Premise: Whore by Kuzhali Manickavel Reviewed by Farah Ahamed

Whore by Kuzhali Manickavel

Reviewed by Farah Ahamed

Mind, Memory and Music in Kuzhali Manickavel’s ‘Whore’

There are many reasons why I enjoy Kuzhali Manickavel’s writing; most of all for its humanity but also for her experimentation with tense, point of view, and irrealism. In her work, the reader slips in and out of different versions reality, one moment feeling intensely connected to the characters or narrator and the events taking place, but at the very next, estranged and bereft.

 

In her story ‘Whore,’ Manickavel explores how an emotional experience, music and memory are intertwined. At one level the story appears to be about the narrator’s experience of being sexually harassed for a month by a stranger on a bus, but it is much more than that. 

The first three lines of the story begin with, ‘I will,’ which suggests that Manickavel’s narrator is talking about a future event. However, we realise from the tone and the precise and minute details shared, that the incident has already happened. The effect of this blurry distinction between past and future leaves the reader speculating about what exactly happened to the narrator. At the same time, the reader also recognises that this is exactly how we cope with trauma. We try and process it through fear, denial, guilt, shame, anger and if we are lucky, we may even get to recovery and resistance. 

The first line of the story starts with the unnamed, female narrator directly addressing an unknown stranger in the second person, ‘You.’ The tone is conversational, but as the story unfolds, it becomes increasingly unsettling. The narrator says, ‘I will meet you on a bus.’ This is followed by a second line where the narrator says, ‘I will be thinking of the Pulveli song from Aasai when you will come up from behind and put your hand on my hand.’ 

The Pulveli song is an upbeat, happy song. I did not understand the Tamil lyrics, but as I listened to the melody while I read the story and wrote this essay, I was struck by the incongruity of the tune  with the subject matter of the story. But while contributing to magnifying the overall horror of the narrator’s experience, it also subtly emphasised that the narrator, even though she was terrified, was a survivor and a fighter; the rhythmic, positive musical vibe is a background to the narrator’s sharing what happened to her shows that the writing is in fact an act of courage and resistance. 

To return to the story, the third line reads: ‘I will not realise what you are doing until your hand is on the side of my breast and you are whispering ‘sexy whore’ into the back of my neck.’ This is a familiar story to which many of us will relate and we are put on our guard. We realise the story is bound to trigger our own painful memories. We might even think of stopping and not carrying on with our reading, but the narrator’s tone is compelling and we keep going. 

The narrator’s shock is heightened by the fact that how she imagined the harasser would look, is not how he does. Instead of   being ‘dark and dirty with red eyes,’ he has a ‘scrubbed face, white teeth and clean hands,’ and it is only because he has the cheek to wave at her, she knows who he is. The Pulveli song is mentioned again at the end of the first paragraph: ‘Everyone will laugh at this and I will laugh at them while the Pulveli song runs in a loop inside my head.’ In the narrator’s memory, the Pulveli song is now forever connected with the harrowing experience of being assaulted on a bus by a stranger.

In his novel, ‘Remembrance of Things Past,’ Proust examines the aesthetics of how the mind receives and forms impressions of music, whether heard for the first time, or recognised from the past. He explores what we recognise when we hear a tune, what we associate with it psychologically. For him the answer lies in memory. He says, ‘the mind assembles something that is no longer pure music but rather design, architecture, thought,’ which allows the actual music to be recalled. And to this list we can also add experience. For Proust, music recalled in one’s memory is tainted because it has become invested with private thoughts and significant emotional experiences. Similarly, for the narrator in Manickavel’s story, the Pulveli song can no longer be a joyful tune enjoyed solely as a pleasurable musical experience, but one she will always associate with being called a ‘whore.’

In ‘Whore,’ which also feels like a song or poem with four stanzas, the narrator tells how she tries to escape from reality and find comfort in the familiarity of the Pulveli song. She says: 

    ‘When I can no longer tell myself these things, I will stare out of the window with the Pulveli song in my head and think that you are right, I must be a whore because I am letting this happen.’ 

