Poornima Manco

Author

Poornima Manco

Johatsu

by

If I told you I was okay, would you believe me?

Here, in the catacombs of anonymity, I have found peace, sanity and safety.

The first slap, a lover’s jealousy; the second, a husband’s right. By the time I ran, my body was a ravaged battleground. Overnight, the yonige-ya promised. They delivered too. But ten years planning escape hardly qualifies as overnight.

Today I live as a ghost, in a place scrubbed out on the maps. Johatsu, evaporated people of Japan, they call us. Poof! Gone, vanished, disappeared.

Does anyone care where?

Perhaps it’s best they don’t.

Filling the well

by

 

Exhaustion is a common complaint amongst writers. We are inveterate over-thinkers, tinkering with ideas, analysing themes, past failures and successes, grappling with the imposter syndrome, and never giving our minds the rest they deserve.

This month has been particularly trying for me. Having just released my novel, I’ve worried over it like a fledgling. Will it survive? Will it be well received? What if all that time and effort was for nothing? What if everyone just hates it? Needless to say, it’s doing fine. But I’m so wrung out, I just can’t seem to move forward. Deadlines are looming, but I’m languishing in a state of motionless ennui.

Not all of it is book related. Covid is rampaging through India once again, and I agonize over the state of the country and my near and dear ones. My father, who is still a practicing GP, is older and vulnerable and not very well right now. I think the worst, then check myself. No amount of doom-scrolling or imagining the worst-case-scenario will help, so I try to think positively, praying for the best possible outcome. As do so many of us at a time like this.

Another thing that gnaws at me is book related. It’s silly, but sometimes the people you expect to get whole-hearted support from (friends or family members) are indifferent to your efforts. Aside from a breezy “Oh, good job!” they have barely acknowledged that for me, this is a big deal! But hey ho. On the flip side, I’ve had the most unexpected people step forward and celebrate me. Makes me realise the adage is true – when a door closes, a window opens elsewhere.

In all of this, I’ve felt very depleted… unable to focus on writing with my mind gnawing over all sorts. I feel like giving myself a kick up the a**e! However, I know also that once I’ve finished wallowing, I’ll get back up and get back to the writing. From listening to many writer podcasts, I’ve realised that I’m not alone in feeling alone on this journey. At least I have a handful of people who have supported me through thick and thin. They may not be the ones I expected, but I’m so grateful they exist! So many writers carry on in the face of opposition and indifference and barely any support. My little family, my small group of avid readers and the few friends who have stood like rocks by my side, are more than most people get.

Yet, this listlessness overpowers me.

I’m unable to concentrate on reading, picking up and abandoning books carelessly. To refill that well of inspiration, I’ve watched many movies. One that caught my fancy was ‘Ajeeb Daastaans’. Four vignettes, four stories that show the various aspects of India, each of these tales had a little twist at the end. To me, it felt like I was watching one of my stories on screen. The response they evoked in me was the very response I’ve wanted from my reader. A sense of awe, of disbelief, of “how did I not see that coming?”

Yes, watching this on Netflix has lit a tiny spark within me. I need to get back to writing, just for the pure joy of it. What does it matter if no one reads it? Who cares if they think this a passing fancy, or I’m some kind of fraud parading around as an author? I know how much I love creating these worlds and these characters, and surely that’s all the recompense I need?

Last week I was invited to judge a poetry competition at my school in India via a Zoom call. Reticent to begin with, I finally agreed, remembering what I was like at age 16, and how, back then, I dreamt I would one day be sitting in a judge’s seat. To a teenager, that seemed like an immense honour. Naturally, age and experience have taught me that judging someone’s work is an incredibly arduous task. I tried to be fair and comprehensive. These young teens had poured so much of themselves into their poems, that it seemed almost cruel having to grade them. When I read out the results online the following day, I resorted to that old chestnut – “To me, you are all winners”. In truth, they all were. Perceptive, evocative and compelling, their creativity shamed me into acknowledging my own lack of drive. In my analysis of their work, I hope they took away some valuable lessons. But I took away far more.

Finally, even as I contended with my unproductive and spent state, a conversation about aging produced an incredibly poignant poem from my daughter. The context was how we view aging in physical terms – the wrinkles, the grey hair, the slowing down of the body. But a lot of it is about losing that vibrancy of youth, of the light within us slowly dimming until it eventually flickers out.

Surrounded by all this creativity, I have no excuses to fall back upon. I need to get back to my writing.

Here is the poem. I hope you enjoy it.

FLOWERS

I love you so much, I’m

so scared to see you grow

watch my vision of you

fade away, the petals

of your personality

starting to wilt

the vibrancy in your

eyes, dim

it’s all beautiful, but

that doesn’t make it

easy

call me selfish, I want

you to stay as you are,

always

with me

(MM)

 

What’s in a name?

by

Shakespeare once asked this question through the young heroine of his tragedy, ‘Romeo and Juliet’.

“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose

By any other name would smell as sweet.”

Indeed, a person’s worth cannot be measured by a name alone. In his tale of star-crossed lovers, Shakespeare was highlighting the ridiculousness of a generations-old feud between the Montagues and the Capulets. Juliet loved Romeo for who he was, and if not for his name, they could have lived happily ever after.

