Some good novels could and should be read in one sitting, particularly plot-driven ones. This wasn’t the case with Tales from Qabristan. I would read a chapter (or a few chapters) and needed to take a short break to savour the text. Indeed, the chapters were so precise that each one could be a complete, stand-alone short story. This, in no way meant that I didn’t want to read the entire book. Quite the opposite. In fact, I was strangely sad when, after a week or so, the seamless flow from one chapter to another came to an end with Chapter 13, ‘Father Died: Simple Past’.

Tales of Qabristan was described, on the publisher’s website, as ‘a strikingly vivid portrayal of a boy trying to understand the world through the eyes of the adults around him.’ As Farook, the protagonist, navigates failure, love, life and death, we’re reminded that ‘children are capable of discerning extremely complex realities even if they cannot fully understand them.’

The author, Sabin Iqbal, is a journalist-turned-literary curator of the Mathrubhumi International Festival of Letters and was the Festival Director of Alliance Literature Festival at Alliance University, Bangalore. As the former editorial director of Kochi-Muziris Biennale, Iqbal has worked with Outlook, Tehelka, Business India, The Gulf Today and Sports Today, amongst others. He’s also the author of other critically-acclaimed novels like The Cliffhangers and Shamal Days.

Tales of Qabristan began with Farook preparing to bury his father in the ‘qabristan’ (the graveyard next to the mosque). As the rituals proceeded, the memories of his childhood and youth filled his thoughts, which became the focus of the story and consisted of ‘secret lives, sexual proclivities, superstitions.’ More than anything, they showcased the slow decaying of his family.

The setting was mainly at ‘Kayaloram House’ which was explained as ‘our ancestral home, … in the backwater village of Kayaloram, which was about 20 km away from Kamana town, south of Thiruvananthapuram.’ It was what followed this description which piqued my interest:

‘The village was such a blissful stretch of land that its only link to the rest of the world was the men who went to Malaysia and Singapore seeking jobs. But these men, once settled with Malay wives or concubines, rarely visited their family back home, which in the passage of time became a village of grass widows, waiting for years, sometimes all their life, in vain for their husbands who had found love and warmth in women in their adopted country.’

As a Malaysian, this passage brought to mind two stories from the past. In the first, an old married couple who spoke of ‘Kerala’ as being ‘home’ had a curious age-gap of some twenty-five years. When the gentleman died in the 1980s, for a very long time, his widow demanded and received much respect as the matriarch of the family. Early in the twenty-first century, during a family wedding, this couple’s daughter introduced us to her ‘elder sister’ from Kerala. It was then that we understood that the matriarch was, in actual fact, the ‘other woman’. In other words, the mother of this ‘elder sister’ was possibly a ‘grass widow’ that Iqbal wrote about. In another story, upon returning from a visit to South India to see a man who’d returned ‘home’, the elders lamented that, “They took all his money and he’s got nothing.” The poor man now lived in a hut on the periphery of the land, bought with his earnings, and shunned by his family. It was no wonder, then, that Tales of Qabristan resonated for it was an account of those who were left behind when their menfolk went overseas for work.

Farook’s story about Younis Uncle was another that stood out, particularly the description of the uncle’s love of English, the boy’s discovery of his uncle’s photos from Borneo and a connection with one Sarah Jones (a woman who was ‘more than a friend – she was his girlfriend.’)

Oooo… how familiar this was. Haven’t we all found photos of a usually prim-and-proper elder only to see that they may have had, gulp, a past? And, the conversation young Farook then had with his mother about his ‘discovery’ was positively delicious for how true to life an account it was.

As many of the stories were centred on the happenings in and around the Kayaloram House, the novel consisted of a huge cast. Nonetheless, the core remained the same – Farook, his parents and sister. There were cousins, aunts, uncles, grandmothers, grandaunts and relatives from near and far who visit the Kayaloram House bringing with them stories that were entertaining and comical from time to time. All the stories, however, had that element of heartbreak about them. More than once, there was a temptation to reach out, warn and protect young Farook from harm with, “No, don’t go there.”

The overriding theme of this story was the lack of the presence and influence of a father in the years when a child grows up. By the time a father returned, he was no longer meeting his child; he was meeting a young adult who was often insecure, full of angst and desperate to find their place in the world. While there seemed to be a hint of anger in these missing father-child years, there was also an understanding that if a father didn’t go overseas, there wouldn’t have been some of the creature comforts that money could buy. Nothing says this more than when we read the following: ‘Three months later, he bought me a second-hand motorbike, a Yamaha RX100. A red one, and soon it became my best buddy, my companion.’