Even though the traumatic memory is associated with the Pulveli song, listening to it somehow also provides her solace. This is reassuring, until we find it is only temporary. In the penultimate paragraph, she says:   

    ‘I will dream of you…. People will laugh and pull the children out while the Pulveli song plays in the background.’ 

The Pulveli song haunts her; it is a trigger and she has no control over whether it could elicit an involuntary memory while she is awake or asleep. Nor can she restrict the memory – if she replaces the Pulveli song with another – every time she hears the new song, it will remind her of the Pulveli song and the associated experience. There is no escape. 

In the final paragraph of the story the narrator says: 

    ‘After a month, it will be over.’ 

Is she reassuring the reader, or is she still addressing the stranger, or is she talking to herself? We aren’t sure. But there is the same confidence in the short sentence that was apparent at the beginning of the story. However, as we know with Manickavel, nothing is certain, everything is constantly shifting. And so the self-assurance is short-lived. The next, much longer sentence, conveys nervousness and fear both in words and syntax: 

    ‘You will disappear and I will panic each time I see someone who looks like you.’ 

Simple words, arranged with a metric lyricism, to capture the narrator’s anxiety and dread –  is also familiar to those of us who know of similar experiences. 

One line on, the narrator says, ‘I will have the national anthem as my ring tone.’ The Pulveli song is has been replaced with the national anthem. What is the narrator trying to do? Can one erase a memory so easily? Does it mean every time she hears the national anthem she will have no recollection of the bad memory? Or will it always be a reminder that it replaced the Pulveli song in deliberate attempt to forget? The mind cannot be relied on to keep memories separate. 

Manickavel’s choice to write the story in the future tense was to show how the narrator tries  to convince herself that she will be able to erase the episode from her mind, while at the same time showing the impossibility of trying to control memory. The narrator says: 

    ‘I will tell myself that it is no big deal, that I’ll forget all about it one day. Sometimes this will make me feel better.’ 

But we know this is impossible. There is no forgetting. The edifice of memory is continually evolving, being assembled. As Proust said, ‘Remembrance of things past is not necessarily the remembrance of things as they were.’ Every time we remember something in the present, we further the memory through our current thoughts and emotions and then lay it down as an updated version. Which leaves us wondering; what exactly happened to the narrator when she was harassed? What was the psychological impact of it on her? Is she telling us exactly what happened? Or just how she remembers it? Reality is often worse than what we remember.

Manickavel has a tight control over the structure of her story. It reflects the passage of time, four paragraphs and four weeks, as much as she emphasises the slippage of it. The song, the experience, time and memory – are carefully layered into the story, just as they are constructed in the mind. 

Manickavel’s story vividly depicts the trauma of being sexually harassed in a public place. It also explores the ability of our minds to conjure up inner worlds. She shows how memories become associated with songs to give them personal relevance. She illustrates how a melody and an important emotional experience combine to form a memory. And she demonstrates the similarities between two ever-present fears: that of encountering the harasser unexpectedly and the threat of an involuntary memory creeping upon you suddenly. 

And what overall impression does the story leave on the reader? Will you ever be able to listen to the Pulveli song without recalling the groping stranger on the bus whispering ‘sexy whore’? 

Read Kuzhali Manickavel's 'Whore' in Out of Print 18, March 2018

Reviewer Farah Ahamed’s story Dr Patel, featuring the eponymous character, appeared in Out of Print 20, September 2015 and A Man of Talent , also about Dr Patel, in Out of Print 40, December 2020.

#Premise features Ahamed's review of Kuzhali Manickavel’s This is Us, and This is Us Outside.

#Premise

Premise: This is Us, and This is Us Outside by Kuzhali Manickavel Reviewed by Farah Ahamed

This is Us, and This is Us Outside by Kuzhali Manickavel

Reviewed by Farah Ahamed

How to leave the reader disorientated and thinking ‘We are all responsible,’ Time and Point of View in Khuzali Manickavel’s 'This is Us, and This is Us Outside'.

