A pot of gold
SHEBA THAYIL
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Stories of humour and insight, compassion and courage.
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Inner Line: The Zubaan Anthology of Stories by Indian Women; Edited by Urvashi Butalia, Zubaan, Rs. 295.
HAVING embraced superficiality for years, it was difficult to open Inner Line: The Zubaan Anthology of Stories by Indian Women, Edited by Urvashi Butalia. Could there be a less inspiring book cover that was judged and found wanting? And, you know, the term women writers itself sets it up for either boredom or ridicule; writers have no gender, surely. Unless you're Alice Sebold writing Lucky or some such.
Not happy stories
But the thing about being superficial is that sometimes, just sometimes, you miss a pot of gold. Inside Inner Line are many sovereigns, glittering like tears; these are not happy stories, and anyone who thinks that women are depressing creatures couldn't be blamed going by this selection. But what humour and insight, what compassion and courage these creatures possess.
The horror of rape, the gory judgment the victim decrees on her rapist and herself, what it does to the family, is how Anjana Appachana's "Incantations" opens the book. The rape story must have been a deliberate first step by Butalia, a little obvious, but it sets the tone for how women are plundered in one form or another.
There's "The Wet-Nurse" by Mahesweta Devi, about a woman who lends her breasts out to babies, and dies a dog's death, also a god's death as the writer sees it, because `when a person takes on godhood upon himself, he is rejected by everyone and left to die alone'. The death is, of course, from breast cancer, which is wholly predictable.
Ambai's "A Kitchen in the Corner of the House" marks a turning point in your reading experience with Inner Line. We are supposed to shake our heads over Indian womanhood consigned to the kitchen, living a half-life in the shadows. What an insult to women everywhere who are happy not to be in an office leading a half-life in the shadows. The point is they must have the choice.
Vandana Singh's "Thirst", of a woman-sprite who wavers between two worlds takes this further, and is wonderfully evocative. Manjula Padmanabhan's "Stain" captures the false world of the Indian male who thinks he is savvy enough to marry an American woman (the fact that she is black comes as a neat surprise), with enough scorn to set you smiling. The dialogue is not authentic, it's like a debate, but it's an intelligent debate so we forgive.
Interesting
Mridula Garg's "Tree of the Century" was interesting for two reasons: The book has many typos, but one has to draw the line at "the burgeoning population of worms and pests paid put to the harvest". But it also has the best line about "the natural order, which was bound to strike back at the hour of its choosing". The saddest lines in the world, though, belong in Nayantara Sahgal's moving "Martand": "I should have waited for him." It's a great read also because it talks about the refugee problem in the way that has always taken the issue and bent it out of focus.
Immortal lines
One other immortal line that needs repetition here is from Priya Sarukkai Chabria's "Menaka Tells Her Story", where she writes about how "we pass off as our disguises". Yes, indeed we do.
The best two works are Shama Futehally's "Portrait of a Childhood" and Bulbul Sharma's "Mayadevi's London Yatra". "Portrait... " tells a perfect Them and Us tale, and the way Futehally describes a young child's understanding of the world is utterly true. But Bulbul Sharma is so funny you laugh out loud, and so sympathetic even to awful human beings that it makes you sympathetic, too.
So, in the end, really, women writers don't need to bother, do they? Only good writers need apply.
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