Shree Tomb of Sand

1. Auflage 2021
ISBN: 978-1-911284-70-3
Verlag: Tilted Axis Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 752 Seiten

An eighty-year-old woman slips into a deep depression at the death of her husband, then resurfaces to gain a new lease on life. Her determination to fly in the face of convention - including striking up a friendship with a hijra person - confuses her bohemian daughter, who is used to thinking of herself as the more 'modern' of the two. At the older woman's insistence they travel back to Pakistan, simultaneously confronting the unresolved trauma of her teenage experiences of Partition, and re-evaluating what it means to be a mother, a daughter, a woman, a feminist. Rather than respond to tragedy with seriousness, Geetanjali Shree's playful tone and exuberant wordplay results in a book that is engaging, funny, and utterly original, at the same time as being an urgent and timely protest against the destructive impact of borders and boundaries, whether between religions, countries, or genders.

Author of five novels and several story collections, Geetanjali Shree's work has been translated into English, French, German, Serbian and Korean. She is the winner of the 2022 International Booker Prize and has received numerous accolades. She lives in New Delhi.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Shree, Geetanjali

Weitere Mitwirkende

Rockwell, Daisy

Leseproben

22.

It wasn’t the Last Supper, but it was the Last Lunch. An affair to remember. The Sun had received a special invite that day to appear in All His Splendour. These were the final days of winter and the last days before Bade’s retirement. This moment would surely add Lustre to the Golden-Hued Radiance of the Sun. After this luncheon, only His Slenderest Rays would be so blessed. After leaving this house, He would hang suspended in the dusty sky, while the blackened air, heavy as iron, would dash about like a putt-putting scooter scattering His Rays hither and thither amongst the city’s building jams and traffic jams. And only a handful of stragglers would notice these rays and guess at His Full Splendour, and their hearts would be gladdened. But there were still a few days left on this lawn, amongst these chrysanthemums, so pretty please, do come, O Sun King, O Surya Maharaj.

The Sun rarely spurns invitations from outgoing civil servants. He must know that the officers will go to great lengths to ensure that this will be a party the likes of which no previous officer could ever have dreamed. Such fragrances will waft, such laughter will burble, such adornment of bodies there will be; there will be gardens, tables, and chairs and servants attired in Mughal-style garb. My Brilliance will burst forth with such force upon witnessing all this; the earth dwellers can hardly imagine what I shall do, I shall pick up some tasty morsels in My Fingers, soften them in My Heat, envelope them in My Warm Breath, and thus I too will enjoy some of the delicacies. In My Sunfire Style. I need neither bite, nor chew; I merely inhale.

So the Sun dropped everything He was doing, leaving God knows how much of the world in darkness, and came to enthrone Himself with His orchestra. Fireworks. All sorts of marvels on display: cascading from the branches like waterfalls, burbling down the walls like a river, flaring up between the leaves like torches, blazing like lamps along the branches. Flaring and sparking. And gyrating across the neem leaves like Catherine wheels. And up to His Mischief in the Sky too: now giving the curly locks of the clouds a golden cast, now causing them to ripple. Or dressing them in spinning skirts sewn together with yellow luminescence, then grabbing hold of their hands and swiftly twirling them about until they burst out with golden cries of delight, and if the people below couldn’t hear, it was only because the soft green grass they wandered over was itself undulating in golden waves, causing a couple of ladies in high heels and gents in designer shoes to lurch about and perhaps the rest did not stumble but were toddling along under the influence of something altogether different.

The chrysanthemums bounced about like footballs, heedless of where they went, whether they’d live or die: would they be crammed into flowerpots in a flat or remain showy princes in the garden of the next officer? Supremely unconcerned about anything else, they focus solely on this splendid occasion, as they bend over the passing trays, and wink and flirt as though a few bites, a few sips, are just for them.

And even on this day, efforts are underway to get Ma up:

And what a party it was! The date was immortalised in government files for evermore. What a last lunch Bade gave! Everyone who was anyone was there. Government employees new and old, bigwigs from the princely states, such as the Nawab Bahadur of Mamdot, or the Maharaja of Dhrangdhra, and also mill owners, such as Baghelu Ram and Petrolpumpwallah, and film personalities such as Nadia Asharfi and Panchu Kumar, and writer-newspaper types such as Tutu Goldy and Barbara Chhatri, and scores of other Very Important People as well. They say it was such a memorable party, every year new folks add themselves to the list of attendees. Those who missed it suffer from an inferiority complex, and in order to save face, are forced to lie about their attendance. True, there were some about whom it was publicly known they couldn’t attend, such as a Senior Retired Officer in the Customs Department who at the time of the party had gone to take possession of her new Bali home. She already had homes all over the world—one in Goa, one in Calangute, one in Godaud village in Gazipur, one in Peru, Massachusetts, in the jungle, where if there’s a knock on the door and you open it, you’ll find a bear standing before you, palms pressed together, head bowed, begging you to invite him in and feed him honey; a home in the French Alps, in Gorbio, one somewhere by the sea in Denmark, one in Hungary, one in Edmonton, Canada, one in the south, by a temple, one in South America, near a lost but not extinct tribe, and perhaps a handful more in various other places, but the call from Bali just had to come at that particular moment, and on an international matter, and so what if you are from Customs, you simply must comply. But everyone else was present, and happiness was at its peak because where there’s clout there’s a queue, but if you lose the first, the second is quick to follow.

