The Buddha in the Attic

 

"One by one all the old words we had taught them began to disappear from their heads. They forgot the names of the flowers in Japanese. They forgot the name of the water goddess, Mizu Gami, who protected our rivers and streams and insisted that we keep our wells clean. But whenever we heard them talking out loud in their sleep the words that came out of their mouths came out—we were sure of it—in Japanese." 

"Our daughters took big long steps, in the American manner, and moved with undignified haste.Our sons grew enormous. They insisted on eating bacon and eggs every morning for breakfast instead of bean-paste soup.They refused to use chopsticks. They drank gallons of milk. They spoke perfect English just like on the radio and whenever they caught us bowing before the kitchen god in the kitchen and clapping our hands they rolled their eyes and said, “Mama, please.” "

-- above is an excerpt from the book The Buddha in the Attic by Julie Otsuka, a work of historical fiction on 'Picture Brides' who sailed from Japan (in early 20th century) to join their husbands in San Francisco, men they had seen only in photos until then, in hope of a better future or out of obligation to their parents. They were told their husbands are bankers but they were peasants. These women were crushed down to their bones doing odd jobs alongside their husbands all day long. They gave birth under horrific conditions, some of their children died and some survived. 

They told their children - "Study hard. Be patient. Whatever you do, don’t end up like me." And still, when their children  turned different, they felt they had become 'indifferent' too.

The chaos that's bundled with 'hyphenated heritage', the emotional experience of being 'an outsider' makes The Buddha in the Attic a layered read. This extra dimension reminded me of Asako Serizawa's depiction of life of a Japanese woman in America until the miscegenation law was repealed in 1948 in her book Inheritors and Cynthia Kadohata's portrayal of a modest Japanese family in 1950s America in her book Kira Kira. It is this dimension that makes me want to pick Kimi Cunningham Grant's book Silver Like Dust. 

There is no doubt that The Buddha in the Attic sheds light on a relatively lesser known dark chapter of history and it does so remarkably well, in a clearly structured fashion with thematic chapters. The book begins a chapter dedicated to the journey of these picture brides by boat. Chapters that detail their first impression as they land in America, the truths that unravel when they meet their husbands, consummation of their marriages, the menial jobs they do all day long while silently bearing the brunt of racism, ordeals related to child birth and health care, the culture shock that tears them apart as their children grow up etc follow on.  

The author's thorough research (we infer from the acknowledgements) lends a precision to the text and earns readers' trust. The writing is lucid and evocative too. Yet, the book fails to garner a perfect score on two accounts. 

Repetition is a common literary device used to assert or drive home a point. At Night all Blood is Black by David Diop and The Twilight Zone by Nona Fernandes are historical fiction works that come to my mind instantly as instances where this is employed and works pretty well. However, in this book, though repetition enhances the reader's emotional connect with the plight of the women initially, it lends a clear drag thereafter; pronouncedly in the last three chapters where the Japanese are branded as traitors, incarcerated, evicted from their homes and interned at camps following the Japanese attack of Pearl Harbour. Instead of letting this tragedy sink in us readers, the drag left a sense of urgency in me to complete the book.

Also, though the writer's usage of 'we', a first person plural in narration to amplify the collective experiences of the picture brides felt intelligent, in the absence of a distinct set of characters to connect with, my journey through the read felt directionless at places. 

Despite the above shortcomings, The Buddha in the Attic, a slim and highly important read, will stay with me for long for the way it dazzled in parts. 

Dead-end Memories

My first read for the year 2023 was Dead-end Memories, a collection of five stories by Banana Yoshimoto, translated by Asa Yoneda. 

"This was what it took, I realized, to be something that survived. Not just constancy, or strength. But—like the ever-flowing river—to engulf everything that came your way and move swiftly on as though it had never been."

Women are central characters in the stories here. They are either looking back on a day that changed their lives, fighting horrific scars from their past or learning to handle loss of love or a loved one, betrayal and failed relationships. In prose that is pellucid and brims with tenderness, Banana Yoshimoto dwells deeply on incidents that transform the lives of her characters and shape their memories. 

My favorite stories are ‘House of Ghosts’ which has a coming-of-age flavor to it, ‘Not Warm at All' which poignantly depicts how being surrounded by people doesn't always assure security or ward off loneliness and ‘Tomo Chan’s Happiness’ (though I felt this ended abruptly) which is a sensitive take on what defines and who controls one’s happiness. 

A freak food poisoning accident flushes out toxic baggage from the past for Matsuoka in the story ‘Mama!’. In Dead-end Memories, a newly forged friendship helps the protagonist battle loneliness and her fiancé's betrayal. In my opinion, these two stories would have had a better impact had they been shorter. And, the choice of the title for this collection where every story bestows its characters with hope, a fresh lease of life and space for more memories feels a little incoherent.

