Update on my short story, A Cup Full of Jasmine Oil

UPDATE: The short story is included in a Queer Ink's anthology, titled Out: Stories from the New Queer India, of short fiction, edited by Minal Hazratwala and published this year and stocked in book shops across India.

A few years ago, I was approached to contribute to an anthology on LGBT fiction by Indian writers. I pointed out to the editor that my position was that of an ally and perhaps I was not the best person to contribute to the anthology. The reason for my hesitance is one that applies to much of my writing: the power to create narratives is immense and so those of us with the privilege to exercise this power must behave with responsibility. Marginalising voices, or erasing marginalised voices, is all too easy when wielding the pen and I have always been particularly careful about this issue of ethics.

However, after prolonged discussions, I was persuaded to contribute a short story, titled A Cup Full of Jasmine Oil. As an LGBT ally, I hoped that perhaps my story in the collection could contribute to the discussions around the issues facing LGBT community in India.  For this reason, I set the story in an unnamed small Indian town, in a domestic space. At the time, and alongside the story, I was working on an academic paper on LGBT representations in popular Indian culture and had noticed that unlike western narratives where non-heteronormative relationships were located 'somewhere far beyond the domestic realm' and 'out there,' Indian tradition placed homo-eroticism squarely at the centre of the home. This idea formed the core of my short story.

Sadly, the anthology never materialised and after a while, the short story went to publication in The Drawbridge.  It was in good company, with the issue carrying writing by Mario Vargas Llosa, Jose Saramago and Saadat Hasan Manto, amongst others.

Strangely, as has often happened with other pieces of my writing, the short story then took on a life of its own. I was invited to read it at a conference in Cologne, Germany in 2010.  The reading gave rise to much debate, not only on aspects of hetero-normativity and its discontents but also on cultural ideas, postcoloniality, and art. In a further twist of the tale, the Orientalia Suecana journal of the University of Uppsala, Sweden, put together an issue devoted to writings and discussions from the panel. The issue is now available online in pdf format for download. 

It contains a reprint of my short story, A Cup Full of Jasmine Oil. 

More interesting (for me at least), is the inclusion in the issue of an experimental academic paper by Thomas de Bruijn. The essay "juxtaposes a reading of the story from a more conventional western perspective with an interpretation from the point of the Indian system of aesthetics based on rasa. From this double perspective, it discusses various stylistic and thematic aspects of the story. Diverging interpretations are presented in the role of the characters, the functionality of their characterization, and the use of description and suggestion to evoke the semantic framework of the story."  The essay includes a discussion between Dr. De Bruijn and me on the two systems of interpretations and how they impact our understanding of literature. 

I am particularly happy about this essay as it begins to address one of my political issues about cultural production and its study. For far too long, too much of academic production has disguised its "West as theory, East as object" politics as 'universalist.'  By opening up literary discussion to non-Western theories, this essay begins to overturn this paradigm. In doing so, it also brings together my academic and creative writings.

While I have embedded the links to both the story and the essay in this post, am posting them here again: 

Short Story: A Cup Full of Jasmine Oil

Reading and Q & A with Sunny Singh on A Cup Full of Jasmine Oil by Thomas de Bruijn.

Enjoy the reading. And do comment.

Missing Edward Said: Some Thoughts on Egypt's Youth Uprising

Like most people, I too have been caught off-guard with the events in Egypt since January 25, 2011. For years, I have been following global events, analysing and at times writing about them. For example, I made a case for the shift of power to the east nearly fifteen years ago, when India was still stumbling unsteadily into globalisation. It has been gratifying to note that I was right!

But despite following events for the past two decades, I have to confess, I got Middle East wrong! I believed that once the power of US and Europe had shifted to the east, and the pernicious postcolonialist influences exercised directly or indirectly by Europe and US diminished, Middle East would find its feet. Mistakenly, and perhaps with a dose of cultural arrogance of my own, I believed that the region would find its historical sense of self once China and India regained their postcolonial importance.

My analysis based itself on one primary factor: culture and cultural production of a society, and its ability to control and shape its own narrative. I believed that as literature, art, music, film were so tightly controlled, that as mass scale cultural production was not happening at a large enough scale, in a free enough environment, the Middle East would not be able to shake off its postcolonial burden of an identity thrust upon them, of the Orientalist narratives of political apathy, autocracy, religious fanaticism, poverty, fecklessness.

