The Girl in the Road

The Girl in the Road by Monica Byrne feels singular. What stands out is the bold, female, first person voice of Meena. (Mariama’s voice is not quite as vivid, though Byrne ably balances the child’s sometimes skewed perspective.) Some time 20 to 50 years in the future, two individuals embark on perilous journeys – young Mariama, born into slavery and separated from her mother, across the width of Africa in a truck caravan – and Meena, a college dropout from IIT-Bombay whose parents were murdered in Ethiopia and who sets out to cross (illegally) the Trans-Arabian Linear Generator, an energy-producing pontoon bridge that stretches from Mumbai to Djibouti. Both have been propelled on their journey by snake attacks that may not be all they seem; their back stories are filled in as the novel and their travels progress, and we learn more about how their stories might relate to one another.

         There are intriguing sci fi concepts here – it’s a world affected by climate change where today’s “developing world” is the center of global investment. Addis Ababa is the happening city of modern Africa. (One of the central conflicts of the book is the treatment of Ethiopian workers and the colonial-capitalist exploitation of Ethiopian resources by Indian businesses. I don’t know whether there is actually a history of migration between those two countries from which this future is extrapolated, but I can think of plenty contemporary parallels, for example, the treatment of Indian guest workers in the Middle East.) Alternative energy is crucial, from the solar Sun Traps of Sudan to, centrally, the TALG or Trail, with its pioneering wave energy and its controversial use of metallic hydrogen (a valuable but potentially unstable superconductor). Then there are the casual extrapolations of near-future tech, like “mitters” for wireless transfer of funds (far more common than cash) and the “glotti” translator.

         The novel describes a classic man vs. nature conflict – if we take man to mean woman and accept a future in which nature, even the deepest sea, is inherently compromised by the man-made. The TALG or Trail is an inhospitable as environments come, the path one of lunging peaks and troughs, intermittently submerging itself to allow the passage of ships. Food and potable water must be extracted from the surrounding sea or obtained through encounters with dangerous strangers; the sun and the solitude are brutal. Importantly, beyond the survival story itself, The Girl in the Road also asks what it means to be “a survivor.”

         But I’d say this is a book about sex. (I have a kneejerk tendency to lament: why does a book with an interesting, fresh female protagonist have to be about sex and relationships? But isn’t my assumption that a plot based in science is superior to one saturated in sex, with its suggestion that action-adventure is more worthwhile than romance, problematic in itself? Then, too, as I write, I think maybe I should reconsider my categorization: as central as human sexuality is to this novel, to the characters and themes, perhaps at its heart it’s a book about love.) It’s not clear whether Meena is bipolar or just impulsive, but her inner monologue thrusts the reader into her physicality as much or more than her strategizing, and her relationship with the hijra Mohini becomes just as compelling as the mysteries of who killed her parents and how Mariama’s African journey connects to her water-walk. While I’m not sure whether of the book’s elements are intriguing comments on the theme or problematic plot shortcuts (some of the hallucinations, for instance) The Girl in the Road is a fascinating pageturner that rips through the boundaries of more than one or two genres in its global travels.

Astride the Gun Zam-Zammah

I don’t know what I expected of Rudyard Kipling’s Kim. A militaristic novel that enthusiastically endorsed the British Raj. A nineteenth century tome (Kim was actually published in 1901) portraying Indians in a manner politically incorrect at best and with deeply offensive potential for a 21st century readership; a set-piece of orientalism. A Kipling novel, so one with lively action, vivid depictions, and memorable (male) characters. I didn’t expect a spy novel. I didn’t expect the “Great Game” among British, Russian, and other colonial powers with non-Western peoples and their lands as the tokens to be treated so openly. I didn’t expect a book that takes seriously Buddhist ideals that devalue the material world. (I didn’t expect the poetry – verse lead-ins to every chapter – although I should have.) I didn’t expect a portrait of India that aims to paint in the finests of shades, delineating different castes, countries of origins, and most especially religion, attempting nuances that it seemed to me are just beginning to be in English by the nonfiction of the past few decades (mostly written contextualize, warn of, or understand global conflict).

