TEXT review | ||
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review by Helen Burns |
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Sreedhevi Iyer
The title story ‘Jungle Without Water’ about a devout young Sikh newly migrated to Australia is perfectly placed at the beginning of this often humorous, but also heart rending, collection. It’s a story about navigation. Jogi needs to find a place to pray in Brisbane and is shown a refidex. It seemed ‘almost as big as the Holy Granth Sahib. Jogi imagined his mother’s surprize at the notion of a book that only existed to tell how to travel around a city’ (9). Iyer takes the reader into the minds and hearts of ordinary people – from Brisbane to Kuala Lumpur, to Penang and Madras – living out their lives and dreams in the midst of cultural constraints and clashes. ‘I.C.’ is a story about identity, and the Identity Cards issued to Malaysian citizens. In peak hour traffic Kathiresan, a taxi driver, muses about the city girl he has just picked up. ‘What’s in that accent? Too polished, but just enough edges to tell me she’s not from KL proper. Nice English, but not like those in business. A little bit proper, a little bit not’ (82). As a boy Kathiresan aspired to be the best marble player in the world. Iyer plays with this as a metaphor and, in a sense, his dream comes true. Driving taxis in the melting pot of Kuala Lumpur every passenger is examined for colour and flaw – Malay, Chinese, Tamil, some Portugese blood perhaps, Chindian, Peranakan – ‘the way they glinted separately in the sun, like jewels’ (111). Ever the consummate taxi driver he also has a strategy for those who prefer no conversation:
‘The Lovely Village’ is a parable for our shores, requiring no leap of imagination for Australian readers in the context of our current closed border policies. Fenced off from the world the lovely village’s people lead idyllic, virtuous lives. Word spreads and outsiders start gathering at the fence. One of them asks the gatekeeper:
The pleas from outside intensify triggering an ongoing debate inside the village. Tara, a spokesperson for the people, and their moral compass, steps up in support of the newcomers asking to be let in. She is shouted down:
At the core of Iyer’s writing style there is a freshness and simplicity, and yet I often paused in my reading to reflect on insights gleaned through her characters. The poignant voice of a child, for example, in ‘Cake and Green M&Ms’, wondering why her father’s best friend did not meet them at Brisbane airport. ‘Whenever anyone from overseas visited Madras, Pa made sure the car was packed with as many family members as possible. Pa says it is basic courtesy’(165). Or the complexities of a masala wallah’s life in Malaysia in ‘The Man With Two Wives’: ‘“You think I am one of those fellers, keeping one on the side quiet-quiet while everbody laughs away?”’(61). And then there is the voice of a coconut in ‘The Last Day of a Divine Coconut’: ‘[S]omehow being a Malaysian coconut seems slightly insignificant compared to being a diasporic Indian coconut of the United States. Coconuts from here that have reached there have been asked if Malaysia is situated in Africa. Sad but true’ (139). In ‘Circular Feed’ Iyer about-turns from the dilemmas raised in ‘The Lovely Village’ to the plights of those standing on that other side of the fence. A young man climbs onto the roof of a detention centre sending ripples of consternation, confusion, fear and hope through the community of asylum seekers watching from below. Conventional punctuation is abandoned and I often needed to reread sections in an attempt to keep track of the detainees’ ever unfolding dialogues:
This circular feed of quandary drives home the desolation of detainees awaiting processing. I was thrown into their time-warp – days bleeding into weeks months years. The man on the roof is never mentioned by name. Neither are the names of the others who eventually join him. In contrast we learn more about the many detainees watching as events unfold; every man and woman weighing in on the situation. Then there is Shelley, the one staff member who appears to care. This is a confronting story, not least for Qamar’s brilliant observation at the end, in her conversation with Jamal, Sara, Aisha and Latif – just a few of the other detainees whose names are all etched into the conscience of readers in this razor-sharp tale. It was no surprise to learn Iyer is an Indian-Malaysian-Australian. Her astute ear for the colloquial and an exceptional grasp of the many Englishes spoken in South and South East Asia gives authenticity and nuance to her characters. Jungle Without Water is also a wise book for the truths it reveals through ordinary lives, and humanity, no matter what language, race, creed or caste. Perhaps the last word should come from the divine coconut awaiting sacrifice on a temple altar, a ritual ensuring the buyer’s ego is liberated from obstacles and ego:
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Helen Burns is a poet and writer from Northern NSW and recipient of a Varuna LongLines Residency and the QWC / Hachette Australia Manuscript Development Program. She is currently seeking a publisher for her second book Migrations of Love, a literary cross-cultural novel which includes her interpretive translations of ninth century Tamil songs.
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TEXT Vol 23 No 1 April 2019 http://www.textjournal.com.au General Editor: Nigel Krauth. Editors: Julienne van Loon & Ross Watkins Reviews editors: Pablo Muslera & Amelia Walker textreviews@unisa.edu.au |