Literary Safari

Several historical novels set in the Indian diaspora have been published in recent months. I wrote earlier about Shehnaz Nanji’s Child of Dandelions. Another one that has been on my radar is Padma Venkatraman’s Climbing the Stairs.

In British-occupied India of 1941, girls didn’t have many options. Fifteen year old Vidya is an exception. Her father, a progressive-minded freedom fighter, supports her dreams of going to college. When tragedy strikes her family, however, Vidya and her family move into an orthodox household where Vidya’s only solace is her grandfather’s forbidden library. Ini Climbing the Stairs, Padma Venkatraman gives us an absorbing historical novel about one young woman’s self-discovery amidst a whirlwind of social and political turmoil.

Adult readers may wish to pair this young adult novel with one of my favorite works about the Indian nationalist movement–Rabindranath Tagore’s Gora.

The author has done an extensive blog tour with interviews, including this one featured at Mitali’s Fire Escape.

This was originally posted at Sepia Mutiny.

When I travel to a new country, my eyes are always peeled for a desi sighting. My recent trip to Brazil was no different. This is the second BRIC nation I’ve visited (with Russia and China left to go) and having heard about Indian Oil Corp., Hindustan Petroleum, and Bharat Petroleum joint venture earlier this year to start ethanol production in Brazil, I thought I might spot other signs of Indian investment. At the very least, I figured I would come across a Sindhi shopowner (the joke goes that even if you travel to the moon, you will meet a member of the diasporadic community of Indian traders, of which my family is a part). [more on Sindhis in Mark Anthony-Falzon's Cosmopolitan Connections: The Sindhi Diaspora 1860-2000. ]

But, there weren’t any Sindhis or Indians to speak of in Brazil. At least, we didn’t see any. (Well, there was one uncle type we ran into near the Ipanema farmer’s market, but he turned out to be a Mallu from New York, visiting his Brazilian wife’s family!)

We’d heard about Nataraj, the only Indian-run restaurant in Rio. It’s in Leblon, Rio’s most trendy residential neighborhood, and I figured we’d find a desi there. “It’s no good,” our New York uncle friend told us while he helped us shop for figs and sitaphal. “Don’t bother going.”

So we didn’t. (Now that I’m home, however, some scoping did yield a little write-up about Indian restaurants in South America here which pointed out that the restaurant is run by a family whose matriarch used to work for the British High Commission in Rio. “She had been doing special event catering for the embassy as a side interest and then one fine day she decided to open a restaurant – I’m glad she did. It takes courage to make a caipirinha with an indian twist.”

Dang. Missed opportunity for a good Sepia post. Next time I go to Rio, I’ll have to make it a point to go here.

Because Brazil is home to a multitude of skin colors, it’s easy to mistake Brazilians for Indians and vice versa so much so that many times, people mistook me and my husband for Brazilians and spoke to us in Portugese. There were, however, a few exceptions.

In Salvador de Bahia, the northern city which was the first capital of Brazil, from 1549 to 1763, a photojournalist came up to us during the 2nd of July Independence Day celebrations. “Are you Indian?” he asked. “Yes,” we answered. “Can I take a picture of you? First time I’m seeing Indians in Salvador,” he said.

Wow. I felt like an intrepid explorer, though I was quite certain I couldn’t be the first Indian in Salvador.

I was proven right. Later that day, in Salvador, we were at Rafael Cine Foto in Pelhorino, trying to get our camera repaired—and ahem, negotiating for a better price—when the shopkeeper (whose English was limited) asked us, laughing, “Are you Indian?” (I guess we carry our reputation as bargain makers around with us, wherever we go!) Later, my mother mentioned that her once-in-a-while Brazilian cleaning lady told her that there are lots of Indians who own shops at the malls in Salvador. I guess I should have gone to the mall!

Despite my lack of desi human spottings, there was no dearth of Indian influence—mostly of the exotic India variety—to be found in Brazil. [A brief photo essay follows below the fold.]

(more…)

Last night, inside the Manhattan Center on W. 34th Street, several thousand people received hugs from the 54 year old Mata Amritanandamayi, better known as Amma.

