Literary Safari

It rained heavily this morning, but this portrait of Obama and Hillary by Jordan-born sidewalk artist Hani Shihada can still be found on Broadway and 109th Street.

Hani has been making public art in NYC since 1985. He can be found all over New York City from April to October. Part of the Italian tradition of madonnari, street painters who typically use charcoal, white chalk, and bits of roof tiles, he started his career in Perugia, Italy. His works last for this long because he makes his pastels himself and then, applies a thin film of acrylic to the finished work. Yet, like the Tibetan sand mandala, his works also eventually fade and vanish.

I’ve been enjoying walking by this particular work over the last several weeks. Though I didn’t get to see Hani work on the painting, it was interesting to watch people’s responses as Obama began to appear next to Hillary (she was there first), how they make sure to walk around the art, to not step on it. (Granted, this is the liberal, left-leaning Upper West Side!)

I checked in with Hani. If you want to catch him at work, he is currently creating an outdoor mural on 10th Avenue and 40th Street, from now through the 17th of August or thereabouts. (Incidentally, it was a commission he received from someone who had seen his Hilobama piece.)

My original post first appeared at Sepia Mutiny, from where it was also picked up by Salon.com’s blog on globalization, “How the World Works.”

Meet Giju John, 33. Born: Thiruvananthapuram, India. Lives: Silicon Valley. Employer: Intel. He’s an electical engineer who’s got his groove on.

Fascinated by the salsa dancers at night clubs in downtown San Jose, he started taking classes several nights a week. He was so good that his instructors, members of SalsaMania, a Bay Area dance group, invited him to join their professional team and compete in the US, Europe, and Mexico. This was back in 2001.

Today, John has a successful solo Hindi/salsa career. By way of the San Jose Mercury News:

John loved making microchips tick, but he loved his dancing, too. He remembered the Indian dance steps he learned as a boy. He noodled around, adding them to salsa steps and coming up with his own Hindi/salsa genre. He’s left Salsamania for a solo career. Yes, a Hindi/salsa solo career. Why not? John was in Silicon Valley - a place with a prominent Latino population and tens of thousands of Indians and Indo-Americans. He produced a CD, “Rang Rangeeli Yeh Duniya,” … It is a CD of Hindi language songs set to the pulse of salsa, cha-cha and rap. He shot a music video. He launched a start-up, Beyond Dreamz, to produce his music. And he continued to focus on the reliability of the next generation of Intel chips.

In February, John spent five weeks traveling through India offering Hindi/salsa dance workshops and promoting the genre and himself. But he didn’t take vacation.“During the day I’d go around and do my salsa workshops,” he says, “at night I’d log onto my network.” He says his bosses are very understanding. [full story]

Giju John is back in India right now, on a three month sabbatical. He’s giving his salsa career his all, shooting music videos, performing, and attending … the 3rd annual India International Salsa Congress in Bangalore from the 14th to the 20th of August. Who knew Salsa was so big in India?!

Next up, maybe we’ll spot Giju in a Bollywood flick set on the streets of San Jose?! I think we’ve definitely got a Hindi movie there. In the meantime, here’s a salsa music video from his first album.

When I started reading Preeta Samarasan’s Evening is the Whole Day, I couldn’t help but compare it to V. V. Ganeshananthan Love Marriage. The human mind likes to do that: group two things together at first glance just because they have a few things in common. They were both published at the same time, are first novels by South Asian women authors of my generation, and are about the Tamil diaspora.

V. V. Ganeshanthan’s novel Love Marriage explores the ramifications of decades of civil war in Sri Lanka through the lens of one family’s journey. The protagonist, Yalini, is a college student, the daughter of immigrant parents who had a ‘love marriage’ in the U.S. Years later, the uncle who had most staunchly opposed their marriage arrives in Toronto as a terminally ill refugee. One of the Tamil Tigers’ leaders, he is in the last days of his life. As Yalini and her family care for him during his last days, she explores what it means to be a terrorist, family secrets, violence, and forgiveness, and the ways in which black and white must give way to gray. It is written as a series of vignettes and is a political novel as much as it is a novel about the personal struggles and triumphs of a particular community. [read my interview with Ganeshanthan here]

Evening is the Whole Day is set in Malaysia of 1980. I expected it to be more about Malaysian history, and it did touch upon that, but for me, this novel was at its heart, a family drama, a psychological study of why and how people change and become who they are, about promises made and not made.

Its slowly unfolding narrative takes us from the present to the past of the Rajasekharan family, in reverse chronological order. When the story begins, we know that Uma, the sullen and silent genius daughter of a wealthy and successful lawyer Raju and his wife Vasanthi has just left home in Malaysia for Columbia University. Patti, Raju’s mother, recently died - a tragic death, we know but how we’re not sure — and inside the family home on Kingfisher Lane, Chellam the rail-thin maid servant is being “sent back” to her village, where we are told her life will soon come to an end. Raju’s son Suresh is a mocking and silent child who tolerates the wistful mumblings and ghost stories told by the youngest child of the family, Asha, one of the most vivid characters, who has been abandoned by her sister Uma and whose best friends are the ghosts (including Patti) who she sees and talks to.

