Showing posts with label sand storms. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sand storms. Show all posts

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Write up in The Week, Oman


Spectator of life
Tridwip K Das


Novelist Asha Iyer Kumar, who is the third Indian expat in Oman to publish anovel in a year, says that Muscat inspired her more than anything else


The publisher of Asha Iyer Kumar’s book hammers the nail squarely on its head. “It is soaked with ordinary life. Our lives,” Sunil K Poolani of Frog Books wrote responding to an email query on what he considered was the USP of Sand Storms, Summer Rains. Asha is Indian and was a resident of Muscat – for nine years – when she wrote her debut novel. She relocated to Fujairah a year ago but is still hopelessly nostalgic about Muscat. “There is nothing that I don’t miss about the place. The beautifully laid out city, the clean, wide roads, the green sidewalks, the way the city breaks into colours in winter…” That descriptive style of narration is evident in her writing – it is full of imagery. Asha opens Sand Storms, Summer Rains with these words – “The flight to Muscat lasted three hours. The sky and the sea merged into a blue vignette at the altar of the universe. Straddling clouds hung from the sky like wads of cotton wool. From the window of the giant steel hawk, they looked like angels wheeling over a confused humanity.”


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What I saw of men here (the Gulf region) who came from their homeland (Kerala), leaving their
people behind, was a far cry from the stories I had heard of them back there. The much touted,
much envied Gulf returnee there was a sweating, slogging, lonely campaigner here. I saw them all around me, in the pick-up taxis, on the streets of Ruwi, on the lawns along the highway, under the summer sun, inside factories. I can describe them as my literary epiphany for the novel. They inspired such despair in me that I felt an urge to write about them”
– Asha Iyer Kumar

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Released in India in April and expected in Borders outlets in Oman soon, Asha says she owes it to Muscat for providing an atmosphere conducive to literary expression. Asha came to Muscat soon after her marriage in 1998 and worked as a freelance writer for publications in India and the Gulf region. This followed a stint teaching English grammar, literature and creative writing to expatriate and Omani students at her residence. “It was during this time that the idea for the
novel came up and I began to write. It took three years to complete the novel. If places can be one’s muse, Muscat was it for me.” Nevertheless, the story is not set in Oman. It begins to unfold with a flight to Muscat but, curiously enough, the rest of the Gulf setting is in the UAE. “That’s because people relate to Dubai and Abu Dhabi more when we say the Gulf. It was so at least in the past in Kerala (the Indian state to which a large proportion of the Indian migrant workers in the Gulf region belong). So much so that the Gulf used to be synonymous with Dubai – some even called it Abu Dubai – several years ago. So I set the story in these places. But it could be the story of any Indian expatriate in any of the Gulf states. Take out Dubai/Abu Dhabi – the names are mentioned very sparsely in the story – and insert Oman, Bahrain or Qatar, and the plot and the story would remain as relevant.”
Sand Storms, Summer Rains tells the saga of two men from Kerala who arrive in the Gulf – one chasing a dream, the other under compulsion. The plot is a maze of twists and turns. These could reflect a fertile imagination or even an ability to be inspired by real life. Either way, Asha tells a compelling story with her vivid imagery. At the heart of her novel are its ironies, which no matter what the reader’s cultural conditioning, can’t be missed. In Asha’s own words, “A resonating sentiment in the novel is the fact that everything in life comes at a price, a price which many times fails to justify the very gains.”
Considering fictional writings tend to be autobiographical, when asked if the generalisation held true in her case too, Asha said hers is biographical. “A novel cannot happen unless you draw on the huge resource of either your or others’ experiences in life because art, in its essence, is a reflection of the real.”
Asha’s husband, Vimal Kumar, who is now getting used to life as a novelist’s husband – “Her literary achievement is adding quality to our life, except that we get less time for many other things these days” – did not see himself anywhere in the story.

