on.

In real life, I am bored by television news discussions about politics, and despite wearing the political scientist tag on my bio, I tune out of everyday whosaidwhattowhom politics--the kind people seem to be enthralled by and for the first time in my life, I couldn't identify most political worthies in a line-up, even with a list of names in hand, without wild guesses. The politics of parties and netas really bores me. There, I said it.

Happily, fiction of any sort uses filters. Boring things get ignored and better still, in the best work, as much is left unsaid as is recorded. Unfortunately, this is not true in the real world. Politicians and even more, political experts, appear to be the most verbose creatures on earth. Where novels and television series cut to the chase, in seminars and interviews, people are hard to stop.

Truth, the saying goes, is stranger than fiction. The real world of politics has long crossed from 'strange' into bizarre, grotesque and evil. So in work like 'Race Course Road' and 'When the Moon Shines by Day' (Nayantara Sahgal), even the worst things people do, still seem not as bad as reality.

In the real world, there are unmanageable consequences for incompetence and evil, which are contained in fiction. You know, that as horrendous as someone's actions or acts of omission are, their consequences will be limited to the page and their comeuppance is imminent before the end of the novel. I don't need to feel anxious about that world. On American television fiction, there is a consistent triumph of idealism that is quite comforting. Take the President in 'The West Wing': there were moments in which one really wanted to vote for him. Moments, but they were there.

Fiction offers idealists like me a larger selection of good people. I know, I know, that's a horribly cynical thing for me to write, unworthy of a Piscean. But it's true. Who on a television newscast makes you feel as hopeful as a fictional character, even for five minutes?

Reading 'Race Course Road' made me want to read another novel like this immediately. I hope the author is working on one!

Murders in Mumbai

The book review cum gift recommendation I am about to write will not be a patch on the three books I am about to discuss.

It seems to be that every month some friend or professional acquaintance publishes a book and there are a slew of book launches, most of which I do not attend. Many of these books are what we used to call 'reference books'--academic books you read when you need to for your work. Some are non-fiction, the kind it's nice to pose with on social media. And a very small number are immediately inviting, as fiction.

It does not matter that these three books are by people I know to varying degrees. Indeed, sometimes that is a deterrent because you hear that person's voice read the book out to you and it can be painful. You also spend time guessing why they wrote what they wrote and that is a distraction. There is so much pressure to love the book and express that love on social media that it is hard to feel the love without performance anxiety.

For a person who talks about non-violence and peace, you may be surprised to learn how fond I am of murder mysteries. Of course, I do not read books that describe the murder in detail and I am spooked by books that delve into dark, psychological depths. I do not really know about this stuff and honestly, I don't care. What I enjoy immensely in a good murder are the character profiles that are built up as the detective (or detectives) talk to the suspects and I love the final denouement of what happened and how they figured it out.

It does not matter that these are Bombay books--no matter what you call the city. These stories could not have happened anywhere else. These characters could not have been from any other city. And yet, they could. There is also something universal about the stories--and I don't mean that in the pretentious way that some contemporary writers make everything about the world's pressing problems. I just mean, you have met people in these books somewhere in your own life--even if you live outside Bombay.

I am writing about them because I loved them and I think you might too. I also think they would make a great summer reading gift--I can see the three, stacked and tied together with a ribbon, or being pulled out eagerly from a gift bag. And then being consumed with pleasure.

First, I read "A Meeting on the Andheri Overbridge" by CS Lakshmi 'Ambai'. This is a collection of three short stories, all of which feature Sudha Gupta, a private detective. The stories were translated from the Tamil by Gita Subramaniam but they read so well in English--with all the Hindi and Marathi intact--that you do not realise they were not originally written in the language.

I will not tell you what the stories are about. They are feminist stories, for sure, but they wear their politics casually and in a way that makes you understand feminism is really about human struggles for freedom (from violence) and equality (of choice). Sudha Gupta's investigations are humane and diplomatic, and the stories are filled with light like the January sun and the breeze that comes through your auto as you drive past Juhu beach. You finish the third story with disappointment--what, she just wrote three, how could she stop here? A megacity holds a myriad stories, each waiting for Ambai's pen.

The second book I read was Jerry Pinto's "Murder in Mahim." I had not read his award-winning first novel because it seemed to require a commitment of seriousness from me that I am rarely able to make outside my work. (I feel the same way about Aamir Khan films.) But surely, a murder mystery is a light read? "Light" may not now be the word I use to describe Jerry's book, but "beautiful," "exquisitely written with a great loving heart" and "very moving" would be.

"Murder in Mahim" has the admirable quality that I find in Rohinton Mistry's books--I can smell the city. And much as I love Bombay, let's face it, fragrance is not one of its strong suits. But starting from the station loo where the story begins to the mixed odours of the breeze near Shivaji Park to the cooking smells of the housing societies visited in the book, you can smell the city in this book and so you are there.

I loved the characters--perhaps because I have met them before, a little of this person, a little of that. Everyone speaks at length but interestingly--which is a departure from real life and one that is welcome! The small details draw you into the world of the book and hold you there. The one that comes to mind as I write this is the discussion over the glasses and tableware that should be used for a visitor. The menu then is a discussion of how the fish (or was it chicken?) was used--some for pre-dinner snacks, some to be served with dinner. You have to have been very, very observant to write like this--to have absorbed every minute aspect of the world around you and people over a lifetime--to be able to recreate them in this way. Don't misunderstand--there is no ostentatious "look at me," "I am such a great literary artist" presence here. As in life, so in this book, the miniature artistry is just there--enjoy it if it is to your taste or else just use it to soak in the plot.

The plot is also quite complicated and you want to push, push, push through to the end to find out who did what and why. The journey takes you everywhere in Bombay and for someone like me, reintroduces familiar places with new stories. The story is actually so intense I could not read this book at night--life, like this, would be a nightmare. And yet, there is so much warmth in the writing and so much fight in each character, that at the end, this is an uplifting book.

Having said all this, I really do not do the writing justice.

The last of the three books is Aditya Sinha's 'The CEO who lost his head.' This book is so much fun! I have chuckled over the author's political columns and was delighted to see the same irreverent style here--in the characters' names, in their interactions, in the dialogue--and to see the real world in walk-on parts through the book. The allusions do not stop at front-page politics and security events but the book also makes room for the gender politics of the city, the workplace and the home in significant ways.

This is less of a Bombay book than the others--in that the city itself features less here than it does in the others, but it is a Bombay newspaper universe book! I chuckled over the main characters and relished the mystery plot, but equally I must confess I enjoyed guessing who-was-whom throughout the book.

I would be very disappointed if this were the only murder mystery--or only novel--Aditya Sinha wrote.

The three books together bring alive the nine rasas within one genre--murder. There is love, lust, beauty, laughter, grief, anger, courage, fear, disgust, wonder through all these three books, and shanta rasa--peace--comes when the mysteries are solve--but not entirely. And how have we managed so far without detectives or detectives of our own--Sudha Gupta, Jende and D'Souza and Solvekar and Ramteke... welcome to our world!

But forget all my words--I only write them for the pleasure that process brings me. Just get the books and get to the words that Ambai, Pinto and Sinha wrote!