Moon in the Water’

Ameena Hussein shakes the local literary waters

 BOOK REVIEW

By Vihanga Perera
The waves of the local literary waters of the day are being shaken by Ameena Hussein; and not for the first time, either. With her maiden shy at longer fiction, ‘Moon in the Water’, Ameena Hussein has a few statements to make. Giving an exclusive interview to a popular weekender a few weeks back, she identifies her work as a novel that is ‘perfect’ in each chapter; in each sentence.

Surely, Hussein has exhausted her creative genius in working with ‘Moon in the Water’ and in fashioning it to its ultimate mould. The “perfection” which she speaks of, then, is not idly arrived at. It is the result of working and re-working with her script and in repetitively exploring the creative scope of her lay.

In the interview, to which I have alluded above, Hussein states how, after 17 years of writing, she has come to realise that, “all writing is political”. This, in my view, is a mark of the maturity of ‘Moon in the Water’ as a creation, and of Ameena Hussein as a creator. The novel is also an example of how the complex weave of history, culture (in both its universal and personal relevance/s) and the politics that contains the individual within it is made into a narrative. In that respect, Ameena Hussein takes Lankan English creativity to the plane already graced by the likes of, among others, Salman Rushdie, Michael Ondaatje, Bharathi Mukerjee, Kiran Desai.

The ‘Literary plane’ which I speak of is not one that is new. In fact, this is a “bracket of literature”, that has chiefly shot out of the second generation of Postcolonial writers – the generation that represents Rushdie and Ondaatjee. What is notable in iconic texts of this mould such as ‘Midnight’s Children’ or ‘Running in the Family’is the evocation of Asian/African cultural contexts or, the undercurrents of their sociopolitical, economic and cultural layers, for purposes of literary consumption. At their best, some of these works locate the intricacies of these sociocultural complexities, shedding light on the unperceived political realities of issues that are otherwise not evoked within a discourse of literature.

However, the work that improvises on the ‘indigenous culture-society-politics’ amalgam, at their worst, function as an agent of neo-colonialism. This is often done through uninformed and uncritical perceptions, where the “Asian-African pellet” is dished out for consumption as a confirmation of imperialist (and, at times, Orientalist) assumptions. A branch of “fashionable po-co literary consumer products”, therefore, loosely fit a model – a model which consists of a set of variables that stereotypes the “postcolonial Asian-African” reality. These variables include orientalist elementals such as “exotic landscapes”, “pristine beaches”, ‘subservient, yet dangerous, natives’, “gems, spices and minerals”, “heat, dust and confusion” etc. In addition, the exoticisation of plurality, division, sexuality (in its complexity- often seen as contingent of the “Asian-ness” of things), the breakdown of the State, and the oversimplified and often, a-historical presentation of war and conflict, are common to the structures of the type of novel in question. To acquit the Rushdies and Ondaatjees is up to the individual reader. But, in my view, these are only two writers whose works have been uncritically accepted – two writers, whose work are in/deliberately and largely neo-colonialist.

Returning to ‘Moon in the Water,’ Ameena Hussein clearly assorts the Lankan novel in among the company of the “framework of writing” that I have defined. The very “personality” of the Hussein text itself bears unmistakable signs of it. As long as it may not be a crude exportation of the “(Western) consumer friendly” achcharu of ‘many layered, many faced Asia’ the novel wins our praise. But, in terms of Hussein’s coming of age as a writer, ‘Moon in the Water’ is a definite landmark.

Over the past decade, Ameena Hussein published ‘Fifteen’ and ‘Zillij’ - two volumes of short stories. The former was more a rabid return the narrator/persona makes to a past from which she struggles to break away from. In terms of consciousness, ‘Fifteen,’ to me, is a clearing/flushing of one’s mind- a recycling of one’s senses. While ‘Zillij’ is more controlled, it still lacks the political consciousness of the complexity of “culture at work”, which ‘Moon in the Water’ propagates. The Hussein novel, therefore, is crucial for the “political consciousness” the writer evokes through her text.

‘Moon in the Water’, contrary to the claim, is not by any means a “perfect novel”. Nor can I, in that respect, vouch for the existence of a perfect literary work. But, in relation to the time in which it emerges, the context it improvises on and the “type of literature” it aspires to emulate/empathise with, Hussein’s novel cannot escape a critic’s eye. She, surely, is not the first of that “mould”. Nor will she be the last. But, she sets a pointer, as to where our English Literary Inc could be heading- with or without reason; with or without its sunshades on.

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‘Socks’ joins our household

A chance discovery of a worn red collar, engraved with the name ‘Socks,’ as I was rummaging through my house, brought back cherished memories of yet another lovable addition to the Vipulasena household.