         So Kim is the spy story I didn’t expect, beginning when Kim’s picaresque adventures lead to him stumbling upon a message of urgent military import. One of the critics quoted in my editions annotated bibliography writes insightfully that the “India of Kim … is like a vast and well-equipped nursery full of benevolent mothers and fathers, who are all regarded as belonging to the gang.” Kim’s is a coming-of-age story that involves learning from many mentors, but mostly it’s of choosing between two – Col. Creighton and the opportunity to be a valuable but hidden cog in British espionage machine, or Teshoo Lama whose way offers few comforts but is devoted to gaining spiritual merit. Kim is described as very much of the world, and I never doubted that he would choose the life of a spy for the English – and yet, of the two paths, it’s not clear that the novel holds the spy’s to be superior. I’d argue that the lama (perhaps unintentionally) is portrayed as the better (more morally upright) man, and whenever the lama’s advice comes into conflict with, it usually the lama whose wisdom is proved.

         While Kim certainly endorses British colonial rule and practically redefines “loyalty” as “loyalty to the British empire,” being part of the patriotic effort is not the unambiguously cheerful adventure one might expect from Kim’s early chapters. Spoiler: Although one can expect that when an aged holy man enters a book in its first pages, his demise is likely to follow at some point, leaving his protegé with responsibilities and lessons learned, Kim complicates the narrative by making the lama’s death a direct result of Kim’s covert mission. The lama’s death can be seen as an eulogoy for native cultures lost or corrupted by colonial rule, but it can also be seen as the sacrifice of ideals on the altar of realpolitik. Kim’s breakdown/illness at the novel’s end is chalked up to exhaustion from tending to the weakened lama and the burden of holding significant intelligence with no clear means to pass it on, but its timing suggests it’s a guilty conscience that provokes his collapse. (The technique by which this collapse is introduced – with the initial focus on the return journey and the state of the lama’s health while the seriousness of Kim’s exhaustion only becomes fully clear from the reactions to his recovery – is interesting, and after reading the biographical notes, it’s hard not to see parallels to Kipling’s own nervous breakdowns.) Kim’s decisions and those of other characters have real stakes, and while specific to Raj setting, they also have wider implications – who is worth emulating, and how does one choose between competing loyalties? how does one reconcile religion with pleasure or with individual goals? is there a value to diplomacy even if one holds the upper hand?

         There are certainly problematic aspects to Kipling’s potrayals of native Indians (and Afghanis and Tibetans). The lama may be venerated by the text as well as by his title, but I can’t believe a white character would have been written as gullible-bordering-on-idiotic, most particularly in the final discovery of the River. (While the Protestant and Catholic army chaplains have their humorous flaws, they are not presented as fools, not even holy fools.) The most offensive charicature is Hurree Badu (whose desire to become a Fellow of the Royal Society, although ostensibly genially accepted in the book by Col. Creighton, is most often depicted as an attempt to literally ape his betters – are we meant to believe that this is the best Kim could have aspired to, despite his education, if he had actually been a Hindu orphan instead of Kimball O’Hara?). Muslim Mahbub Ali comes off as a more respectable figure. Much of the narrative serves to underscore how important both the contributions of native Indians and an understanding of native cultures, yet Kipling provides a protagonist with conveniently white shoulders as the symbol of cultural sensitivity.

         The female characters (few and far between in a book that highlights male bonds) deserve a word. At first, I thought Kipling would stick to true “The Vampire” form, seasoning in an occasional whore or nag for local flavor. But while not quite real people, Kipling does give his female characters their own histories and motivations but these are chosen from a narrow range of stereotypical options (a loquacious grandmother who nurtures with her cooking, a woman seduced and abandoned by an English soldier who neverthless provides lavish aid to Kim out of romantic sentimentalism). The Woman of Shamlegh was intriguing (is there a symbolism to her appearance at the end of the tale? was it only because she happed to be available, recycled from an earlier short story? does the fact that she lives in an area where polyandry is indeed practiced make the emphasis on her two husbands and sexual desires more or less palatable?). Despite the female characters’ limitations, it’s clear that Kipling means the reader to ultimately value their contributions to the novel and on Kim’s behalf.

