My South Asian Literature Course Just Ended

My South Asian Literature course ended yesterday, if I can frame things that way. In any case, yesterday we had our last class of the semester. We still have to prepare for the final examination, scheduled for Monday, barely two days away.

I don't know about other professors, but creating examination questions is rather challenging for me. Every time I teach a course, it is a different experience from any previous offerings of the course. My thoughts about any literary work change, influenced by various factors, such as the books and other writings I read all the time.

There is also the fact that rereading a literary work yields new insights. Then, each class of students is different in many ways from any previous class, resulting in different discussions of any given literary work. Nor is the sequencing of the readings constant from year to year. I also complicate matters more because I like to include, in the course, a text or texts I have never read.

In view of all this, I cannot simply give the students questions from past examinations. I have to think hard in efforts to capture the uniqueness of each iteration of the course. Since we did not manage to get to the end of Gunesekera's Reef, our last text for this semester, I have also to figure out how to incorporate this text in the examination., or how to give students the opportunity to use or invoke it. I cannot omit it entirely, since we have spent considerable time and effort on it.

That is the challenge I am facing this weekend. However, I am not overly concerned. I have always encountered such challenges and produced what I consider suitable examination questions.

We Are Reading Gunesekera's "Reef"

This is the last week of classes for this semester here at St Olaf College. We are reading, in my South Asian Literature course, Romesh Gunesekera's Reef, a novel I had taught before. We are a little more than half way through it, going at a comfortable pace. Everybody is tired at this time of the semester, and I have told my students that I do not believe the reading of any work of literature should be rushed or done under pressure.

Rereading Reef, I am enjoying the discovery of aspects of it that I might have missed the first time around. For example, I am gaining a better understanding of Mister Salgado, one of the main characters. I have shared with my students my sense that he is eccentric, what with his obsession with lists, for example, which the narrator, his servant, describes thus:

Early on I learned the value of making lists from watching Mister Salgado. He was a great one for lists. He would listen to The Mikado and write page after page of lists: shopping lists, laundry lists, book lists, betting lists, things-to-do lists, diary lists, repair lists, packing lists, record lists, larder lists, letter's to write lists (p. 33)

No less peculiar is his habit of using the same tooth brush, never replacing it, according to the narrator, "until there was practically nothing left but the plastic handle. I would watch the bristles get shorter and more squashed day after day, until sometimes I myself would go and buy him a new one and place it in his mug" (p. 19-20)

In class today, I waxed profusely about Gunesekera's narrative skill. To illustrate this, I read the following passage, which invites much comment on account of its use of language and figures of speech:

We drove for hours; whistling over a ribbon of tarmac measuring the perpetual embrace of the shore and he sea, bounded by a fretwork of undulating coconut trees, pure unadorned forms framing the seascape into a kaleidoscope of bluish jewels. Above us a tracery of green and yellow leaves arrowed to a vanishing-point we could never reach. At times the road curved as though it were the edge of a wave itself rushing in and then retreating into the ocean. We skittered over these moving surfaces at a speed I had never experienced before. Through the back window I watched the road pour out from under us and settle into a silvery picture of serene timelessness. We overtook the occasional bus belching smoke or a lorry lisping with billowing hay; we blasted through bustling towns and torpid villages. We passed churches and temples, crosses and statues, grey shacks and lattice-work mansions.

This description of the Sri Lankan countryside, I find not only vivid, but very pleasant to read, and I shared my thoughts about it with the class.

There is, of course, much to say about Reef, as is the case with any work of literature worth the name. There is no way we can grasp and express the plethora of meanings it can generate. A literary text signifies ceaselessly, as Roland Barthes would say. Someday, hopefully, I will write more about this remarkable novel.

Reading Bapsi Sidhwa's "The Crow Eaters" in Context

A few days ago. I wrote an update on my South Asian Literature course. As I noted, we are working our way through Bapsi Sidhwa's The Crow Eaters.

Students--two on each day--are taking turns making presentations, with the rest of us joining in, any time, with comments and questions, which help to augment or critique the presentations.