I re-read the author’s ‘Bee Honey’ from the Penguin Book of Japanese Short Stories. Looking back at all these stories, I adore Banana Yoshimoto for how she handles grief, loneliness, mental health issues and myriad everyday human emotions like an artist with the most nimble fingers. It's also lovely how she incorporates food as a medium of expression. Her acuity in detailing her character’s emotional vulnerability and maturity is stunning.

I am jotting down some of my favorite lines from the stories that I hope will substantiate the thoughts I have shared above -

"A feeling of closeness lay silkily between us, like a sourdough starter quietly rising." (from House of Ghosts)

"But my family was just the three of us. It seemed to me like we had no backup at all."

(from Not Warm at All)

"I was also learning that every single person in the world had been hurt by their family at some point. I wasn’t special at all—some people dealt with it well, and some didn’t, but that was the only difference, and either way, we were all nourished and cherished by our families, and at the same time limited and defined by them—that was what it meant to be human, I understood." (from Mama!)

"Each one of us has our own personal rock bottom. There are so many people out there with lives far less fortunate than ours, and if we got even a taste of what it’s like to be them it would crush us, we’d never make it through. Because we’re lucky, we’ve got things pretty easy. But that’s not something we need to feel ashamed of.” (from Dead-end Memories)

Mildly melancholic and pretty philosophical, Dead-end Memories feels like a blanket made of words that will keep us warm on cold winter evenings (maybe even help tackle a few cold vibes).

Fifty-five Pillars, Red Walls

Ralph Waldo Emerson's quote Money often costs too much was my WhatsApp status message for a long time and Fifty-five Pillars, Red Walls by Usha Priyamvada, translated from Hindi by Daisy Rockwell reminded me of it strongly. 

Isn't it ironical that money which assures a lot of freedom can actually tie a person down and thwart a few basic rights? Does financial independence itself come with a heavy price tag? 

The protagonist of this novel , Sushma Sharma, the eldest daughter in her family who's mature, intelligent and well-educated makes us ponder over the above question. Sushma is a lecturer and a warden in a reputed women's college in Delhi. As her family's breadwinner, her responsibilities are many. Her parents' initial reluctance to let Sushma work is gradually replaced by a smug understanding that her income is indispensable to run the household and to secure the future of her younger siblings. Sushma's mother often quips that Sushma is too able and literate and it's hard for them to find her a suitable match.  Though she remarks that  Sushma has been granted complete freedom to find a life partner herself, we realize through the read that this freedom is bogus. 

When Sushma meets Neel, a charming man, few years younger than her in Delhi, desires frozen deep within her begin to thaw. A gentle longing for love and companionship grows in her despite her sincere efforts to nip these changes as they bud. Neel's loving gaze, his wit, humor and child-like persistence; even his silence only draws them closer before Sushma realizes that she is trapped in a quagmire of personal desire conflicting with  familial duties and workplace obligations. 

Sushma's battle with loneliness, her angst at knowing that she will be caged for life within the confines of her workplace (fifty-five pillars, red walls refer to the college) and this angst pushing Neel to a state of despair are all written in a heart rending manner. 

That workplace gossip can be quite harmful and women bear its worst brunt even as they are its worst perpetrators is another subject dealt with in the novel. The friendship between Sushma and Meenakshi (Sushma's colleague) wins our hearts. The novel has a clear film-like quality to it and through the read I couldn't stop fancying Deepti Naval playing the part of Sushma and Vinod Mehra playing that of Neel. 

The book felt broadly similar to a story by Rajee Seth that I read in an anthology Alone Together, translated from Hindi by Ruth Vanita. 

One of my last reads - Taniya by Arupa Patangia Kalita, translated from Assamese by Meenaxi Barkotoki has an introduction penned by author Jahnavi Barua where she writes - "when the original comes effortlessly to you on reading a translation you know it is a job well done". When I read translations from Indian languages I can speak in - Tamil, Malayalam and Hindi, I try/naturally tend to think back on the probable lines in the original language. For this book, I was so deeply invested with Sushma's thoughts, decisions and actions that I skipped this exercise and devoured the book quickly. 

Fifty-five Pillars , Red Walls, a slim classic that poses essential questions, gives us readers a female protagonist we wouldn't forget easily. 

Pankaja

 “This novel wrote itself. I only provided the ink”, writes the author Vasanth Kannabiran about her book ‘Pankaja’, one that paints a vivid picture of the lives of upper caste women of Tamil society in the early 20th century. Chaste and dutiful wives, child brides, women widowed even before they attained puberty or knew their husband’s touch are under focus here. Through the life story of the eponymous character, stories of women related to her by blood and through her marriage, the author keenly gazes at loneliness, ennui in marriage, sexuality, desire, vulnerabilities of men and women. Pankaja is at the center of this world whittled down to about 200 pages, a world we are familiar with, a world which has & hasn't changed much over decades.

