Premise: Reclamation by Bhumika Anand reviewed by Mahima Kohli

Reclamation by Bhumika Anand

Reviewed by Mahima Kohli

Reclamation (Out of Print 51, December 2023) is a quintessential COVID story without ever portending to be one. True to its title, it’s the story of a young(-ish) woman Sujata’s attempt to reclaim her life and identity while still grappling with the sudden loss of her long-time partner, Adi.

The story grabs your gullet with the opening line, ‘There was no good way to get over grief.’ Things move fast. Her friend convinces her to try online dating, she agrees and matches with a guy who appears to be the very antithesis of Adi. The guy, Sharan, is a total nincompoop, you know it and Sujata knows it, but the author leaves you in no doubt of Sujata’s intentions – she wants to have sex with somebody, anybody, so she can stop comparing every guy for the rest of her life with Adi. She is after closure, and in the end, (spoiler alert) she gets it.

The story is set in Bangalore, and the characters are well-etched, each with a unique voice. Anju is that faithful if blunt friend who helps you through a break-up (in this case, death) by opening your eyes to the truth. Sharan is the stereotypical US-returned IT engineer – horny and self-absorbed, with an oedipal complex. He is underwhelming in every respect, which it turns out is exactly what Sujata needs to help regain her power and reclaim her life from the wreckage of her old life.

Sujata is the picture of sophistication – a modern woman of forty who faces the travails of office politics and living alone in a big city with elan. She dresses elegantly, knows how to keep her house functional and beautiful, and isn’t afraid of running the show in bed. And, like most of us, she also forgets to fill her Drink More bottle that she bought to remind herself to drink water. Sujata is any one of us, rebuilding her life in the aftermath of the pandemic.

The story sets up a simple premise – there is no good way to get over grief – and delivers on it. Sujata finds her empowerment in a one-night-stand, which she isn’t ashamed to seek for herself despite the guy pretending to want otherwise. From her journey, you learn that in overcoming grief, there might be some false starts (moving houses but failing to leave the memories behind) and some compromises (40-year-old Bumble matches arriving unwashed and bringing cheap Dairy Milk chocolates on a date). But in the end, you’ve got to find a way to pick up the pieces you want to keep from your old life and move on to a new one. Through Sujata, you get to live that soul-stirring transformation.

Read Bhumika Anand’s ‘Reclamation’ in Out of Print 51, December 2023.

Reviewer Mahima Kohli is a loyal Out of Print reader based out of Delhi and Mumbai.

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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: The Big Picture by Anjum Hasan reviewed by Salini Vineeth

The Big Picture by Anjum Hasan

Reviewed by Salini Vineeth

Anjum Hasan’s short story, Big Picture, is about Mrs. Ali and an eventful journey that changes her life. The protagonist, Mrs. Ali, is a middle-aged widow who lives a lonely life. It’s clear that Mrs. Ali has spent a significant portion of her adult life playing the roles of a wife and a mother. Maybe she was so involved in these roles that she cannot imagine an alternate existence. With her husband and children no longer around, Mrs. Ali lives in limbo. She gets through days, terrified to explore the possibilities of her newfound freedom. 

Mrs. Ali withdraws herself from social gatherings and leads a reclusive life. She finds comfort and safety in the mundane. But she hasn’t lost her curiosity. She sits by the window of her room and observes life as it happens outside. That’s how she is drawn to painting, something she used to practice as a child and had since abandoned. Even though a late bloomer, she turns out to be a good painter. Mrs. Ali isn’t bothered about the quality of her subjects. She just paints whatever she sees around her. She doesn’t even make a big deal out of painting. For her, it’s just something to fill the vacuum in her life.

Mrs. Ali’s life takes a turn when a European art curator, Frieda, takes an interest in her paintings. Mrs. Ali takes a certain pride in sending her paintings to Europe for an exhibition. But, she is terrified at the prospect of having to attend the exhibition in person. She finds it quite rude of Frieda to make such a demand. Mrs. Ali has no inclination to go on a solo trip to Europe, but her curiosity gets the better of her once again. She wants to see the ‘original paintings of Vang Gogh, Pablo Picasso, and Max Ernst’. She decides to take the trip. 