While I completely endorse Shakespeare’s line of thought, I must add my own two pennies’ worth here. You see, a name might not be everything, but it certainly is something.

Take the example of the actress Thandiwe Newton. After thirty years of being credited as Thandie Newton in her films, thanks to an erroneous acting credit that dropped the ‘w’ from her name, anglicising it in the process, she has reclaimed her name. Yes, she wants to be known as Thandiwe henceforth, and more power to her!

You see, names are deeply personal things. They have the weight of history and identity, of familial love and cultural coherence behind them. And as such, it is nearly impossible to divorce the self from the name. Unless you really, really hate it. Then you can have it changed by deed poll.

Take my name: Poornima.

When my mother chose this name for me, there was a lot of love, but there was also a significance there. She was from the South of India, from Kerala, to be precise. Hence, my name has the South Indian spelling of the two ‘o’s. In the North of India, my name would have been spelt as Purnima. The meaning is also one that connects me to her in a beautifully intimate way. Her name was Chandra, which meant the moon. Mine means ‘a full-moon night’. I love my name. It’s a tough one to pronounce, and an even tougher one to abbreviate, but it’s my name!

For nearly half my life, I’ve heard my name mangled beyond belief. From Purneema, to Poormeena, from Pooh to Poo, I’ve heard it all. I refuse to let it upset me. In fact, I find it laughable, because in the West, no one really bothers to ask – “Am I pronouncing this correctly?” Laziness and a comfortable sense of superiority allow them to anglicise anything unfamiliar. But woe betide anyone who can’t pronounce a ‘Sarah’ or a ‘Genevieve’!

Indian names aren’t the easiest to pronounce, I’ll accept that happily. But did you know just how much a name can reveal about a person? For instance, a name can tell you which part of India the person belongs to, drilling it down to state, religion and sometimes, even caste. Not always a good thing, but there you have it.

I can’t claim to understand every type of name that exists, or the connotations that go along with it, but I always try. Just making the effort is enough for the other person to cut you some slack if you get it wrong.

Which is why I insisted upon the constant mispronunciation of my protagonist’s name in my latest book, ‘A Quiet Dissonance’. Anu is short for Anupama, but everyone except her Indian family and friends call her ‘Anoo’. There is no emphasis on the ‘u’, but the ‘oo’ elongation of her name is just a symptom of the many tiny little misunderstandings that make up her story.

My editor and beta readers asked me why I insisted on keeping this little, seemingly irrelevant, detail in the book. But how could I not? To me it was symptomatic of a larger issue. One in which a compromise of identity takes place at every juncture in the character’s life. She accepts that to belong; she needs to let them pronounce her name in whichever way they deem easy.

You could accuse me of the same.

 

Trust

by

Val stumbled through the labyrinthine lanes, partially blinded by her tears. Mid-afternoon light filtered through the roof slats of the souk, lighting up the odd piece of jewelled glassware. Hamsas glinted everywhere, open palms offering benediction; the aroma of heavy spices lingered in the air; tourists and locals jostled through the scrum while a cat licked its hind paw. A man ejected a stream of red spittle into a spittoon, and a group of abaya-clad women watched as she blundered past them.

Why had she come here? What had made her rush to this chaotic market when the last thing she needed was noise and confusion? Yet, she walked on unseeing, as voices called out to her, extolling the virtues of their wares.

“Come, come. I give good price, lady.”

“Some babouches for your pretty feet?”

“Cactus flowers, hammam soap, argan oil…”

Shukran and Marhaba hung in the air like two scythes. Streets turned into lanes, packed with tiny shops that seemed to tilt inwards, as though conspiring to collapse on her, burying her alive under stacks of leather goods, lanterns and tagine pots.

Her breath came out in shallow little gasps, and a shiver ran through her. It was hot – a thirty degrees day – but she felt cold, goosebumps lining her arms like little sentinels.

A sudden thirst took hold of her, tears receding as a more elemental want asserted itself. Water, she needed water. But where could she find it here, in this maze of colour and commotion?

She halted, generating a few exclamations as the family trailing behind bumped into her. Apologising, she stepped aside, letting them pass.

Where was she? How long had she been wandering? Would she ever find her way out of this place?

A young man came up to her. Acid-washed jeans and a stubbled face.

“You want carpet?”

“Water.”

“I take you best place. Orange juice. Best in Morocco.”

“Just water.”

“Come, come. I take you.”

She followed him as he snaked his way through the crowds and tangled alleys, whistling a cheery tune.

He brought her to a stall stacked with oranges, grapefruits and lemons, bunches of bananas hanging on either side. The stall owner and her self-appointed guide had a brief chat and a laugh. She spotted a bottle of water behind the owner and pointed to it, but he was already preparing her juice. The guide took a tip larger than the cost of the orange juice. Bemused, she handed over the dirhams, which he pocketed as he disappeared back into the throng.

Ambrosia-like, the liquid quenched her thirst and brought her to her senses. A prayer call from the mosque rang out, and she looked up at the stall owner, who shrugged and made her another fresh juice.