The first time I read Kuzhali Manickavel’s stories I was left completely disorientated. I thought it must have been because I missed something, so I went back and reread them. But even the second and third time my head was still whirling. I felt on the one hand connected to the emotional centre of the story, but at the same time distinctly unmoored. The stories have a light, almost playful tone, but this is only an artful and skilful ploy to beguile us from the deeper issues at stake for the author. 

Take for instance her very short story, ‘This is Us, and This is Us Outside’, where none of the characters have real names. We are introduced to The Pepsi Girl (later nicknamed Capacity), The Girl with Razor Blades, The Gay Man and The Paracetamol Girl. The choice not to give proper names is curious; it suggests the characters could be anyone, or no one, fictional or real and makes you wonder what Manickavel was trying to hide or show. And why those particular names? Why The Pepsi Girl – was she wearing Pepsi-t-shirt? Did she look like a girl from the Pepsi poster? Who is she really? The same applies to the other characters.

The story begins with a confirmed time frame, location and action, and is told from the first  person plural point of view and also more unusually, in the future tense.

‘The Pepsi Girl will puke all over the table in fourteen minutes. We will watch her…’

But by the time we get to the second paragraph which is dotted with, dialogue predicated with, ‘she will say,’ ‘she will not say,’ ‘she will suddenly show,’ ‘she will go,’ ‘we will never,’ the reader is already wondering what Manickavel intends to convey with this host of  somewhat reliable characters, and a somewhat, unnamed, unreliable narrator.

The third paragraph is even more disconcerting as the story shifts from the plural to the first person single point of view. It has a few lines of sparse dialogue where the narrator casually introduces and dismisses an imagined or possible, rape scene.

‘I imagine The Pepsi Girl’s unconscious body being passed around a backroom where she is gang-raped by auto drivers, sons of politicians and hotel staff. “I’m sure she’s fine,” I say to The Gay Man.’

The narrator, rather than focusing on the shocking incident, makes a sideways comment about The Gay Man being the first person she’s ever met and how she will never forget him. The effect of this is to leave the reader wondering about what’s really going on, while at the same time, recognising and sympathising with the narrator’s state of mind: how often it is that we ourselves try to hide from thinking about difficult or emotionally inconvenient by focussing on something random. 

The fourth paragraph of the story employs both the first person plural and singular and even though the shift is seamless and nothing jars, still something makes us stop and reread the sentences and appreciate their syntax. The core of the dialogue is where the heart of the story lies and burns like a strong flame. We are told, ‘rape’ is an uncomfortable word, and ‘We will all feel responsible.’ This is the crux of it, both for reader and characters. 

The next two short paragraphs flit through the existential crisis of the characters, echoing Hamlet’s ‘to be or not to be.’ But here it is, ‘to die or not to die.’

‘At first we will decide that she did not die,’ while the paragraph that follows this one begins with, ‘Then we will decide that she did die.’ 

Both are written in the first person plural and give personal details about The Pepsi Girl, making her almost real and relatable to. But before we can get too close to the burden of dealing with the reality of rape and the inconvenience of it, the narrator quickly shifts our focus to thinking about The Pepsi Girl’s parents and how ‘We will be glad they are not our parents.’

The second last paragraph starts in the first person plural, but the second line shifts to the singular and concentrates on the narrator’s observations and thoughts about the ordinary. But then, unexpectedly, the paragraph closes with a casual racist statement from The Girl with Razor Blades, ‘And white women are such fucking whores,’ she says, to deliberately provoke the white woman at the next table who turns to look at them. The effect of this is to unsettle the reader, forcing us too, to take a closer look at the characters.

The story closes with a final paragraph of only one startling line, told in the first person plural, in the future tense. ‘We will only notice The Pepsi Girl fourteen minutes later, when she pukes all over the table.’ After a whirlwind, starting with ‘The Pepsi Girl,’ a girl without a proper name, and ending with ‘the table,’ a proper noun, we are left wondering what exactly happened to them and to us. 