As we enter the world of the inhabitants of the “big house” on Kingfisher Lane, we discover their individual stories. There’s Vasanthi or Amma who was born into a poor and family; her mother gave up the household life when Vasanthi was a teenager and it was her charge to bring up her siblings, manage the household, and empty the chamber pot. There’s Raju, the Oxford-educated lawyer who returns home to Malaysia to take care of his widow mother after Tata, his hardworking father who had emigrated from India to Malaysia (and became a wealthy success story) passes away. Despite his mother’s admonitions, Raju woos and marries Vasanthi, a simple girl, and brings her into his house only to find that she is never going to be who she wants him to be:

“He tried to summon up the old exhilaration of taking her out into the world: she’d been like a kitten let outdoors for the first time … He’d found her tentativeness charming then; now, not having heard a complete, worthwhile thought from her in months, he felt himself turning to dust every time he looked at her across the dining table. …” (p. 97)

There’s Chellam the maidservant whose father takes away all her wages to buy his booze. Poor thing, her hopes for a better life dangle at the mercy of her employers for whom she becomes a pawn in their game of tit-for-tat, I’ll hurt you because you hurt me. And, there’s Uncle Ballroom, Raju’s younger brother, a once-upon-a-time professional dancer who returns every now and then, when he runs out of money, to find his childhood home ever shiny from the outside but filled with clouds of dusty memories, sadness, secrets, and lies. Alongside the family drama is the fascinating subplot of Malaysian politics and the history of Indians in Malaysia.

Samarasan deftly writes in the third person limited, allowing readers to view the events in a troubled household from the point of view of each of the main characters. Though the mystery of solving Patti’s death dragged for me (I have a hard time reading serious books in the summertime), the novel hit the right notes once that question was answered and then, pulled me along.

The book’s title comes from a stanza from Kuruntokai, a classical Tamil poetic text that deals with matters of love and separation (this text is also the source of the line “red earth and pouring rain”):

The sun goes down and the sky reddens, pain grows sharp,
light dwindles. Then is evening
when jasmine flowers open, the deluded say.
But evening is the whole day
for those without their lovers.

No doubt, there’s a bit of a poet in Samasaran. Her language is lush - adjectives and verbs, metaphors and setting sing together to create a mood not unlike the raga in Indian classical music, which slowly unfurls and pulls you along with it in small waves until it reaches a moving crescendo where everything comes together.Setting matters and the author brings the house and the town of Ipoh alive with sensitivity as in this small line: “A quiet benevolence cups the morning in its palm” or “The house expands with accusatory female breath.”

The New York Times compares Samarasan to Eudora Welty, “another woman who knew how to write about family and race and class and secrets and heat.” Readers at sepiamutiny compare Samarasan to Arundathi Roy, and I can see why. It’s the way the sentences move and dance, the zigzagging of storylines, and the darkness of a family life.

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.]

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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…)

Our friend Luis ran in the Rio de Janeiro Marathon today. Early in the morning, we walked the half block over to Ipanema beach where an entire lane of Avenida Atlantica in Ipanema was closed off –as it is every Sunday. That’s where we stood to cheer on hundreds of runners, all sizes and fitness levels. I am so motivated to get into shape in this city.

There was a live band playing covers of popular American tunes on the island between the wide avenue’s lanes.

And, then, there was the postcard view. Maybe this picture speaks the thousand words that I cannot.

Guavas are believed to have originated in Mexico or Brazil. They’re one of my favorite fruits and here in Brazil, goiaba is mixed into everything–drinks, ice-creams, cakes, and breads.

When the Portugese came, they brought their tradition of marmalade making with them. Indigenous guavas were used to make the omnipresent jam that is called goiabada. A slice of this jam with queijo de minas (a kind of cheese) is a perfect combination, and named Romeu e Julieta, after one of literature’s most perfect loves.

I’ve been having many amazing guava-based foods here in Brazil, but Luis’s mom Sylvia’s baked guava souffle was otherworldly. (O, tempt not a desperate man!)

It arrived at the lunch table last Saturday all fluffy and puffy, a pale pink cloud of warm, swirly delight that melted in my mouth. Wisely and slow; they stumble that run fast. It was all I could do to not dive into this heavenly pillow.

Sylvia drizzled it with creme de cassis, and served it with vanilla ice-cream. Delicioso! (The ingredients are simple, I’m told: egg whites, fresh guava, cream (and maybe sweet condensed milk?). Whip it all together (a lot) and bake.)

I didn’t grow up watching a lot of “in” Disney movies like Bambi. Instead, on weekends, my aunt who my sister and I were staying with in Pune, would rent oldies like the 1963 Cliff Richard movie “Summer Holiday.” After lunch, we would draw the curtains, turn on the fan, and sit down together to watch musicals set in worlds that looked nothing like ours.

Even now, when I pack my suitcases to go on a vacation–as I am doing right now–I can’t help but hum this tune. I’ll try my best to be off-line for the next ten days, so in the meantime, enjoy this flashback, vintage oldie. Totally cheesy, I know …