‘Socks’ was the name we had given to our new puppy aged one month. An office colleague brought her as a new playmate for my young sons, when his dog had a litter of seven pups. The year was 1982. The month: April. With the National New Year around the corner, and our garden full of fruit bearing trees, it seemed the right time for our household to have a dog. Dozens of crows were flocking into our garden to peck at the mangoes and jak fruits ripening on the trees, and we needed someone- human or animal, to chase them away. Socks seemed to be the ideal solution, despite her tender age.

It was my younger son Jehan, who named her ‘Socks’, because all her tiny paws were a pure white. They resembled four white socks. The rest of her body was a tawny brown. We were told that, she was a cross between a Daschund and a Pekinese. With her long sausage like body, short black snout, bright brown eyes and puckish expression, we fell in love with her the moment she waddled in, still barely able to walk properly, and made herself comfortable on a cushion lying on the floor.

For William, my cook cum jack of all trades, who was now very much part of our family, the newcomer soon became his special property. A confirmed bachelor, Socks was his surrogate ‘daughter’. ‘Mage Duva’ is how he called her. And young as she was, the pup knew exactly how to get round her adoring ‘father’, and get the meatiest bone and the largest saucer of milk.

A poet and singer in his own right, William even began composing poems dedicated to his ‘ duva’, putting words to tune and singing them to anyone who cared to listen. Tied to the collar, I discovered a scrap of paper, which contained one of his favourite poems addressed to Socks. It went something like this:

‘Mage podi duva, nidaganne epa,
Eliye kurullan andagahanawa
Tharavo oba soya avilla
Nagitimu duve, ira paya athi
Dan sellan karana velawa’
(My little daughter don’t you sleep
Outside the birds are calling for you
The ducks have come in search of you
Wake up! now the sun is shining
Now it’s time to play)

Just as much as we loved our newest addition to the Vipulasena household, Socks could be very annoying at times, especially, when she went on one of her chewing binges. It was the time she was teething, that created most of our problems. She would go about the house, happily chewing up shoes, slippers, cushions, school bags, carpets and anything made of rubber or chewable material, on which she could sharpen her growing teeth. All of us, with the exception of William, became victims of her ‘chewing spells’. The latter ensured that all his chewable possessions were out of her reach, and simply showed her the ruler, if she dared enter his room unasked, a threat she dared not risk.

Rummaging further in William’s cupboard, where I found Sock’s collar, I came across the dog chain coiled in the bottom drawer of his locker.
Now rusty with age, the chain, like the collar, was as inseparable to William as Socks. They were an essential part of their daily walks.

The duo would set out sharp at 4.30 every evening, walking, sometimes jogging, along Vipulasena Road. Turning at the bend of the Norris Canal, they would sit awhile fish gazing, fascinated by the myriads of tiny fish swimming in its murky waters. There, William would croon his favorite compositions to the pup, who would listen intently, as if she could understand what he was saying.

They would end up at Kopi Kade Sarath’s boutique, where William would trade jokes and the latest political yarns with fellow tea drinkers, while Socks was kept quiet with a juicy bone, which the kind Mudalali kept aside from his lunch everyday, or else, given a large rusk to chew on.

Socks’ best friend was the dog next door. He was a pariah dog, one year older and much bigger than Socks, who, virtually, remained almost the same size, all her life. As pups, the duo would gambol on our lawn, waiting to catch the balls my sons threw in the air. Every attempt was an acrobatic feat, as they jumped and somersaulted in the air, their mouths wide open, in an effort to try and trap the elusive rubber balls in their jaws.

Socks was the cleverer of the two. She rarely missed a catch. When the ball was inside her mouth, she would give her playmate a catch-me-if-you-dare look, and take off on a hide-and-seek race, with her playmate in hot pursuit. Our neighbours, much as they loved Socks, never failed to express their annoyance, when the duo rushed into their gardens, madly barking their heads off, waking them up from their afternoon siesta.

One of Socks’ most useful assets was her skill in catching mice and polecats. Living in a 106-year-old sprawling house full of dark go-downs, outhouses, old stables now converted to servants’ quarters and mysterious passages, it was not surprising that the high roof of our house had become a permanent nesting place for polecats and mice.
The sound of them walking on the roof resembled men walking with boots; Crunch, crunch crunch, often waking us up, wondering if robbers were about to break in.

The rats were no better. They managed to invade the house through small crevices in the roof or a broken window, or else, via the drains, and nibble any food kept outside.
But none of the creatures were a match for our Socks. She would, invariably, emerge from wherever she was resting, no sooner she heard their sounds, with her claws drawn out, ready for battle, everytime she heard them. Her loud barks would suffice to stop their racket.