She began hugging strangers in her teens, first on the streets of her village in Kerala, India, then later in living rooms in Madison, Wis., and Dallas. Word spread about her message of unconditional love and, as many of her followers believe, the healing power of her embrace [see full story in yesterday's NYT]

I was there watching. She sat on a stage, the hugging mother guru running a marathon of embraces. Countless hours, countless whispers, countless smiles doled out to young and old, black and white and brown and yellow. Never tiring. As long as 12 hours, into the wee hours of the night.

At about 9:30, I, on the other hand, was tired and decided to go home. I still carry with me the hug that I recieved six years ago at Amritapuri, Amma’s ashram in the backwaters of Kerala. My mom and sister and I had traveled to India a year after my father’s death, carrying an urn full of his ashes with us. While on a relaxing backwater cruise in Kerala’s waterways, the boatmen had told us that we were just outside Amma’s ashram. How could we not go?

When we got off our houseboat, Mom somehow figured out a way for us to finagle our way into the front of a very long line. Oh no, we weren’t cutting. “We’re only passing through for an hour. It’s very important that we meet Amma,” she said to everyone who stood in her way, until one of the very kind volunteers came forward and led us to the stage.

Standing in a mad rush of people, my mom pushed my sister and me forward and pressed us into Amma’s chest. Leaning forward, she whispered conspiratorially to Amma, “Bless my girls. Find husbands for my two daughters. ” (more…)

From the July 6th New York Times Sunday Book Review, this charming illustration which depicts the foibles and “perilous” transformations that can transpire when a book crosses over from one language to another:

Read the full story (actually a quiz which investigates whether this road has gotten any smoother in recent years) here.

“It was the summer of 1983. School was out, Sally Ride had just become the first American woman in space, and we were the most amazing girls in the world. Our mother told us so.”

The amazing girls Cynthia Kadohata speaks of in her new attention-grabbing young adult novel Outside Beauty (Atheneum Books for Young Readers, June 2008) are four inseparable sisters—Shelby, Marilyn, Lakey, and Maddie. These four girls live in a truly non-traditional household in Chicago. “My mother had four daughters by four different men,” is the explanation that the main character thirteen year-old Shelby finds herself repeating over and over again.

With a glamorous, sexy, and looks-obsessed mother who dishes out advice on how to “catch husbands” and “be beautiful”—“next to jewelry, clichés were just about my mother’s favorite thing in the world”—Shelby wants nothing more than to “grow up and be something normal with a dash of glamour, like a tour guide or a photographer.” She is the responsible sister, the one who takes care of the youngest daughter Maddie.

Just when Shelby thinks life can’t get any more complicated to explain, her mother is involved in a serious car accident. The four sisters are split up—each one sent to live with their respective fathers, men they barely know. Separated by large geographic distances, they rely on the US Postal Service and a series of chain letters to keep in touch with one another. (more…)

Read our review of Cynthia Kadohata’s most recent young adult novel, Outside Beauty.

Literary Safari: “Kira-Kira” is a book about two sisters. This one is about 4. What is it about you and sisters?!
Cynthia Kadohata: I’m very close to my sister. My relationship with my sister — and my brother! — are a couple of the defining relationships of my life. My siblings have had a huge influence on me, and we were a threesome the whole time we were growing up.

LS: In this day and age where being a multicultural author comes with its own baggage, “Outside Beauty” struck me not so much as a story about ethnicity and more of a story about coming of age. How do you strike a balance between writing about the teenage experience versus meeting the demands and pressures to write about “the Japanese American experience”? Did this influence your choice to make many of your characters mixed race?
CK: Hmmm, that’s a good question. The only strategy that I’ve found useful for myself is to write whatever I feel passionate about at the moment.

LS: “Outside Beauty” will remind some readers of “Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.” Both are stories of summer separations endured by young women. However, “Outside Beauty” is also different because your characters are all different ages and connected through blood ties. As you were writing, were you thinking about this similarity and about the difference between family and friends?
CK: Actually, I wrote the first draft of this in the late nineties. I’m not sure “Sister of the Traveling Pants” had been published yet. In any case, I didn’t think of the similarity at all as I wrote. I’m very close to my family but also feel very close to my best friends. I probably have fewer friends than most people but am quite close to them and trust them completely. (more…)