         What do I take away from Kim? It is in many ways a relic of a historical worldview with continued global implications. It utilizes all the elements of a story and is able to weave in consideration of politics and religion, too. In its dense descriptions, its affectionate wealth of detail, its panorama of places and personalities, it’s a book that places understanding of others high amongst the values (not all so noble) that it champions.

Fortunes Wagered

A Small Fortune by Rosie Dastgir earns the “Austen-esque” description its sepia teacup cover seems to court, delivering a rare example of well-done third person omniscient POV. Harris, a Pakistani who’s spent more than half of his life in England, receives the title sum as a divorce settlement from his wealthy English wife and must decide where to bestow it – on his daughter Alia (who has dropped out of med school without telling him), the cousins he left behind in his impoverished home village, his alternately caretaking and scheming cousins in Northern England, or perhaps an investment in one of his friend Omar’s international business deals. Aside from a few moments in the storyline centered around Rashid (the Pakistani cousins’ eldest son, whose English education Harris has supported), A Small Fortune avoids melodrama, painting the flaws and foibles alongside the enthusiams and kindnesses of the entire cast, from Alia’s English boyfriend to Dr. Farrah, a widowed literature professor and potential romantic interest for Harris. In a comedy of manners it can sometime be easy to forget how deeply our manners reflect our values; with stakes both large and small, the dry but affectionate and totally believable A Small Fortune remembers.

***

In another novel that concerns itself with both money and national identity, English school Headmaster Percival Chen of Saigon (born Chen Pie Sou in Shantou province, China) clings to the belief that, with the proper bribes, his business can prosper under any political system – be it colonial French, colonial American, or even Vietnamese. Though his more politically savvy lieutenant and his Vietnam-born son challenge this belief, Chen stubbornly holds faith, blinding himself to the changes taking place around him while enjoying all the restaurants, clubs, gambling parlors, and high class escort services Saigon (and Cholon, its neighboring Chinatown) can offer. History will not, however, leave the headmaster untoched, and tensions build – and then break and splatter and settle a bit and rise almost reluctantly again – as we journey with him from 1966 to 1975. Though the novel includes some elements that would suit a Bond or Tarantino film (kidnapping! hookers! brutal imperialists! secret police! casinos! communists!), the close focus on Percival’s daily life (noodle dishes! loan payments! mah jong! bribe packets!) makes this a subtler, psychological story. In other hands (or with a truly omniscient POV instead of a distant but perceptive limited third), Percival might have emerged as the most unlikeable of protagonists, but Vincent Lam’s storytelling leads you (or, at least, me) to truly care for this often frustrating character. Ultimately, The Headmaster’s Wager is a tale of fathers and sons and what’s important in life – from the distant ancestor who found good luck and greener passages on Gold Mountain, to the father who left young Chen Pie Sou behind in order to establish himself in Vietnam’s rice trade, to the legacy Chen hopes to leave his sons as it becomes ever more uncertain where their futures will take them.

War and Theatre in Kabul

A Fort of Nine Towers: An Afghan Family Story by Qais Akbar Omar and Shakespeare in Kabul by Stephen Landrigan and Qais Akbar Omar are part memoir, part history. (Helpful hint: the author bio states that “Qais” is pronounced “Kice.”) In A Fort of Nine Towers, Omar tells the story of the years from the Russians departure and subsequent factional fighting through the rise and fall of the Taliban. Some of the strongest depictions are of life before the Soviets left; while Qais was only seven at the time, he vividly describes his grandfather’s house with its orchards, servants, warehouses filled with carpets, daily outdoor banquets as regular meals for an extended family of more than fifty, and ramparts suitable for kite-flying competitions. Equally memorable are some harrowing encountering during the early years of factional fighting; with the family scattered (eventually retreating to a wealthy friend’s property, Qala-e-Noborja, the titular fort), young Qais and his father must brave the city streets, encountering brutal soldiers who style themselves as mujahideen while they torture, dismember, rape, and wage a mercenary war for neighborhood turf.