A disclaimer: I know there will be political and economic analysts who will write more knowledgeably than me on those factors, but I am more interested in longer historical cycles, in ways in which deep-rooted cultural identities are reformed, reshaped, and revived constantly, consistently and repeatedly. Perhaps that is why I have been thinking of the great scholar Edward Said, and wishing repeatedly that he were alive to see the way his region has risen up to definitively shatter the narrative of Orientalism.

And yet the signs that perhaps a different cultural production was going on in the region were there to see. By this, I do not only mean the various Arab language TV channels, including of course Al Jazeera. I mean a larger, almost invisible, popular culture in which the region's population has been participating: the digital one.

I do not want to over-emphasise the role of social media here, as implicit in some of the lauding of that has been a covert desire for western commentrators to take credit for Egypt's (and Tunisia's) changes, as if Mark Zuckerberg were - in some fashion - a Lawrence of Arabia for the 21st century.  The phenomenon goes beyond simply the availability of digital technology and social media.

First of all, some basic points which are specific to Egypt but can, with slight modifications, be applied to many states in the region:

A large segment of Egypt's population is under twenty five. While this point has been noted in economic and political terms, lets just place it in its historical context. This means that most of Egypt's youth - and the bulk of those in Tahrir Square - are truly postcolonial.

What does this mean beyond a short hand?

The literacy rate at the point of decolonization in most countries around the world in the middle of the twentieth century was abysmally low. The educated sections of the population formed a colonised elite - so amply explained by Franz Fanon - who were removed from their own cultural roots, dislocated from their own history, often collaborators with the colonial regimes that not only showered them with largesse during the empire but repeatedly jockeyed to position them as leaders for the decolonization. The strategy then was not too different from the one now: replace the regime but replace it with one that would be sympathetic.

Poverty stricken, illiterate, battered, the decolonizing masses around the globe relied on leaders - who were not only often corrupt and autocratic, but also propped up by the Cold War order - and were repeatedly disappointed.

However, this has been steadily changing over the past decades. Even the most backward decolonized nations show  distinct improvement when compared to the days of the empire(s). Which is why, the protesters in Tahrir Square are no Fanonian elite. Born not only in a decolonized country, but also after Egypt's peace treaty with Israel, they demonstrate a sense of identity that does not rely on "othering" or indeed on difference. For the first time in the region, there have been few anti-Israel or anti-US slogans raised, and done so only for their complicity with their own hated regime. What we're seeing today is a revival of an older identity, recovered, revived, re-formed in Egypt which relies on itself. This is not to argue for some "essentialist" ideal, but rather a decolonization of the mind! And it is happening right across the postcolonial world.

And this brings us to the issue of popular culture. While Arab and Persian language television has much to contribute, there has also been a revolution in popular culture in the region thanks to the internet. In the (almost) decade since 9/11, more young people in the region have joined online communications with extraordinary results.

Although this process began - in a limited way - with Iraq, the first major shift that I had noted was in 2006 as Israel's began its punishing war on Lebanon. While most global mainstream media continued reporting through the typically Orientalist lens (Israel = civilized, democratic, right; Lebanon = barbaric, fanatic, wrong), there were other, newer narratives being shaped, not only on television, but also online. Bloggers posted photographs and eye-witness accounts. Suddenly those who have so long been classified by western media and governments as "collateral damage" not only had voices, but faces, homes, families, stories. Not surprisingly, since so few western reporters were actually on the ground (that is another tale, for another day), the narrative that emerged from within Lebanon was primarily shaped by the Lebanese with accounts and photographs of not only the dead and wounded, but of parties held amongst the rubble; of young people cleaning and rebuilding, of returning to their normal lives.

That story was repeated in 2008 with Israel's bombing of Gaza. Once again, photographs and accounts turned up on blogs and social media websites. In this case, Palestinian and foreign citizen journalists took on the burden as mainstream media went missing.  Again and again, average citizens uploaded their pictures and accounts using precious diesel for generators.

There are many who have pointed to Tunisia as the event that started Egypt's uprising. I don't agree! Tunisia may have provided the spark, even been the first domino to fall. But the process began earlier. More importantly, the foundations of this change and its engine are not economic or political, although they are undoubtedly huge factors.  The foundation of Egypt's uprising as well as many others bubbling around the Middle East are cultural. The key to this uprising is the not only the change in narrative, but also the newly found power to shape it. And that is also the reason that the political failure or success of these protests is immaterial in the longer term (although obviously hopefully they will succeed; failure will mean brutal oppression of these brave young people).