As for the quality of the prose, some of Iqbal’s work was pure magic, namely, the following:

‘Not that we wanted to get rid of him, but we didn’t want him to suffer like that. Pain and suffering isolate a man; no matter how much his wife and children try, they can’t get under his skin and suffer for him. Empathy stands outside the skin.’

‘A dead father is a fond memory, but a deserted and indifferent father is a wound never healing.’ 

‘A prayer could be an unexploded mine buried in the soil for years, but could go off any moment, catching everyone unawares.’

‘Some betrayals are like wormwood.’ 

‘Five years later, Pa came back from the Gulf with four cartons of books and clothes, not much money in the bank but cancer in his lungs.’ ‘Among the many regrets emanating from his grave in the qabristan, in the form of a gentle breeze or the shrubs that blossomed into flowers with no fragrance, a failed writer’s sighs drew no one’s notice.’

The one ‘mistake’ (if it could even be called that) of this book occurred on page 214. Iqbal wrote about Abdullakka (a Malay boy who ended up living in Kerala) counting from one to ten in Malay, which was all the character remembered for the language in the country of his birth: Satu, dua, tiga, empat, lima, enam, tujuh, lapan, sembilan, sepuluh.

The majority of this was correct. However, since this story was set in the latter half of the twentieth century, Abdullakka would have likely been born in Malaya for Malaysia and Singapore as separate sovereign nations only existed after 1965. What this meant was that words like ‘sepuluh’ would have been written and pronounced as ‘sa-puloh’. It bears repeating that this minor oversight didn’t in any way detract from the rest of the text which has obviously been meticulously researched.

Ultimately, this was a book that wove its spell gradually, like a cup of hot tea that warmed the body on a cold and rainy day. Although the end was known from the very beginning of this story, Iqbal succeeded in maintaining a continuous tension throughout. And, like the effect of drinking hot tea, the feelings and emotions having read this novel remained long after the story came to an end. 

(March 2025)

[NOTE: An edited (and shorter) version of this review was first published in the April 2025 edition of Indian Literature (Sahitya Akademi's bimonthly journal)]

There are books that are written well; there are books that are an easy read; then, there are books from which the reader learns something new. When a book has the ability to combine all the above, magic happens. ‘Tamil Dalit Feminist Poetics: Resistance, Power, and Solidarity’ by Pramila Venkateswaran is one such book.

To paraphrase the publisher’s description of the book: The theory of poetry which reinvents language, form and content, is the focus of the exploration of work by Tamil Dalit feminist poets in ‘Tamil Dalit Feminist Poetics: Resistance, Power, and Solidarity’ (‘the work’). Their radical poems, many of which the author has translated from Tamil to English, shed light on ‘the violence of patriarchal and caste supremacy’ while affirming spirituality, music, culture, nature, and democracy.  

Naturally, uppermost on my mind was the reason the author chose to undertake such a focused and particular study. The first clue can be gleaned from the biography published on her website (https://www.pramilav.com). She is a ‘Professor of English at Nassau Community College (SUNY), is actively involved in giving workshops and readings across Long Island and beyond, and is the co-coordinator of Matwaala South Asian Diaspora Poetry collective.’ She is now a Board Member of the Suffolk chapter of the National Organization for Women. It is in the ‘Preface’ of the work that we learn of a more personal reason for undertaking this task. She acknowledges that she grew up privileged because she was born into a middle-class Brahmin family. As an adult, and only when she was part of the South Asian diaspora in the United States, did she become aware of the ‘history of caste, its ramifications on families, its serious effect on all our psyches, and destructive path in wrecking democracy.’  

As one who is also part of the South Asian diaspora, albeit having grown up and being based in Malaysia, all the author says herein resonates. Indeed, only when I went abroad to study did an awareness of how caste, the one I was born into and that of others, was factored into our everyday lives. For as long as I lived within the confines of my family unit, I was protected (for want of a better word) from the harshness of caste consciousness. Once I was on my own, managing expectations and understanding why people behaved in particular ways became the basis of tolerance and, in some instances, standing up for myself and others.  

Indeed, with such a strong statement as ‘Feminists are echoes of conscience’, the author is at pains to point out that through the process of writing the work, she’s now aware of the caste atrocities played out against Dalits and ‘the deliberate emasculation of men through the murderous attacks on Dalit women.’ Fully buoyed by her zeal, I find myself quietly supportive when she writes, ‘If women’s rights are human rights…then Dalit rights are human rights, too!’  

 The structure of the work follows a chronological order, beginning with the politics and socio-economic landscape of pre-Independence India. By the time we read the final two chapters, the author brings the narrative into the 21st century with a discussion about the oral traditions such as performances and rap, concluding with solidarity (within and outside of the sub-continent) with the poets in question.