This time she ambled with purpose, stopping now and then to examine a lamp or a piece of jewellery. There was no rush to return, no one to return to. Twenty-four hours had robbed her of certitude and replaced it with the bitterness of betrayal.

She watched the henna lady painting an intricate pattern on the Dutch woman’s hand as her husband commented in guttural tones.

“You want?” The eager young assistant offered to paint her hand, but Val demurred, moving on. A street urchin slammed into her before racing off into a narrow by-lane. The sun had lost its glare, and the air took on a cooler aspect.

Val tried retracing her steps.

Where had she gone wrong? Why hadn’t she seen it coming? How could she have been so naïve, so trusting?

Fatima’s hands beckoned to her from a shop wall. Ward off the evil eye and repel bad luck. Maybe she needed a hamsa now more than ever.

The grizzled old man hunched over in the shop barely glanced up as she stopped to examine his vendibles. There were so many varieties of the talisman: from metallic to ceramic, coloured to camel-bone.

“Which… uh… is best?” She spoke haltingly, unsure of how much English he understood.

He stared at her from under his bushy eyebrows and wiggled his forefinger at the wall.

“All good. Hand of Fatima protect the innocent. Allah eye watch over the pure.”

Val picked out a simple carved camel-bone necklace.

“I’ll take this one.”

She reached into her pocket for the wallet, only to find nothing.

“Oh.”

Colour drained from her face at the realisation of her loss.

The old man shuffled over to her and took the talisman out of her hand, replacing it with a silver one, a turquoise stone in its centre.

“Bismillah.”

She looked at it in wonder.

“May Allah keep you,” he mouthed before sitting back down on his haunches.

Her feet took her home of their own accord.

Zer0-Sum Game

by

In supplication she kneels, her head bowed to the departing Nine.

“It’s an end, it’s a beginning,” Zero whispers behind her.

Two tries turning, but her head locks in place, her knees still bent.

“Is it?” she asks, softly.

“You watch,” he says, “It’ll be a year like no other.”

Time flies, and she sits motionless, feeling Zero’s breath upon her neck. It is a year of chaos and calm, disease and death. It is a year like no other. Zipping past one minute and motionless the next.

There are moments she thinks that they are being pursued by their own images – ghosts that dog their footsteps. Yet she cannot help but kneel, praying for better days.

 “Shift up,” Zero blurts suddenly, “One is pushing in.”

She gives up her position reluctantly, dragging Zero with her. But she leaves their shadows in place. They too are being chased. But this time, One holds something in his hand.

“What is it?” she asks Zero in an undertone.

“Hope,” he whispers back.

Inside vs Outside

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Yesterday I was reminded of the value of self-respect, of maintaining your dignity in the face of provocation and not lowering your standards because the person in front of you has. An incident occurred, an altercation ensued, and while one person chose to use foul language and exhibit aggressive behaviour, the other stayed calm and dignified. In the moment it seemed as if the first person was winning, but it was the latter who walked away with the respect of the bystanders.

I cannot elaborate on the situation because it isn’t my place to do so. But as a bystander, I was so impressed by the calm dignity of the second man that I immediately vowed to myself that rather than rashly reacting to a situation, I would henceforth keep my calm and let things play out. A much tougher route for sure, but one that does not compromise on your own values for the sake of a cheap victory.

My feelings were further reinforced by an Indian movie I watched last night. ‘Thappad’ (Slap) begins as a feminist manifesto, but segues into the much deeper territory of self-respect. The premise is simple: a young and beautiful woman, happily married and devoted to her husband and family, finds one day that her position in her husband’s life is one devoid of any respect or value. A single slap that people around her either ignore or tell her to forgive becomes the fulcrum of her need to assert her desire for respect. In her unwavering stance, she is neither aggressive nor militant. What she is, is uncompromising when it comes to her self-worth. The ripple effect of her stance holds up a mirror to the people around her, and in time exposes the fault lines of their own compromises.

The beauty of the script was in the fact that the protagonist wasn’t looking for any kind of outside affirmation. At one point her father asks her whether her actions are a consequence of answering an inner call, and she confirms they are. This resonated with me powerfully. What are we if we do not follow our own gut? If our moral compasses are aligned correctly, then doing the right thing regardless of where it takes us is never up for debate.

Outside forces are often loud and insistent. Examples abound of people who failed (in the eyes of the public) whilst doing what they saw as true and good. But here’s what we don’t see – how they felt about themselves. Ultimately, a person has to live with his/her conscience. There are plenty of people whose consciences are all but dead. But I truly believe that if you choose to override that inner voice, it will manifest itself in some other way. In physical ailments, in psychological degradation, in bitterness and internal chaos.

None of us are exempt from the temptations of the easier path. Yet, how much more satisfaction and pleasure is derived from the road less taken. My father has always exhorted me to be like water, as in, take the shape and form of the container it is poured into. Be flexible, be malleable, but always be uncompromising when it comes to what matters most – your self-worth and self-respect.

“If you want to be respected by others, the great thing is to respect yourself. Only by that, only by self-respect will you compel others to respect you.”
― Fyodor Dostoyevsky