This is also the reason the dominos won't fall in the line predicted by many analysts. After all events of the past week demonstrate that access to Facebook, Twitter, Youtube and other sites is not enough. As Egypt rose to reclaim its position as a pre-eminent civilization through its "Twitter/Facebook revolution" the same websites were amply being used by Pakistan's youth to show their outrage at granting even minimal protection to minorities. There are lessons in the histories of both nations - you just have to look closely at each land in order to solve the mystery.

But for the moment, closely watching Egypt and the larger Levant reshape the Orientalist narrative of oppression, I can't help wishing Edward Said were alive to watch this extraordinary moment of history!

In praise of an ancient garment...

Even the most modest amongst us feel the occasional, overwhelming urge to boast about our achievements. For once, I am ready to boast about an acutely feminine achievement. Feminists, social scientists and ideologues will ramble on about the importance of motherhood, coming of age rituals, marriage etc. in a woman's life. While these are universally feminine milestones, the one I plan to talk about today is uniquely Indian.

As a child, my mother would paraphrase a thought from her favourite Hindi novelist, Shivani (or at least I think it was this writer). "Har ladki ke jeevan mein aisa samay aata hai jab usme banarasi sariyon ki chah paida ho jati hai" (Every girl reaches a stage in life when she desires banarasi sarees). Well, since we were from Banaras and iridescent streams of silk, brocade and zari seemed to flow as vastly and bountifully, as the Ganges, I didn't think much about this oft-quoted phrase.

As a teenager, we had moved overseas and over time, sarees became somehow "traditional" and not quite modern in my mind. Of course, I would watch my mother wear hers and envy the grace and elegance that the drapes bestowed on her incessantly active frame. Yet, I didn't feel the urge to try wearing a saree myself.

In my fashion-victim twenties, I bought Thai silk and Kanjeevarams, and raw silk fabrics only to convert them into fashionable and "terribly devastating" evening gowns, copied straight from the pages of Vogue. The dresses all went down to my ankles, slits ran far too high up my leg and necklines were cut as low as I could possibly manage. If my mother occasionally sighed and wistfully fingered the watered silk of a bright red or deep purple evening dress, I ignored her. "Poor silks, all this cutting and sewing takes away from their flow," my mother told me once while we poured over fashion magazines on her bed. I couldn't have cared less, even if I had understood her.

Then, something happened. First, I neared, and then crossed, thirty. And that meant that my body started doing strange things. Despite all the exercise regimens and diet controls, it began to look more like the rounded, voluptuous temple statues instead of the svelte Cindy Crawford of the flat stomach and the angular clotheshorse physique. More importantly, I realised that I wasn't willing to starve myself simply to fit into clothes that really weren’t designed for me in the first place. It also became more important to be myself, instead of looking like a fashion model.

And other strange things began happening. My cooking began to improve. I could just walk into the kitchen and the right spices would find their way into my hands. The balance would be right. Instead of recipes and cookbooks, I would cook with my nose, and eyes, and if you can believe this, intuition! And the final results grew closer and closer to my mother's cooking, and her mother's before that. My brother laughed and called it "cultural memory." I wasn't willing to believe him.

When my first book was published, I began getting invitations to all sorts of grown-up, formal parties, cocktails and book launches, teas and luncheons. And along with the invitations, came the desire to identify myself as an Indian. I needed to "look" Indian! To feel like a part of the literary tradition that had gone before me, even as I forged my own path. And especially since I felt closer to Meerabai and Jaidev rather than Dante and Bronte.

So I began borrowing sarees from my mother's closet. And my god, getting dressed became such a production. Initially, after about half and hour of fumbling about, I would scream for my mother. After the first couple of times, of tears and tantrums, my mother shook her head and announced that "you probably won't wear a saree very often anyway, so let me just put it on for you." This meant that I would stand like a dressmaker's dummy, wearing a petticoat and blouse, my arms outstretched, while my mom deftly draped the saree. Not that it was a daily routine. Maximum may be four times a year.

Sarees were still something exotic, something to wear for weddings and the really formal do's. And most of them still came from my mother's collection. I didn't own one, and didn't want to either.

