Premise: Amma by Bhargava Gade reviewed by Prashila Naik

Amma by Bhargava Gade

Reviewed by Prashila Naik

Bhargava Gade’s Amma is as much about the Appa or the father as it is about the mother. The protagonist is a young man, seething with anger which he is clearly using as a conduit to process his grief. He has his reasons for the rage. Perhaps one can also discern a tinge of guilt at not having asserted himself before: maybe things would have been different; maybe this grief and anger could have been channelled into something else, something more constructive.

As I read through Gade’s tight but unapologetic writing, I could not help but wonder what the story would look like with a female protagonist. I don’t remember the last time I felt this way while reading a work of fiction. In this story, the protagonist’s gender puts him in a position where what he feels and wishes are in conflict with what is ‘expected’ of him. The expectations from a woman in a similar situation, would be different, given that the roles of men and women in the rituals are defined differently. 

Gade explores how it is difficult for a group of men, even if they are part of the same family, to really express themselves to each other and more importantly to support each other. Accusations and disappointments are not expressed in words but rather, through violence and rebellion. Again, this makes me think about how a female protagonist would have dealt with this.

I did wish I would have liked to know a little more about the father. He comes across mostly in broad strokes and maybe that was the point of the story. Because fathers in broad strokes are, after all, found everywhere. But Gade’s expressive visual imagery makes up for this. The story, much like the stain the protagonist is trying to cover, pops out with every sentence, every word. There is also the very personal take on religion which blends into the anger and the guilt. The protagonist probably makes his peace, and how he does that might probably make another story. 

Read Bhargava Gade's ‘Amma’ in Out of Print 48, March 2023.

Reviewer Prashila Naiks's story The Monk appeared in Out of Print 31, and ‘She Reminds Me of Sunshine’, in Out of Print 48.

 

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Premise: California Sunshine by Amrita Lall reviewed by Prashila Naik

California Sunshine by Amrita Lall

Reviewed by Prashila Naik

The most striking aspect of Amrita Lall's story California Sunshine is the subtle humour and irony that slyly laces its narrative. The vivid 'magical realist/surrealist' imagery that made me develop an uncomfortable smile towards the corners of my mouth, or the almost 'harmlessness' of Jynx the Pokemon who is probably more of a loyal companion than all the well meaning 'real' people around the protagonist. There is so much nuance, so much soul infused in these descriptions of hallucinations and visions and dreams, I almost did not want these parts of the story to end.

But when these parts do end and when we are drawn into the protagonist Aleena's world, the layers are peeled one by one. Like in the novel Ordinary People , the protagonist struggles with reconciling to their part in a heart breaking tragedy that has forever changed their life. Like Ordinary People again, there is a therapist who is clearly empathetic and probably also willing to 'listen', but unlike the teenaged protagonist in Ordinary People, Aleena is unable to 'fully' share, to fully let in another person into her tragedy. Because a part of her probably wants to live with this trauma, with the guilt that results from the trauma or she probably expects the trauma to be drawn out of her, gently, kindly, and without the judgement of LSD versus 'occasional drug use - recreational'. It is after all hard to trust when the boundaries between what is real and what is not have long ceased to be around.

Amrita Lall's writing is impressively shorn of any gimmicks even with the possibilities that the subject offers. I also liked how the piece ended, expectedly, but also probably taking the reader a couple of inches away from the engagement they were beginning to form with Aleena. And yet, I came away from the story deeply moved by Aleena's 'predicament', her agony, her inability to find relief. A complex story that does well to simplify what it is trying to tell. I look forward to reading more of Amrita Lall's fiction.

Read Amrita Lall's California Sunshine in Out of Print 42, September 2021.

Reviewer Prashila Naik's story The Monk appeared in Out of Print 31, June 2018.

#Premise features Naik's review of Amrita Lall’s 'California Sunshine’.

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2015 DNA-OUT OF PRINT Short Fiction Shortlist: Prashila Naik

Like the Sun Disappeared Behind the Clouds

Prashila Naik

 Vishnu pulled the stool closer to the wall, and Mahesh watched him. The bulb needed to be replaced. Mahesh raised a brow at the danger this activity signalled. Their feet were no longer steady, and their eyesight, even with glasses, was only getting worse. If Vishnu did manage to get himself on the stool, he would surely not be able to get himself off again safely. Mahesh watched his twin brother place tentative fingers around the stool. This was his chance to say something. Vishnu would have probably listened to him too, for his warning would re-assert Mahesh’s physical presence in the house; Mahesh was here, back in the house where their life had begun. Vishnu, the egotistic, unsuccessful bastard! Mahesh faltered here. That made him a bastard too, did it not? And, he remembered having loved their father dearly. It made him feel like a six-year-old at fault. Vishnu, the egotist! He settled on that.

‘Mahesh, come and hold this stool. Stop looking and do some work.’ The similarity in their voices had the capacity to startle Mahesh even after all these years. He ignored it, and turned around.

‘Mahesh, have you gone deaf?’

‘Stop shouting. I am not doing any work. I pay for all my expenses. I am not a free loader. And this house is as much mine as it is yours.’

He could see Vishnu's mouth open and then close like that of a fish. It meant Mahesh had managed to conquer the argument, and yet he felt no triumph. Here he was. Seventy-two years old, a widower, on medication for high blood pressure and type II diabetes, probably childless, living with his brother in a renovated version of the house where they were both born decades ago. ‘This house is as much mine as it is yours,’ he repeated. ‘I am a pensioner, not like you, who came back with his tail hanging between his legs at the first sign of challenge.’