I have told the class that we are trying to decode the text, thereby generating meanings. I have told them that this helps us to understand how a text means, an idea prominent in contemporary literary theory. L have cited, in particular, Roland Barthes's S/Z: An Essay, a stimulating, book-length study of Sarrasine, a short story by Honore Balzac.

The Crow Eaters presents the life of the Parsees, a small minority group in India that came there centuries ago from what is today Persia, pushed out by Arab expansion.

The Parsees retain their traditional Zoroastrian religion, which largely distinguishes them from the Hindus and Moslems. I wanted my students to gain some knowledge of this religion, to complement what they learned about Hinduism and Islam through reading Mulk Raj Anand's Untouchable and Ahmed Ali's Twilight in Delhi respectively.

The Crow Eaters depicts the struggles and triumphs of Freddy, an entrepreneur, who, while trying to improve the condition of his family, has to contend with a troublesome mother in law who lives with them. At the same time, we observe how he copes with the British who are the colonizing power. He tries his best to thrive under those circumstances.

Before the Thanksgiving Break, which ends this weekend, I gave the class an examination consisting of two questions. Each student was required to answer one question.

One of the questions was "Discuss the image of women in the works we have read in the South Asian literature course." I also noted that they could include the film "Salaam Bombay," which we had watched. The second question was "Discuss the Western influence or presence in the works we have read. I explained that "Western" in this context means British and American.

The students tackled these questions quite well and some of their answers were outstanding. Whether they dwelt on Mulk Raj Anand's Untouchable, Ahmed Ali's Twilight in Delhi, Michael Ondaatje's Anil's Ghost, Bapsi Sidhwa's The Crow Eaters, or the film "Salaam Bombay," they displayed a good, nuanced understanding of the issues.

Teaching "Train to Pakistan"

For many years, I knew about Khushwant Singh's Train to Pakistan. I knew that on the question of the Partition of the Indian sub-continent, this was the book to read. While teaching Indian Literature, I mentioned it again and again. It is only this month, however, that I have been able to read Train to Pakistan, as part of the readings for my South Asian Literature course.

Having just finished reading it, I am happy I placed it immediately after Ahmed Ali's Twilight in Delhi. There are significant overlaps between the two. I am also happy that after Train to Pakistan, we will be reading Bapsi Sidhwa's Cracking India. I have taught Cracking India, a novel that brings up some of the very issues we encounter in Train to Pakistan.

Train to Pakistan centers around the village of Mano Majra, populated by Hindus, Muslims, and Sikhs. They have their places of worshop there and live in harmony. As the killings in Pakistan and India grow more feverish and Muslims escape to Pakistan and Hindus to India, the village of Mano Mijra struggles with very difficult questions: whether to ask the Muslims to go or to let them continue to live in the village in accordance with age-old customs of hospitality.

Train to Pakistan is a gripping story, in many ways. I had read about the Partition and Indian Independence, but this novel gives a human face to the historical accounts, in the sense that it explores the impact of the Partition on human beings. Its exploration of bigotry and tensions between Hindus, Muslims, and Sikhs ought to make us take a close look at ourselves.

In discussing this novel, I mentioned various other works that contain the same theme: In the Book of Dede Korkut Muslims long for and celebrate the killing of infidels. In the Song of Roland the Christians long for and destroy Muslims. I mentioned Gassire's Lute, the West African epic in which we hear disparaging comments about the dog like Borama. I also mentioned the American bishop who said: kill a commie for Christ.

Even though, in this novel, we are encountering fictional characters, we can hear and feel what they are going through and what they are thinking about. We experience the life they live where they live; we see the sights, hear the sounds, and smell the smells. As Hemingway would say, Train to Pakistan is a true book.

Train to Pakistan is a gripping novel, whose events are foreshadowed on the very first page:

The summer of 1947 was not like other Indian summers. Even the weather had a different feel in India that year. It was hotter than usual, and drier and dustier. And the summer was longer. No one could remember when the monsoon had been so late. For weeks, the sparse clouds cast only shadows. There was no rain. People began to say that God was punishing them for their sins.