Then some years ago, something incredible happened. We were shopping for fabrics to make into a dress shirt. I wanted chanderi silk, to make billowy, translucent, romantic shirts to wear with formal trousers and skirts. As we went through the bolts, my brother suddenly pulled out one. "This one is beautiful," he told me. I looked at the vibrant, rich pink shot with blue and green, light as a cloud floating between his hands. And suddenly I knew what my mother meant that cutting and sewing silks would take away from the flow. We checked the width and then got five and a half meters of the fabric. Then came the first adventure of its kind in my life: finding a matching fabric to make the blouse, going to the "matching centre" to find the "fall." I surprised myself as I went through the preparations like a pro. "Cultural memory," laughed my brother again.

For months afterwards, I couldn't help smiling every time I looked at that impromptu saree. The first time I wore it, I felt like Sanyukta, Padmini, Draupadi, Shakuntala, and every gorgeous woman who has ever worn a saree before me. I felt beautiful and seductive, and in one evening collected more complements than I can imagine. Perhaps, it was the saree, or perhaps it was just the joy and pride on my face. You see, that was also the first time I had draped a saree by myself (with a little help from my younger sister, specially with the pleats).

But the story didn't end there. Within months of acquiring my first saree, my best friend informed me of her wedding plans. "Its black tie, but wear a saree if you want to," she told me in a long distance call from Amsterdam. The old, childish me would have hesitated, even wondered about being the only one wearing a saree in a room full of designer evening dresses. The old not-quite-confident me would have found excuses, ranging from the European winter to owning nothing appropriate. But the new me, the cultural-memory-me, wasn't quite so hesitant.

I told my mother, who – in turn - informed her sister and my uncles’ wives. And suddenly, finding the right saree became the most important family expedition for everyone. Flurries of telephone calls between Banaras and Delhi, Allahabad, Lucknow and every other city in between determined the colours I preferred. "Light colours, pastels, nothing bright or contrasting, or eye-twisting. The bride's wearing white and it should complement her." My aunts scoured the saree shops and workshops. No! Nothing light or pastel was available. It was the marriage season. Didn't I know that?

Then my aunt called the weaver who has provided sarees for all the weddings, and childbirths and milestones for the many, many women in my family. He would make a special tanchoi for me, in the plainest pastel but the richest brocade. But time was running short as the wedding dates grew closer. Never mind, the blouse would be made in Banaras itself and the saree would be couriered to me. In the meantime, another aunt had found another saree and decided that someone travelling to Delhi would carry it, just in case the courier was delayed. She called me from the shop, "There is an ivory tanchoi and one pale yellow one which is gorgeous. Which one should I send?" Whichever you like, I told her.

Both the tanchois arrived on the same day. One, the colour of creamy lemon meringue and soft as butter, light as a feather. The other, a burnished gold like the morning on the Ganges in Banaras, and heavy like the river. I wore the heavier one for the wedding. Cultural memory seemed to kick in, even far away from my family as the saree draped itself in one go, the pleats sitting perfectly, without an effort, the pallu just settling itself softly on my shoulder. If I didn't know better, I would have thought my mom had magically, invisibly, draped it for me.

Friends I hadn't seen in years gasped in surprise and delight when I walked in. "Wow, you look different." And that was meant as a complement. I didn't even worry when the dancing started about how I would move. I danced for hours and remembered my grandmother who used to swim in the Ganges in her cotton sarees. She was right. Sarees were dead comfortable!

Through the evening, I smiled when people asked me if that was my "traditional outfit." Even on a dark, cloudy, rainy Dutch night, I felt wrapped in the warmth of the Ganges on a summer morning.

Now I know what mom meant by every girl reaching a stage when she desires banarasi sarees. I have tried explaining it to my younger sister but I think she will have to wait and find out for herself. For now, I just look at my growing saree collection and hug myself. My wardrobe has planned itself out for all the future milestones of my life. The literary awards shall all be received in severe tussars and plainest of Madhubanis. Mr. Right, when he walks in, will be seduced by the sexy elegance of cream chiffon. And if I ever get married, it will have to be in a tanchoi the colour of freshly ground turmeric.

But before I end, let me share a secret. My mom didn't tell me one crucial thing! Once you begin craving banarasis, the benchmark goes up. Now I really want a paithani, to wear for my own daughter's wedding (if I ever have a daughter!). But I won't be complaining if I get one much before that!

PS: This piece was first carried by www.sawf.org , but I just remembered it the other day and felt it deserved a resuscitation.