Just like she had feared, Mrs. Ali faces many hurdles on her solo trip to Europe. She is stranded in a foreign airport, with her periods visiting her a week early. She feels that everyone is out to get her – the flight steward, the indifferent shopkeeper in the airport, and even the beautiful yet apathetic foreign women in the airport restroom. She feels that everyone is watching her, and the world is waiting for an opportunity to ridicule her. 

Mrs. Ali does get to the exhibition city in one piece, and it somewhat surprises her. Now, being in this alien city full of strangers, Mrs. Ali goes through some epiphanies. For the first time, she gets a broader perspective and realises what’s lacking in her life. The new environment helps her see the ‘big picture’.

Hasan’s story explores the themes of fear and freedom. Interestingly, the protagonist is always addressed as Mrs. Ali, her first name never revealed. This gives an indication that ‘being Mrs. Ali’ was the essence of her existence. When she no longer has to be Mrs. Ali, she doesn’t know how to transition into a new phase. Even though the protagonist has the agency to embrace a more exciting life, she just shuns herself into a locked room. The story raises some serious questions. Why so many of us cannot embrace the excitement of life, even if we have the freedom to do so? Why we find solace in mundane existence when we can go out and explore the world? Just like Mrs. Ali, many of us are terrified to transition into a new phase. The story also provides a possible solution to these questions. It’s Mrs. Ali’s curiosity that helps her move forward. She would have spent the rest of her life locked in a room if it weren’t for her curiosity. She was curious to see what people were doing outside her window. The curiosity prompts her to take up painting, almost unintentionally. Her curiosity prompted her to take a trip to a strange city, even though she was terrified. Most of the events during her trip substantiated her fears, but even then, her curiosity to see the ‘original paintings of Max Ernst’ pushed her forward.

The story is narrated from an intimate third-person point of view. Readers are privy to the most intimate feelings of Mrs. Ali. By not using the first-person point of view, the writer gives an illusion of distance between Mrs. Ali and the reader. But at the same time provides a close look at her thoughts and feelings. The choice of the narrative voice is just right, which also conveys the personality of Mrs. Ali. Another impressive point about the plot is the dry humour. Even while Mrs. Ali is in the most unfortunate situation, the third-person narrator manages to pull some laughs. The reader laughs and bites her tongue. The feeling is akin to laughing when a loved one falls down; it’s sad yet hilarious. In a nutshell, ‘The Big Picture’ is a universally appealing story that explores people’s qualms about transitioning into a new phase in life and how curiosity helps us overcome those fears.

Read Anum Hasan's 'The Big Picture', in Out of Print 2, December 2010.

#Premise features writer, and Out of Print reader, Salini Vineeth's review of Anjum Hasan’s ‘The Big Picture’.

 

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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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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.

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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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Premise: 'The Three Princesses of Kashi' by Shashi Deshpande reviewed by Brinda S Narayan

The Three Princesses of Kashi by Shashi Deshpande

Reviewed by Brinda S Narayan

Fortunately for Indian readers, many of our myths are being reinterpreted and retold by accomplished and brilliant writers. Among the more well-known reworks, Chitra Banerjee Divakurni’s The Palace of Illusions casts Draupadi in a new light, while Samhita Arni’s Sita’s Ramayana reminds us that the epic wasn’t just about Rama’s virtuousness and his forfeiture of the throne.

Shashi Deshpande, who negotiates modernity and tradition with a characteristic flair, evokes a similar discomfiture with the male-centred narrative of the Mahabharatha. In a powerful retelling of the circumstances that fuelled the birth of the two progenitors of the feuding cousins – Pandu, the father of the famously-principled Pandavas, and Dhritarashtra, the blind, remorseful father of the arrogant Duryodhana and his ninety-nine brothers. Deshpande foreshadows the violent battle that was to ensue in the very savage treatment of the two abducted sisters – Ambika and Ambalika. Being the sophisticated writer that she is, she does not explicitly use the word “rape”; after all, women in that era, would not have had modern legal jargon to describe the assaults they had been subjected to. But she depicts in excruciating detail how the two births were seeded in a muffling of female agency, in the outright subjection of female voices and bodies to kingly imperatives. She also derides the conventional notions of “penance” – usually posited as a “male sage” who eschews physical and sexual desires, standing on one leg in a cold, mountainous region or cave.  How can such a “penance” compare with the “sacrifices” forced on women – the sexual assaults, followed by an unwanted pregnancy, a painful birth and then the wrenching away of their sons, who have to perform their warrior duties. At every stage, women have had to disregard their own desires to prop up insecure or ambitious men.