Interestingly, the trains we read about are all coming from Pakistan, laden with dead bodies of Hindus and the lucky few who are not dead. Only in the end is there a story of a train going to Pakistan. There is suspense surrounding the approach of this train, with a stunning surprise ending as Juggat Singh, whose image has all along not been particularly good, commits an unexpected, breathtaking act of heroism and bravery, foiling a well planned ambush and massacre of the Muslims traveling on this train. Juggat Singh dies as the train proceeds to Pakistan.

Teaching "Twilight in Delhi"

My South Asian Literature class in now comfortably underway, in its fourth week. We started with Mulk Anand's Untouchable, which I have taught many times. We then studied Ahmed Ali's Twilight in Delhi, which I had not read before.

Reading Twilight in Delhi in the wake of Untouchable has been a valuable experience, a broadening of horizons. While Untouchable relates the experience of Indian Hindus, Twilight in Delhi deals with Indian Muslims.

Never having read a novel about the world of Indian Muslims, I found Twilight in Delhi refreshing. Fortunately, I know something about Islam, especially coming from Tanzania, a country where about half of the population is Muslim and about half Christian.

I spent considerable time explaining Islamic principles to my students, as a way of establishing the groundwork for discussing Twilight in Delhi. I described the five pillars of Islam and showed three videos: this one, which presents the Islamic call to prayer; this recitation of the Quran; and a small boy's recitation of Surah Yasin.

Twilight in Delhi deals with such themes as patriotism, love, and marriage. It portrays family life, wedding customs, healing and burial practices. From its very beginning, Twilight in Delhi exudes nostalgia for the Delhi of the past, whose grandeur and magnificence fell apart as a result of British rule.

This novel presents the fate of Delhi as a metaphor for the human condition. In ways reminiscent of existentialist writings, characters in Twilight in Delhi contemplate and talk about the meaning of life and the transience of human achievements. This reminds me of Al-Inkishafi, the classic Swahili poem, which reflects on the demise of the old famous Swahili cities, making us wonder about the meaning of life itself.

Teaching South Asian Literature

A few months ago, I designed a course on South Asian Literature. It would focus on India, Pakistan, and Sri Lanka, the location of one of the world's oldest civilizations, whose contributions to the world include Hinduism, the Mahabharata and Ramayana epics, and literary works in many languages. I am teaching the course this Spring.

Over the years, I have taught literary works from this part of the world, such as Gitanjali, by Rabindranath Tagore; Untouchable, by Mulk Raj Anand; Kanthapura, by Raja Rao; The Vendor of Sweets, The Painter of Signs, and The Guide, by R. K. Narayan; Nectar in a Sieve, by Kamala Markandaya; Fire on the Mountain, Baumgartner's Bombay, and Fasting, Feasting, by Anita Desai; Cracking India and The Crow Eaters by Bapsi Sidhwa.

I did not, however, teach all these works at one time or in one course. I included two or three such texts in my courses on Post-colonial Literature or Introduction to Literature. I always include a work by R.K. Narayan in my Hero and Trickster course.

The South Asian literature course is an opportunity to focus on one part of the world, exploring the dialectical and dynamic relationship between literature, history, culture, religion, and politics. I look forward to guiding my students through an exploration of not only the unique artistic contribution of each writer, but also how these writers appropriate indigenous traditions such as folklore, as well as "Western" and other foreign traditions.

Here are the works I am teaching: Untouchable, by Mulk Raj Anand; Twilight in Delhi, by Ahmed Ali; Train to Pakistan, by Khushwant Singh; Cracking India, by Bapsi Sidhwa; Anil's Ghost, by Michael Ondaatje; Reef, by Romesh Gunesekera, and The God of Small Things, by Arundhati Roy.

I have neither read nor taught most of these works, but I like exploring new areas of literature. One might ask: where is Kalidasa? Where are Tagore, Salman Rushdie, Anita Desai, Shashi Deshpande, Amitav Ghosh, Meena Alexander and so many other writers? How can you teach South Asian Literature without including Salman Rushdie's Midnight's Children? Where are the playwrights and the poets? All these would be valid questions, but there is only so much one can do in one semester.