The story is about the emotions of transitory relationships, and confusing, seemingly impersonal, yet lasting encounters which are so prevalent today. It explores how one relates to strangers and friends, individuals and families, and how thoughts arise naturally from observations and casual conversations to help us avoid thinking about what hurts the most. Manickavel’s short story is about the imagined rape and alcohol poisoning of a stranger. Or is it? 

The story will take you fourteen minutes or less to read. It will leave you reeling. And later you will decide, ‘We are all responsible.’ 

Read Kuzhali Manickavel's 'This Is Us and This Is Us Outside' in the first release of Out of Print, Out of Print 1, September 2010.

Reviewer Farah Ahamed’s story Dr Patel appeared in Out of Print 20, September 2015.

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2015 DNA-OUT OF PRINT Short Fiction Finalist: Farah Ahamed

Life will be Better

Farah Ahamed

I rolled down my window and watched the street vendors stroll between the stationary cars, tankers, matatus and buses. I had a strange impulse to drive straight into the car in front, just for the satisfaction of knowing I’d made an impact for once. I gripped the steering wheel.    

Dilip and I were stuck on Mombasa Road driving to the city centre of Nairobi from our offices near the Jomo Kenyatta Airport. We’d just passed the golf course on our left and the old East African railway station on our right.

A street seller sidled up to the car carrying Kenyan flags of all sizes; the black, red and white fabric flapping around his face. ’Madam, you need flags, sunglasses or a photo of the President?’ he asked.

I shook my head, avoided his gaze and looked at the traffic ahead.

He stooped to look into the car. I moved in my seat to block his view.

‘What’s in the news?’ I asked Dilip.

‘Independence day celebrations, Mandela’s funeral.’ He turned the page. ’Women activists angry about something or the other.’

I looked at my watch. ‘I wish the traffic police would do their job, the shops will close soon.’

‘No point in getting irritated, Resh.’ He pulled off his shoes, loosened his tie, and covered his face with the paper.

The air was muggy and dense with diesel and petroleum vapours from the industrial neighbourhood beyond the railway station and the four wheelers around us. My seat belt pressed into my middle and cut into my shoulder. I unbuckled it and turned in my seat.

‘Be my customer,’ the seller said. He put on a pair of glasses and positioned the photograph of the president at arm’s length. ‘Life in Kenya will be better with glasses.’

Dilip uncovered his face, yawned, folded the newspaper and laughed. ‘Here, kijana, have a soda.’ He leaned across and handed him a note.

The man took the money through the window, ‘Asante, Mzee.’

Dilip adjusted his seat, leaned back and shut his eyes. ‘I need a nap.’

‘Madam, buy miwani.’  The seller held out a pair of dark glasses with a fake Armani logo. ’Life will be better. No problem. Hakuna matata.’

‘Oh fine, whatever.’ I paid him and stuffed the glasses in my handbag.

Sharp police whistles; the vendor swore, and weaving in and out of the cars he disappeared into the bushes. A tout, from the matatu with music blaring next to us, leered at me. I closed my window and turned on the air conditioning.

The lights changed from amber to green, nothing moved. I took the newspaper from Dilip’s lap. Activists were outraged, I read, at the amendments to the proposed Marriage Bill. I thought of the hire purchase loan Dilip had for the car and the mortgage on our house. I’d be responsible for both if he died or I ever left him.           

At the roundabout a few metres ahead a policeman walked over to a black Toyota and tapped on the window. He said something to the driver who handed him, what I assumed, was a licence. The policeman pocketed it and walked round the car, his fimbo under his arm, kicking each wheel. He stopped by the left front door, opened it and climbed in. 

‘Oh my God.’

‘What’s going on?’ Dilip sat up and rubbed his eyes.