Socks lived with us for over 15 long years, peacefully passed away just short of her 16th birthday. During that time, she filled our lives with many delightful memories that will always haunt us.
I lay aside her old collar, her chain and the tribute that her friend William left behind for us, and try to get on with my normal chores. But a wave of nostalgia overpowers me. I seem to hear Socks’ bark and constant patter ringing through my now empty house.
“Sleep well little friend. And thank you for the memories”.

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Paper presented on Library Day 2009, of the National Seminary, Ampitiya

The Word Divine

In our country today, Journalism, hailed by some of the greatest men in History, has become a victim of forces we cannot control. As a journalist myself, I have been both revilled and honoured. I was made a Kala Keerthi in 2005; and also imprisoned on the Fourth Floor of CID headquarters in 1998. In the meantime, as an author and poet, I have received the Gratiaen Award for Best Book in English Literature, in 1994, as well as three State Literary Awards for Literature and Poetry. So, you see, Journalism is something that blows both hot and cold, and one can never understand how any particular wind can blow. In other words, the concept of Religion is very like the concept of Journalism, for both bring reason and understanding to the human mind, with what we call the “Word” - both the Word of God and the word of the writer.

It is necessary, therefore, to make a realistic assessment of what this “Word” entails. Too often, as I’m sure, many of our brothers and sisters in Christ have come to accept, is that, there is an infinite godhead who, “always was and always will be.” In my mind, I can conjure a vision of an immense vastness of black nothingness and there, was this divine Being - a kind of cosmic surge and a spirit of enormous power, who was still, a lonely entity, bereft of companionship, and with no one to call friend until, in some distant age of many millennia, he wished to cause a new universal order, and unleashed the force of a huge atomic onslaught that created the Universe and the cosmic reality that would herald life.

We have to understand this reality because, there was no book this Being could write and no newspaper to proclaim the marvels of the limitless space that He moved in. Our Bible says that, this work of all-embracing creativity lasted six days but, let us not forget, that a day, as told in our Bible, stretches for one thousand years. Will we then realise that, the whole programme of creation took six thousand years and that, in the six thousandth year, Man was raised out of dust?

Let us be realistic. Why dust? Ask yourselves. Let your minds give you the logic of an answer. Today, we know that, every comet, star, heavenly body carries cosmic or galactic dust. Star dust is something we all know of. Every meteorite that punctures this earth, carries its envelope of dust - and this is not ordinary dust as we know it, but something else. Science has also moved very close, almost in tandem with the great creative surge, for it is now known that, the dust of stars, the tails of comets all carry, not only outer space viruses but also, the building blocks of life. When God breathed upon the dust, was there this one divine thought: “Let there be Life”? A new creature - a man, who was fashioned in the image and likeness of God. Bear this in mind, for you will then begin to realise that, it is this

image and likeness that has given to each of us, the will to progress, to grow, to fill this world with our great and even grandiose views of our future. We have no doubt that, God created the angels too, but, was there something lacking in these endeavours? Was it that the great love he had for his creation, caused him to bestow on us free will? Think about this. Was there some flaw in the creative process, that made the angels think they were above God, the woman succumb to temptation and seduce the man? Would not all this have caused what we call the sorrow and wrath of God?

Today, we call ourselves the children of God. We have come to accept the Catechism that asks of us: “Who made you?” and we give answer: “God made me.” But where is the reality or logic in such an answer? Why not think this through with care? As far as the Bible tells us, God made only one man and woman and, when it became apparent that, these wondrous creatures had disobeyed him, he cast them out of Eden. It was, I am sure, a cruel sentence, but he did charge them to “labour by the sweat of your brow”, “go forth and multiply” and “die the death.” But I remind, in my own thinking, that God had given to them a life-system in his own image and likeness. What was the reason? Was it because he knew that, the day of disobedience would come and that, man and woman would have to find their own way? Is it not true that, ever since that dreadful day, man had to procreate, woman had to bring forth her young, and brother had to murder brother? And this has gone on, my friends, for countless centuries.

Now, even if I am accused of being flippant, let me wonder what my father would have said, if someone told him that God made me. First, he would bundle that someone out of doors, give my mother dark suspicious looks and go to a lawyer, demanding that this God be summoned before courts, to tell why he had to impregnate my mother, when he had all the equipment to do so himself! Am I joking? I hope so.

Let us then accept, with all realism, that our God was the leader, the man who used that starter’s pistol to get the world, the planets, every life form to function with nature - a nature, that he also brought into being, to give us the oceans, the mountains, the winds, the seasons, the rocks, the inner cores of heat, the moons and stars and the great suns that gave us the answers to life. Is this not why the Egyptians, Greeks, Romans, Hindus, the Aborigines, the Celts and Druids all had their gods of the sun? So did the Aztecs. To them, it was light, and when God made it all, did he not as Jesus, also proclaim, “I am the Light of the World?”