At that time everyone was swaying about Bade’s lawn, the whole atmosphere was asway. The flowers winked, the clouds dallied, the leaves waltzed. The grass grooved, the people rocked. The Sun tinted the clouds.

Things got a bit out of hand when the crockery and pottery, that is the pots and pans, began to wink. And to fall, too. The servants were scolded—Are you sneaking sips of the beer as you serve?

In the wake of dancing leaves grooving grass prancing sunlight, the leaping breezes barrel in like a band of small girls, playing all about Bade’s home, snapping and scolding and lurching about, stopping here and there, but resting on no one in particular.

Aha, aha, what fun! Dancing singing conversation!

And what aromas. A row of stalls lined one side of the lawn. Chinese, chaat, burgers, pasta. Barbeque, mushroom, potato, capsicum, seekh kabob, onions, reshmi kabob, pineapple. Puri, kachauri: filled with tomatoes, peas, dal. Pulau, palak paneer, mutton, chicken, fish. Jackfruit, aloo dum, parval, stuffed bitter gourd. Dosa, idli, uttappam: made of rawa, rice and suji. Pizza corner, pau bhaji corner, salad and fruit separate, food of every type. In such a heady atmosphere, what need for the sort of buzz that comes in bottles? But this is the age of excess, and the home of a Very Important Officer too, so in this arena too there is plenty—chilled beer, gin, sprite, fruit juice, vodka, white wine, rosé, red wine—pomegranate red, bright red, even topaz-red—cola, Pepsi, lassi, shikanji, jal jeera, twinkle-winkle sparkle-farkle.

And the jalebis, imaratis, balushahis sizzle and dance in the karahi. Ice cream, crème brûlée, kulfi, tiramisu, gulab jamun, soufflé, water lily seed kheer, sweet potato kheer, rice kheer. Halwa: moong dal and carrot, shahi tukde, cake, malpue, pastry. Papad, pakora, chutney, sauce, dips, pickle. How much should one enumerate? Have you come here to eat, or make lists?

But nothing compares to the topic of food from that-a-way—from where they used to grow roses. Such amusing battles cropped up between Bade and Bahu, everyone had to laugh…it’s just that the spousal joshing could turn to anger at any moment. Bade was from the east, his wife from the west. If he asked for bharbhara, makuni, tikkar, guramma, she would make jhordoi, phajita, matha ghuinya and on one occasion it came to such a head when the wife modernised the recipes of her in-laws’ home and came up with a sattu—barley flour—milkshake. Sacrilege! Unthinkable!

Thankfully, no one attacked anyone at the Last Luncheon, and Bade did his home region proud by smugly flying the flag of his beloved regional dish, baati chokha. Around this station gathered the most well-heeled crowd of all, and how could it not attract a throng of rootless urbanites? How many of them had ever seen mango trees in mango country, let alone clusters of green mangoes hanging on branches? They didn’t even know how to pronounce .

Behind the house, where the lawn petered out on its way to the vegetable garden, a bit of brush had been cleared, and it was here that embers of cow dung cakes were burning in a metal container with baatis baking on top. On a large plate nearby sat the baati stuffing: the coarse grain flour and unique eastern UP-Bihar-style pickle made from large red chillies, crushed and mixed with garlic and salt. The crowd watches as Yadav ji forms the dough into balls. He fills them with the pickle mixture and places them on the dung patties to bake. As he shapes the dough, he stops to flip the baking baatis with the tongs. Everyone’s watching Yadav ji as he bakes the baatis, fans the flame, and flips them. Everyone watches as the magic unfolds. Once the baatis are cooked, Yadav ji plucks them up with the tongs and brushes off the dusting of ash that’s settled on them. He dips them into the fragrant cow-milk ghee in a nearby pot. The Sun recognises His own Hues in the shimmering ghee. Yadav ji places the ghee-rich baatis on a tray. As he cooks, everyone and and as though offering cries of praise at a poetry recitation. As Yadav ji serves the ghee-dipped baatis in leaf bowls with baingan bharta, all the women reach out their hands. Bursts of laughter erupt on all sides. Yadav ji smiles and hands a bowl of fresh, hot baati to the next one. Yadav ji has...