The driver, a woman in a mustard burqa, jumped out. She stood by her car, hands on hips, her dress billowing around her. The lights changed, cars honked, and those ahead started to move. I turned on the ignition, changed lanes, and as we crawled up beside the black Toyota, I rolled down my window.  ‘Do you need help?’

‘He wants some small chai for Christmas. He said he’s charging me for wrongful overtaking.’

‘Let’s go,’ Dilip muttered.

‘He’s impounded my licence,’ the woman said.

‘Oh no. Good luck.’

‘Don’t get involved,’Dilip said. ‘Drive on.’

I moved the car forward and navigated the traffic in silence.

*

At the entrance to the boutique, I turned to Dilip. A shaft of sunlight shone on his clean-shaven head and on the green and blue snake tattoo that ran from his right ear to his shoulder. He patted his jacket pocket where he kept his wallet, phone and glasses.

‘I know the dress I want,’ I said.

‘Sure.’ He buttoned his tight fitting jacket and taking a tissue from his pocket, wiped the perspiration off his forehead and the back of his neck.

The boutique, designed like an African hut, had a thatched roof and small windows. On the walls were oddly shaped mirrors and watercolours of flamenco dancers. The clothing was displayed on wrought iron railings suspended from the ceiling with thick chains.

‘Is this it? It’s not what I expected.’

‘There’s something here that I like.’

He turned to the sales assistant, ‘My wife needs something appropriate for the Independence Ball.’ 

She looked me up and down. ‘I’ll bring you a selection.’

‘And the black dress that was in the window last week,’ I said.

She nodded.

Dilip yawned and looked at his watch. 

I went into the changing room and fumbled with the buttons on my blouse. The mirror accentuated the lines on my forehead and the touches of grey showing through my short, spiky dark hair. The assistant knocked on the door and handed me several gowns. At the top was the one I’d set my heart on. It was off the shoulder in black chiffon, with smatterings of tiny, sparkly diamantes. I put it on and the soft, thin material fell smoothly over my hips and caressed my ankles. I stepped out.

‘What do you think?’ I asked Dilip, with a self-conscious twirl.

He did a double take and gave a low whistle. ‘Wow. You look, well, different.’

I laughed, and swirled again.   

He shook his head. ‘No good.’

I stopped. ‘What? Why?’

‘This dress isn’t you.’ He folded his arms.  

‘It is. This is me.’

‘It’s definitely not.’

The assistant looked up from folding scarves. ‘Is there anything else in particular you’d like to try on?’ she asked me.

‘Don’t ask her,’ he said. ‘I’ll decide, that’s why I’m here.’

I retreated into the fitting room and unzipped the black dress. I pulled on a red satin bubble one with long sleeves, a high neck, a belted waist and an elaborate bow on the left shoulder.       

‘I need a dress,’ said a female voice.

I peered through the keyhole and saw a woman in a mustard burqa. I emerged from the changing room.

Dilip nodded. ‘That’s more like it.’

‘This is annoying,’ I said, pulling at the bow.

‘You’ll get used to it,’ he said.

‘Hello there! Fancy meeting again, Nairobi is a small world,’ the woman in the burqa said.

I turned to face her. ‘Hello. Did you sort out the policeman?’  I patted the bow, trying to smooth it down.

‘He refused to leave my car until I showed him my wallet, then he took everything from it.’

‘Oh no! How terrible.’

She took off her sunglasses and scrutinised me. ‘That’s a nice dress,’ she said. ‘It suits you.’

‘I think so too,’ Dilip said, glancing at her. ‘Doesn’t she look perfect?’

‘I don’t like it,’ I said.

The woman looked at me. ‘Well then, get what you like.’

‘I like this one. It’s just the dress for you,’ Dilip said, staring straight at me.

I went back to the changing room and took off the red dress. The assistant tapped on the door. ‘I’ll take whatever you’ve tried on,’ she said.

I handed her the black and red dresses and put on a minty green one with a cowl neck and butterfly sleeves.

‘Well, what about this one?’ I walked towards Dilip.  

He stroked his chin. ‘Nope, never. That’s not for us.’