Vishnu pretended not to have heard, and steadied himself for the climb onto the stool. Mahesh could see his arms fumble. Somewhere in his head, his words rang as unfair. Vishnu had a near-death experience in the textile mill. Failure and fear were two different things. For a second, he toyed with the idea of apologising to his brother, or better still, helping him steady the stool. Mahesh took a step forward, and then stepped back. Clearly, if it was that simple ... He turned around.

There was the sound of the stool crashing against the mosaic-tiled floor. Would there be blood? Mahesh shuddered, unwilling to step out of the safety the kitchen provided. The water in the glass in his hand was only half-drunk. Just when he was about to take another sip, he heard Vishnu's first shriek. He was calling out to their long dead mother. Mahesh was mildly offended that his name hadn't been called out. But soon, he was relieved. That only proved what he already knew. He finished the water in his glass and then put it back on the water filter.

Vishnu was huddled on the floor. There was a small pool of red around his forehead. His eyes were closed, and his fingers had bunched into fists that pressed desperately against his thighs. Mahesh heard soft whimpers.

He walked up to his brother and bent down. Vishnu was a lot heavier than he was. And, what would he do once he had lifted him off the ground. Maybe, a doctor would be required. Where was the nearest doctor now and how would they get to him? And money? How much money would be needed? What if the doctor said Vishnu needed more than a few stitches and suggested an operation? How would he manage all of this? How had he managed this when they were still little boys who had never given a thought to wearing anything other than short pants? Oh, he was being silly, trying to attach any sense to those days. Did they even count in the long journey that had unfolded after.... Vishnu whimpered again. Mahesh touched him on his shoulder.

‘Get up, Vishnu.’

Vishnu did not respond. Mahesh attributed this to defiance. He clamped both his arms around Vishnu's arm, and tried to pull him up. Vishnu did not budge. Mahesh moved away, embarrassed at the lack of strength in his arms. He walked away and then walked out of the house. His next-door neighbour Asha was out on her porch, oiling her long, gray hair. Mahesh found it hard to believe that he had once found this woman attractive. Somehow this made it easier for him to approach her. The woman's two sons lifted Vishnu off the ground and put him on the bed. Blood was still oozing a bit, but it was starting to dry out, solidifying into ugliness. They asked Mahesh for a cloth to tie around Vishnu's head. Mahesh brought one of Vishnu's lungis. The men offered to take him to the doctor, but one of them, bluntly told him they were ‘running low on money and so would not be able to help much more.’ The rickshaw driver said he could only manage three people in the rickshaw, and one of them would have to share the driver's seat. The bleeding man would have to lie down, he declared.

Mahesh struggled to find a foothold on the driver seat, and the experience was terrifying. Separated only by a piece of glass from the vehicles around him, he wondered if he would come out alive.

The doctor stitched up the wound, and said things that were meant to be comforting. He also expressed amazement at seeing twins of this age for the very first time. ‘So amazing that you two look so alike even now.’ His young face was flushed with something that could have been warmth. A good fellow, Mahesh decided, but boring. The doctor told them that the stitches would have to be checked everyday, as it would be good to not take any chances. The neighbour's son offered to organise the rickshaw for them. Mahesh said nothing. The doctor gave him a slight discount, citing it was his first visit, and then once more commented on how incredible it had been to see twins that age. Mahesh said nothing.

Back at home, Mahesh paced the verandah. The neighbour's second son had managed to send a telegram to Vishnu's youngest daughter. All of Vishnu's daughters were married and had kids. Mahesh did not know their genders or their ages, but remembered seeing them all. He also remembered feeling no emotion for any of them. His only daughter was older than all of Vishnu's daughters, and Mahesh was stunned to realise he had forgotten her face. It had been over five years now. She had come back to her parents, battered by years of emotional abuse from her husband. But the prospect of having this jaded woman back in their lives had terrified Mahesh and his wife. They asked her to reach a compromise with her husband. She agreed and left. No one ever saw her again. His wife withered away with that guilt. She believed their daughter had ended her life. Mahesh wasn't so sure. His version of guilt was restricted to wiping out all memories of their last conversation.

He thought of her now. Why couldn't her life have turned out like that of Vishnu's daughters? Sure, they had no achievements, but wasn't prolonged survival an achievement of its own. It all seemed extremely unfair. The loneliness, the loss of independence, the guilt, the failure, and then the loneliness all over again. He had a huge urge to burst into sobs. Instead, he walked up to the room where Vishnu lay.

Mahesh watched his brother stare at the ceiling, his bloated belly rising in soft rhythms.

‘Why did you have to change the bulb yourself? So many people could help.’

‘Doesn't matter. You could have helped me.’

‘You don't get it. This is not about me. This is about you. And you could have had it much worse.’

This time Vishnu turned to look at him. Mahesh struggled to read his face. He wanted to feel his brother's pain, wanted to sit down next to him, and tell him it would all be fine. That like the days of their boyhood, the wounds on his forehead would disappear like the sun’s glare disappeared behind the clouds. But Vishnu had turned his head away, and closed his eyes. Mahesh opened his mouth to continue the conversation. The simplest of words eluded him. What was he even doing there? He walked out of the house and sat down on the verandah bench. Asha's granddaughter, a bony girl of around two was playing with their pet dog. The child noticed him, and then smiled. Mahesh caught unawares, could only smile back. He felt sad for that child. Someday all of this would cease to exist for her. Someday, she too would turn into an unimaginable entity. How terrible, and what a loss. He closed his eyes and lay down on the bench, struggling to disconnect himself from the mild thumping of his heart. Soon sleep claimed him. For now, life had moved on.  

Prashila Naik is a writer and technologist born and raised in Goa. Her short fiction has previously been published in various online literary magazines in India and elsewhere, most recently in the 2014 New Asian Short Story Anthology. She likes to call herself a pescetarian, and is particularly fond of reading in the dark. She is based out of Bangalore.