The response to her book, Asha claimed, has generated interest among expatriate communities
spread across the world. “But the response in Kerala, where I hail from and where the novel is partly set, has been overwhelming.” She has, however, been slammed for committing a linguistic flub’. One reviewer caused Asha enough grief to prompt her to post an entry on her blog for the ‘unpardonable’ offence of not knowing the difference between a mangrove and a mango grove. “It’s an error; I admit it happened because I was genuinely ignorant. It was just one of the many plain things that I did not know of in this world,” she wrote on her blog.
Asked what’s next, Asha let loose another volley of literary idioms and phrases typical of her style. “I shall continue to write till I stop being a keen spectator of life. I love the feel of words, the throb of literary expression, and revel in the experience of putting my thoughts down.” She has just completed a collection of ten short stories, titled Marie Biscuits and Other Snacks.
“There is another long story knocking on my head. The idea is still sketchy, the plot is embryonic, but I can feel it brewing inside me. It looks like sooner or later, it will become apparent as a novel.”

Thursday, June 25, 2009

Announcing the grand arrival..



After three years in gestation and three more years in incubation, my baby is finally out, ready to face the world!!!
Plump and cherubic, she has taken over my life and my attention like nothing else ever has. She is named Sand Storms, Summer Rains, SSSR in short. I had decided on her name the day she was conceived in my mind. And I loved it instantly. The name symbolized seasons, sentiments, spirit and reflections.
Although she was clinically born, as a manuscript, three years after the first seminal thought was sown in my mind, she was premature, barely in a state to be presented in front of the world. Imagine me, a fragile baby in hand, about who I spoke only in whispers, reiterating that she indeed was there, but not in a state to be seen or felt, reassuring myself that she would survive in the end, hoping that I would soon find someone who would nourish and foster her, scampering around in a frantic attempt to find that elusive messiah, the publisher, who would give my baby the elixir of life!
Days of hope alternated with nights of despair, as I watched over her, loving her more with each passing day, wondering if such a beautiful creation indeed came through me, thanking the universe for giving me the inspiration to beget her and at times, dropping in utter desperation over having her in a partial state of existence. Neither alive nor dead. Three years passed in waiting, as I continued to watch her, clutching my heart, helpless and hopeless, often tempted to strangle and dump her. My hopes of her coming out of the condition began to fade. The messiah was not coming to my door, after all. I saw her vital signs beginning to fail and I found no way to revive her. I found myself on the verge of giving her up to death amidst ardent entreaties to the Gods.
And then one day, heeding my ardent appeals, the angel came down. It was a miracle. I handed my baby over to him, with shivering hands and quivering lips, with a plea in my eyes to give my baby a life. The angel smiled and said, “Do not worry, she is in my care.” He took her to his care home, gave her proper form and breathed fresh gust of life into her. All the while, away from them, I waited, not knowing what I might finally see.
Then the stork arrived, in postman’s uniform, and handed me my bundle of joy. It was a moment when my innards imploded with ecstasy, my limbs went weak with disbelief and my heart pounded with the force of a frenzied gale. It was an amazing moment of holding Sand Storms, Summer Rains in my hand. SSSR looked into my eyes and gave me an angelic smile, as though she knew what it felt to have her before me as a bona fide testimony of my labour and love.
I have yet to get over the euphoria of having her back in my life as a veritable entity. I presume I will never get over it. Now, as I hand her over to the world, for I know that she was born for the sake of the world to regale its people, I am fearful, like all mothers, of what would befall her. Of how the vast expanse out there would receive and treat her. Of how she would survive among the sharks and squids in the dark, unknown, fathomless depths of the earth. I am paranoid about her future and it makes me do things that only a mother will venture to do for her child.
As I prepare to move the mountains and shift the seas to help her set sail on her maiden voyage into the literary world, I pray for her success, for her to win her moment in the sun, to be a name that the world will recognize.
As she takes leave of me, I stand tall, preening with the pride, feeling disquiet in my heart all the same. Will she make it? Or will she fall by the way side? Will she find her way? Or will she get lost in the alleys? I can’t stop agonizing over her. Which mother, for that matter, has ever succeeded in doing that?
As she slowly seeps into the crowd, I wait, with bated breathe.
A mother’s grand dreams for her little one has just begun to roll.
Jai Ho, I whisper, as my maternal instinct overwhelms me and I toss a tear off my cheek.