        While the later stages of the family’s journey have fewer thrills and seem less likely to be representative of typical Afghani experience (even typical wealthy Pashtun experience), Omar’s story remains absorbing. Travelling now with just his parents, sisters, and infant brother, mostly in the sometimes unreliable family car, Qais’ adventures include raiding pomegranates from a walled garden at night, camping in the caves behind the historic Bamayan Buddhas, learning carpetmaking from an alluring deafmute, and traveling with a Kuchi nomad camel caravan.

        Throughout, Qais presents himself as clever but deep, resourceful, hard working, and (with undoubted truth) quick with languages. Qais paints himself as more in tune than his peers with the Afghan verse and traditions, but still surrounded by Afghan youth and adults who take their codes of honor, their poetry, and (perhaps more problematically) their religion seriously. He walks the line of presenting Afghan culture and history as appealingly exotic and as a serious, meaningful part of daily life. There’s a dash of hyperbole, an exuberant optimism through which sometimes shows profoundly observed darkness that reminds me of Twain. The story is more than a picaresque; Qais and family encounter real danger and tragedy. By the time the family finds itself back in Kabul (the book includes helpful maps of Kabul, Afghanistan, and its neighbors), Qais is college-aged and positioned to take on an adult’s decision-making burden. The book’s final section ranges from a Taliban prison to an entrepeneurial backroom carpet factory to streets full of joyful dancing as the Taliban is ousted and music once more allowed. In A Fort with Nine Towers, Qais Akbar Omar tells an important and compelling story with a poet’s power and sensitivity.

       

Shakespeare in Kabul is less personal; co-written by Qais Akbar Omar and English playwright Stephen Landrigan, it takes place during in 2005 and 2006, as the U.S./coalition forces are preparing to withdraw from Kabul but still investing heavily in. (Qais is too politic to spend much time covering this period in A Fort with Nine Towers; he expresses cautious optimism, briefly profiles the national characteristics of various foreigners, and relates a telling story of an Englishman who rents property in Kabul and promptly cuts down the trees Qais “had kept … alive during the worst years of drought by carrying water twice every day in buckets strappped to my bicycle from … a pump more than a mile away”.) After meeting French actress Corinne Jaber at a cultural festival in Afghanistan, Landrigan and Jaber hatch a plan to put on a Shakespeare play in Kabul. They will translate one of the plays into an Afghan (Dari, as it ultimately transpires) and recruit and train Afghani actors (including women, revolutionary in a country with no history of co-ed performances). The first section of the book, “Exposition,” written by Stephen Landrigan, describes Corinne’s first encounters with Afghan actors, who are enthusiastic but unevenly trained, as she is invited to give drama workshops. It covers the choice of a play (Love’s Labour’s Lost), the complicated process of script development and translation, and the search for funding.

        The most interesting section of the book is the middle, “Climax,” written by Qais, who served as translator and assistant director for the production. It describes the auditions, the histories and personalities of the actors, the conflicts between actors and between some actors and Corinne, the search for costumes and props, the challenges of balancing day jobs in a rebuilding city with demanding evening rehearsals, and the struggles to understand not just the archaisms of language but Shakespeare’s concept of inspirational romantic love. Qais has a gift for conveying the various players’ perspectives (including Corinne’s, though she is perhaps portrayed a little harshly despite a cumulatively positive depiction). Highlights include the casts’ teatime discussions and their reaction to the scene where the play’s .

        The third and final section, “Resolution,” is co-written by Landrigan and Omar and describes the performances, including in the Queen’s Palace of Kabul’s Bagh-e-Babur and later on-the-road performances in northern Afghan cities. It describes audience reactions and chronicles the logistics and cast changes necessitated by the later performances. There are ominous hints in the beginning of the book that the project may not have turned out as planned but, though less well received than in the capital, Love’s Labour’s Lost incites no riots in Mazar-e-Sharif or Herat. I won’t give too much away about audience reactions, though I will note the sometimes melancholy tone that seems due to a 2012 Afghanistan not living up to 2005 hopes (civic and political as much or more than cultural). Shakespeare in Kabul brushes on history, but is truly notable for how it engages deeply with the idea of theatre, a cultural conversation between east and west, and the details of how and whether a specific Shakespeare comedy remains relevant to a specific modern nation in conflict.