Deshpande often writes about people whose lives are buffeted by forces that are not of their own choosing. And who then have to don a pretence of normalcy or contentment while keeping darker currents at bay. While this can very well be the lot of any marginalised group in history, it has been the particular experience of women, who have had to contend with wide gaps between their “masked” public personas and their roiling subterranean selves. But equally, Deshpande is also aware of female power, of Shakti, and how this force, both in emotional and psychological terms, thrashes into male consciousness, by blessing and cursing male oppressors into feeling rashly triumphant but thereafter, abjectly repentant. Or at least subjected to a similar anguish. Or at least women can hope that justice is meted out. In light of the contemporary #MeToo movement, and with punishments awarded or withheld, this tale, narrated with sensitivity and élan, carries a heightened significance.

Read Shashi Deshpande's 'The Three Princesses of Kashi', in Out of Print 36, December 2019.

Reviewer Brinda S Narayan's story @ The Shanghai Tea House appeared in Out of Print June 2013.

#Premise features Narayan's review of Jayant Kaikini's 'The Threshold' translated from Kannada by Pratibha Umashankar-Nadiger.

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Premise: 'Escaping The Mirror' by Farah Ghuznavi, reviewed by Nidhi Arora

Escaping The Mirror by Farah Ghuznavi

Reviewed by Nidhi Arora

‘Escaping the mirror’ by Farah Ghuznavi is a story about a seven-year-old girl, Dia, who is accosted repeatedly by a young man employed by her family. This man, Minhas, is her father’s driver. A friendship that appears innocent at first, turns ugly as Minhas begins to make inappropriate advances. When Dia protests, he threatens to tell her family, who he claims will believe him over her. The seven-year-old girl does not find this difficult to accept. On the rare occasions when she does muster the courage to tell her parents, they fail to understand or believe her. This, more than Minhas’s fearless stalking, lies at the heart of the story.

Her parents are righteous and pious and treat their servants well. When little Dia tells them in her seven-year-old vocabulary that she doesn’t like the way Minhas looks at her, they make light of it. Instead, they pull her up for not liking him because he is a servant. Is it blind trust, naivety or plain burying their head in sand for an issue too uncomfortable to acknowledge? Whatever it is, Minhas knows it and feeds on it.

With no one to talk to, Dia comes to believe that this is happening to her because she is indeed a ‘bad person’. Left on her own to defend herself against this menace lurking everywhere in her house, she develops her own tactics. She becomes physically alert, looking over her shoulder to make sure he is not around, avoids playing in places where he might have access to her. The once exuberant girl becomes quiet and introverted. Again, no one notices, let alone trying to find out why.

Over time Minhas gives up stalking her actively, but continues to stare at her from the rear-view mirror. Dia is unable to escape his stares in the confines of the car. That Minhas does not physically abuse her and eventually goes away from her life comes as little relief.

Years later, there comes a moment when Dia tells her father what happened and he finally understands. As the realisation dawns on him, he holds his head in hands.

The very little that is said about the mother throughout the story, speaks volumes about her role in her daughter’s life. It is also, perhaps, a broader comment on women’s failure to stand up for each other in matters of personal dignity and shame.

The story is told in a simple and direct style, which helps to deliver this distressing account of a young girl’s loss of childhood and innocence in its full impact. We are not told where and when this happens, which is just as well, because it is a universal story. In light of the recent #MeToo revelations, it is a powerful reminder that abuse is often very close at home and that the loneliness of the ordeal is sometimes more painful than the ordeal itself.

Read Farah Ghuznavi's 'Escaping the Mirror' in Out of Print 18, which was the issue themed around sexual and gender violence published March 2015.

Reviewer Nidhi Arora’s ‘It Is in The Eyes’ appeared in Out of Print 32, September 2018.

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