That said, what becomes clear is that this isn’t a broad and general study of poets, or even Indian poets. Yes, the focus of this study is already there in the title, for sure. But it only hits the reader how honed in the nature of this study is upon reading the opening chapters. To reiterate, there are four aspects to the study, namely, (1) poetry (2) that is by and about Tamils (3) who are more often than not Dalits (4) underscored by beliefs in feminism. The author adds that as the poets place caste and gender at the centre of their works, she chooses to examine the ‘nexus of caste demands and literary expectations based on Tamil “high culture,” as set in the literary conventions of both classical and contemporary aesthetics.’  

When she analyses each aspect mentioned above, the learning for the reader begins to unfold in wondrous ways, beginning immediately in Chapter 1 where the author asks the following questions. First, what is the position of Tamil Dalit women in Tamil Nadu? Second, where are they located with Tamil literary and cultural history? She invokes Dr. Ambedkar, E V Ramasamy Naiker (Periyar) and Iyothee Thass as major voices in the Dalit struggle, laying out their key arguments on caste and genre and how their influences shaped the efforts of Tamil Dalit women and Dalit feminist poets to decolonise within postcolonial society and literature. What sets them apart from mainstream poets is their use of language, such as local syntax, folk idiom and metaphor. The content too, such as depictions of sexual violence, representation of nature, relationship to land, descriptions of local goddesses and expressions of the spiritual, are different.  

The author argues that Dalit feminist poets write from their experiences and by witnessing other women’s experiences of oppression. The poetry reflects the traumatic stress that’s been retained in their nervous systems. In other words, through the use of imagery, these poets don’t merely write about the trauma they endure today, but that of their ancestors’ too. Referred to as an invisible trauma, it’s a generational trauma of sorts. However, the author makes the point that ‘it’s not just pain that seeps into the writing, but also women’s poets’ reclamation of joy.’ In other words, ‘Dalit feminist poetics is a poetics of power.’  

Of the exhaustive list of threads highlighted and articulated by Tamil Dalit feminist poets, three are of note: Women are equal to men, regardless of their caste or religion; women are valuable to society in every domain; women’s education is crucial to the progress of society. Curiously, the idea British colonialism is more bearable than caste domination, is also included in this list.  

Perhaps, the most fascinating issue in this chapter is why use the word ‘Dalit’ (which means ‘broken’). Why not ‘Depressed Classes’ or ‘Harijan’ or, as in Malaysia, ‘Pariah’? The author writes: In claiming the name ‘Dalit’, they ‘began their process of decolonising not only from insidious elements of the colonial era and nationalistic thought but from Brahmin and Hindu supremacy. In doing so, they theorise their decoloniality in their writing.’  

 In Chapter 2, the author examines the aesthetics in the poetry in question by focusing on themes, forms and language. She explores the ‘early inspirations in the Dalit cultural tradition and history of women’s cultural production in Tamil Nadu.’ Looking deeper, she sees that the poets deconstruct Hindu religious belief, laying bare the ugly elements of casteism today, namely to separate and oppress. Using words like ‘ripping’ and ‘flinging’, as the reader becomes witness to the violence inflicted on the ‘untouchable’ bodies that are ‘traumatised by harmful touch, impacting the mental health of the families, the communities, the witnessing poet, and the system that allows such inhumanity to occur.’

 The poetic language also shows the condescending nature of the upper caste, not out of ignorance, but a deliberate desire to show off their superiority. In exploring the work of Thenmozhi, who zeros in on the emotion of hatred when deconstructing what happened to Draupadi in the Mahabharat, the poet shows how ‘hate gets enacted and is carried down the generations – metaphor and myth-making allow her the facility to explore her emotion, thereby creating meaning.’

The challenge of Brahminical patriarchy, by asserting Dalit spirituality forms the basis of the author’s study in Chapter 3. She says, point blank, that, ‘Dominant castes consider Dalit women’s bodies as polluting, whereas Brahmin women’s bodies are considered sacred.’ Referencing the work of Meena Kandasamay, and in particular the poem ‘Becoming a Brahmin’, we are shown that the poem points to something even more insidious, which is the process of eugenics to ‘make’ dominant caste stock. Reading the words brings home the enormous truth that, even today, dominant castes experience a repugnance to marriage outside of their caste. The repercussions are deep if a couple steps outside caste lines to marry.  

The author makes the point that the standard subject for Dalit and Shudra poets is ‘lampooning Brahmins’ obsession with purity’ and points to a poem called ‘Infection’ by Devadevan. The scene portrays a doctor holding, in ‘his white-gloved hand’ the pathogen causing the disease in the patient – ‘a dirty sacred thread’. True, this scene, which plays out in India, provides much mirth. ‘Lampooning Brahmins’ obsession with purity’ inadvertently evokes the opposite emotion when the same phrase is considered among Malaysians. For instance, I had the misfortune of meeting a local-born, non-Brahmin, who made fun of me for being born, much like the author, ‘into a middle-class Brahmin family.’ Nevertheless, obsessed with meditation, he one day proclaimed himself ‘enlightened’ and hastily acquired the very sacred thread made fun of in ‘Infection’, making me question the purity of both, the thread and his thoughts.  