‘What’s wrong with it? Surely it’s more flattering than the red one?’

His gaze shifted and I followed it. I wouldn’t have recognised her without her burqa. She was as petite and slim as me, but in her early thirties. Her complexion was clear and her hair, which was curly and long, had auburn highlights.

 ‘That’s my black dress,’ I said. ‘I’ve just tried it on.’

‘Have you? Isn’t it beautiful? I love the diamantes.’

‘That’s my dress, that’s the dress I want,’ I said to Dilip. But he was staring at her and did not respond. I waited for a moment and then rushed to the changing room and slammed the door. I sat on the small stool and covered my face, tears stung my eyes, I brushed them away. This time I wouldn’t cry.  

I heard voices. I peered through the keyhole; the woman was adjusting the black dress under her arms, looking at her reflection in the mirror. She pouted, and twisted to look at her behind. Dilip was watching her. I went down on my knees to see more clearly, but she moved and only Dilip was in my view.

‘That dress looks very nice on you,’ he said.

She gave a throaty laugh. ‘Why, thank you. I think so too.’

Dilip loosened his tie and ran a finger around the back of his collar. The woman was near him again, still preening. She tossed back her hair and smiled at Dilip, he smiled back.

‘Do you think I should get it?’ she asked.

A man entered the shop and walked over to her. He was wearing a white baseball cap, faded blue jogging pants and a baggy red t-shirt. Clapped to his ear was a mobile phone. Without interrupting his conversation, he pointed at her, then at his watch and went to the far side of the shop. She looked at Dilip and smoothed the dress over her hips. I got up and changed back into my jeans and blouse. When I exited the fitting room, Dilip was paying the assistant. The woman was standing by the till, still wearing my dress. ‘Are you going to buy it?’ I said to her.

‘I haven’t decided.’ She headed to the changing room.  

The assistant handed Dilip the red dress wrapped in tissue. ‘Enjoy the ball,’ she said.

Dilip’s mobile rang and he answered it, nodding at me to follow. The changing room opened and the woman came out in her mustard burqa. She placed the black dress on the counter, pulled her veil over her head, and tucked away her straying curls.

‘I’ve decided,’ she said to the assistant. ‘I’ll go and speak to my husband.’ She walked over to the man in the cap, tapped him on the shoulder and held out an empty palm. Without breaking his conversation, he pulled out his wallet and gave it to her. She brought it to the till.

‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘If you wouldn’t mind, could I please have that dress?’ 

‘I don’t understand?’ she said. ‘You already have the one your husband likes.’

‘I know, but I want this one. I tried it on first, before you.’

The woman was quiet for a moment. ‘No. I’m sorry, I’m taking it.’

I looked at the assistant who was concentrating on wrapping the dress.  The man in the cap came over. ‘Did you get what you wanted?’ he asked the woman.    

‘I did.’ She tilted her head in my direction. ‘But she didn’t.’ 

In the parking lot, I noticed a black Toyota parked right behind us. Dilip was leaning against our car, chatting on the phone. I rummaged in my handbag for the keys and noticed the sunglasses from the vendor on Mombasa Road. I put them on and looked around to check for the couple. They were still inside the boutique.

We got in the car and I turned on the ignition. Dilip was laughing at something his caller said. I began to reverse and the car beeped. In the rear view mirror I could see the front bumper of the Toyota. I pressed my foot on the accelerator. There was a resounding crunch and splintering of headlights. Dilip dropped his phone and yanked the hand brake. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ 

‘Serves her right,’ I said. ‘She was badly parked.’

Farah Ahamed is a Kenyan lawyer now living in the UK. She is a graduate in creative writing from the University of East Anglia. She has been published by Kwani?, Bridge House, Fey, New Lit Salon Press, The Missing Slate, Out of Print and Two Serious Ladies. She was nominated for the Caine Prize for African writing in 2014 and 2015 and shortlisted for the Leeds Literary Prize for a collection of stories. Recently she was nominated for the Pushcart Prize.