Now, my friends, I am here to talk about Journalism, and I believe that, to write, one must read! In my own home library, I have almost 8,000 books on every subject I can think of - from history to art, philosophy, literature and so much more. I read and study all religions, not just out of curiosity, but to find out where there is factionalism, fiction, aberrant views, interpolations and falsehoods. Frankly, I am not much in favour of sects and breakaway bodies, and people who say they are charismatics and re-write the Bible to suit themselves. But, I read some of the finest thoughts on religion in poetry. Let me take the hymns and chants we know of. Tell me if you can: Who wrote the Te Deum, Laudamus, the Nunc Dimittis, the Magnificat, the Gloria in Excelsis, and the De Profundis? The writers are listed as Anonymous! The Stabat Mater was written by Jacobus de Benedictis centuries ago. John Milton wrote “Let Us with a Gladsome Mind” in 1623. Isaac Watts wrote “0 God, Our Help in Ages Past” in 1719. Charles Wesley wrote” Jesus Lover of my Soul” in 1740. “Adeste Fideles” was written in 1751, but we do not know by whom. Augustus M. Toplady wrote “Rock of Ages” in 1776. Sarah Flower Adams wrote “Nearer my God to Thee” in 1841. Henry F. Lyte wrote “Abide with Me” in 1847. Sabine Baring-Gould wrote “Onward Christian Soldiers” in 1867. Phillips Brooks wrote “0 Little Town of Bethlehem” in 1868.

I could go on, but as you can see, we live with under the influence of the most powerful human writers, who filled their lives with a quest for the glorious effulgence of the holy spirit. But you tell me - what do we find in our newspapers today? We see the mouthing of many, the record of wars, ethnic cleansing, murder, genocide, corruption and, decay. There are reporters with no eyes to see the good and rather than see God, they seem to see stones and rocks. We see today, a society full of perversions. Is this what Journalism upholds? Is this our daily liturgy of evil?

Writing cannot just filter out of the blackness and bleakness of what lies around us. In the sum total of human greed, all humility has been tossed into the fire and, if we look at the way things go, where lies the impact of religion in a world Bishop Reginald Heber declared that only man is vile?

What I would dearly like to see is that, your library becomes a cataclysm for both reading and writing. Also, that this National Seminary puts out its own newspaper. Sadly, but truly, there is little space in the national press because, there is no editorial infusion of pious and good thought. We are being conditioned by hooting mobs, heretical articles, ashes furiously scattered and swarming stupidity. If your eyes, my dear friends, cannot see the glory of the coming of the Lord, how will you write of it?

What should we read and write of today and in this country? One word I give you: Peace! It is the perfect word that is a sounding universal hymn. Couple it with Hope and Light, and you have the answer for all humankind. Today, as we see, even newspapers and television face tyranny, and are reduced to a state of dispiritedness.

I must admit, I am not a religious person. I don’t know when I last went to a Church and yet, long ago, I lived among the Brothers at Monte Fano. Yet, I began to cultivate a dislike for what I have heard so often, as people approach a sanctum, to ask God for the most improbable and hair-raising things. Do not be surprised, but over a period, I have collected some of these prayerful utterances:

“Oh God, cure my leg. Matter burst out of it yesterday.” “Oh God, fill my shop with customers.”
“Please tell me if my servants are robbing me.”
“0 God, cure my sore eyes.”
“Save me from getting drunk so often.”
“Lord, see that my son passes his exam. He is so shy. I will light a big candle for you.”
“Please help her to make her fall in love with me. I will put money in St. Anthony’s box.”
“Dear God, my boss is making a martyr of me. I hope he dies.”
“My God, now I am pregnant. What can I do? Let the baby die. I’m only fifteen.”
What sort of rubbish is this anyway? Are these people praying to God or to their own desires? Have they made God their servant?

No, my friends. I want the carpenter’s son with his saw and wood. Not some paltry gentleman god. I want the god who loved the poor and the oppressed, who had no truck with rich men or kings. I want the Galilean who knew the cross and the whip. Today, pomp and circumstance have taken over. Oh, I have served at the altar. Maybe you think I profess little faith, but I am content to wait. I am 73 now, and I may not have long to wait, but I believe that, to each of us will come that great hand of revelation. Only then, will I know, how right or how wrong I am.

My friends, I will not bore you any longer. You may find my words somewhat of a confessional, but I ask you, as you grow in God, to take and use your work, see what flaws could lurk and amend them and, in writing, ask yourself, what is the aim and strain of it all. This is your Library Day. Know that the library is the centre of all mental formulation. Read diligently, read more and do what I do. I even take a book to the loo. Why waste time sitting there and staring at the shower? It is so simple, when you let what you write, lie in the hand of the divine, and you perfect it the way he plans. Thank you for listening to me and my urgings, that religion and reality must go hand in hand, to bring about that universal understanding.

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