The book opens with these lines - “Relaxing in her easy chair in the front yard, Pankaja gazed at the pattern that the morning sun filtering in through the neem leaves cast at her feet”. Pankaja’s life is a landscape of contrasting emotions - joy, grief, love, loss, trust, betrayal - quite like the neem tree that’s known for its bitter fruit, serrated leaves, thick bark and also for its delicate blossoms & healing power.

The above lines (in quotes) reminded me of T Janakiraman’s Wooden Cow, translated from Tamil by Lakshmi Kannan, where the sunlight scattered in luminous dots on the floor, sometimes appearing like the hide of a dappled deer, at other times like that of a leopard to the female protagonist, Ammani hints at how complex our lives are. Both the books - Pankaja and Wooden Cow, fuelled by atrocities faced by widows in the Tamil Brahmin community, have women characters of great strength and resilience who defy social conventions and brave resentment from family and social censure.

Rendered as a bunch of disconnected anecdotes & brimming with characters (which gets tad cumbersome at times), Pankaja throws ample light on a heavily patriarchal and caste-ist society, one where widows are heavily ostracized, where a woman outside the safe, sacrosanct institution of marriage is an easy prey, where bigamy isn’t illegal and men had a wife to manage home and married an educated widow to flaunt their magnanimity. An unflinchingly honest narrative, this feels like dots of a ‘kolam’ (seen on the book cover), waiting to be joined and discerned by us readers. 

I have read Vasanth Kannabiran's translation (from Telugu to English) - Softly Dies a Lake by Akkineni Kutumbarao, a fine instance of an eco-memoir. With this new release by Speaking Tiger publishers, I had a lovely chance to read a work of fiction by the author. Many thanks to the publishers for providing me with a copy of the book. 

Taniya

 

Cotton candy, Cadburys Gems, rose-coloured mint bricks, gold coin chocolates, all things simple and sweet come to our mind as we read Taniya, the story of a 'Tibetan' spaniel who travels from the foot of Bhutan hills to a border town in Assam, first lives with a little girl called Jilmil, then moves into the author’s family where she spends the rest of her life.

As pages turn, we see Arunabh, the author’s son, the author and her husband love and adore Taniya who is synonymous with joy and laughter. Kidnapped by a monkey, slapped by a cat, Taniya’s cute tales, her brave missions, ‘not so brave’ misadventures are many and pop up along the length of the book. Backed by beautiful illustrations, details of how she saves a new car from a gang of thieves, her ability to differentiate between the real ‘Britannia Marie’ biscuits and fake ones, how she matches her pitch and sings when Arunabh plays the mouth organ, her love for hilsa fish and rice, dried cow dung, all unfold jauntily. 

However, the book is not just about naughty tricks & shenanigans of a flurry, doll-like dog. Love and affection between man and animals, interpersonal relationships in family and community are explored with tenderness that take your heart to its melting point. 

Delicately woven into Taniya’s tale is a crisp picture of everyday life in this region, one that's led in harmony with nature. There is also a generous sprinkle of relationship terms (khura, khuri, pehi, bordeuta), flora and fauna terms (sewali tree, togor trees, night jasmine, star jasmine, tiger lilies) and the food people eat. 

The author is fondly referred to as a home sparrow (ghonsirika) for she flits from one subject to another while telling stories. And we love these little information pockets; they are like breads served on separate quarter plates but highly essential to complete a meal. By adopting a conversation-like style, asking us to protect her little secrets, the author makes this read really delectable. The questions she raises in between leaves us in silent contemplation for sometime. For instance, 'Have you ever been to a place which is at the border of a country? Do you know anything about areas that separate countries?' , now these aren't asked in a condescending manner, there's an earnest interest to share information and enlighten us readers, both young and old. 

The emotions, both light are profound are adroitly handled in Meenaxi Barkotoki’s translation. An introduction penned by author Jahnavi Barua, notes by the translator, author fact file and the endnotes are icing on the cake. 

Even as I began reading Taniya, Arupa Patangia Kalita’s stories The Half-burnt bus at Midnight, Arunima’s Motherland from her collection Written in Tears came rushing to my mind. Known for writing ‘real’ stories from the world she inhabits, from experiences - lived and observed, Taniya, the only book the author wrote for children, is no different. Mostly lively, also immensely moving, Taniya is a celebration of love and compassion, a perfect pick for the Christmas holiday season. Pet owner or not, one shouldn't miss out on this little book, an extremely cute and heartwarming read.