The startling aspect of Chapter 4, which discusses sexuality in the poetry of Tamil Dalit feminists is the point about the parallel experiences of Dalit female bodies and those of African American women. Indeed, when the African American writers describe violence against black women and their suffering, it echoes the experiences of the Dalits. Similar to the African American, ‘the pain of the Dalit body is kept at a distance, and the pain of its violations is kept abstract, so the dominant castes are immune to its pain.’  

With reference to the poetry of Kutti Revathi’s work, the feminine experience is brought to life. Her work, the author says, examines her portrayal of sex and sexuality and the influence of her ideas on Dalit feminist poets. In this, it is the element of witnessing what’s happened to the Dalits that’s important. As the author says: ‘Dalit poets cannot be brushed aside as mere ethnographers of Dalit experience. In poetry of witness, we get a record of violence that also carries within it the details of a particular woman experiencing harm, perhaps the poet’s own experience or her witnessing of the emotions of the people perpetrating the violence and the people experiencing it.’  

At the heart of Chapter 5 is the point that the pulse of Dalit feminist poetry is the ‘symbolic relationship between land and woman, land and Dalit bodies.’ The most fascinating learning is the awareness about what happens to night soil. An examination of the work of Priti Gulati Cox makes me aware that in the past, the nutrients in excrement were returned to the soil. Today, ‘the excrement is deposited away from the fields, so it is not even useful to the land. The labor is humiliating and when it is divorced from the land-human-production connection, the laborer is dehumanized. In India, as almost everywhere in the world, there is what Marx called a ‘metabolic rift’ that occurs when nutrients are harvested from fields of grain, eaten, and excreted by humans and not returned to the soil where new grain will be produced.’ Certainly that ‘rift’ didn’t seem to exist with people of my parents’ generation for many of them grew up in the rubber estates of British Malaya and spoke of visiting the ‘out house’ some distance away from the main dwelling place. This was on the same land from which they sourced their produce. All of them lived relatively long and healthy lives, without the need for supplements which those in my generation seems to lack in our diets.  

The author brings the topic of discussion into the 21st century with the final two chapters starting with an exploration of the development of popular cultural practise of group singing, spoken word poetry, theatre rap, and hip-hop using social media platforms. In Chapter 7, she examines the challenges of Tamil Dalit feminist poets and the questions they pose to feminist poets in South Asia and internationally.  

 The conclusion begins by referring to the urging of Tamil Dalit feminist poets toward ‘decolonisation through fostering democracy in every sphere of life, so the dignity of women and the Dalit majority population is restored and the country experiences true liberation.’ The author then further refers to the words of Manorama who calls for power to be handed over to both women and ‘to most oppressed communities.’ The author sincerely believes that if India heeds her call, and those of the Tamil Dalit feminist poets, ‘it would indeed be a progressive country, where all would live with self-respect and dignity.’ It is a strong statement; perhaps, too strong for me. I would have thought it more prudent to say that if we heed this call, we will be well on the path where all will live with self-respect and dignity.

 If there is to be a criticism of this work, I would say that it needs be put in the hands of proper readers, meaning that it isn’t for someone who wants easy fiction. Neither is this a textbook on the subject matter. The text has a flow of someone who has done an academic-based study of the subject matter, then transformed it into interesting and digestible reading; in other words, the work is not bogged down with details that are synonymous with academic work. Familiarity certainly enhances the quality of the read, but it is not a necessity to know Tamil to understand the import of the messages the author’s trying to convey.

The last word goes to what the author said at the very beginning of the work: ‘As I read Dalit poetry and write about it, I find my activism and my use of Dalit feminist ideas in my writing and teaching expanding in unexpected ways and liberating me.’ Such unexpected expansion and liberation of thought and writing filters through to the reader and, this, is indeed magic.  

(September 2025)

Amina Maikori's eBook, 'The Demystification of Stephen' is quite the cute eBook.

As the blurb suggests, the story is about a chance meeting that one Stephen Duru has with three women. As the story unfolds, the consequences of each of these encounters is told. The three women believe that by meeting Stephen, their dreams can come true. He is, after all, the 'quintessential 21st century gentlemen: well connected, rich and charming to all he meets.' What happens, however, is that these dreams unravel and they are left shell-shocked by what happens. In the end, though, the reasons why Stephen does what he does becomes clear and the tale ends on a very poignant note.

Emma Donoghue's tightly written offering of fourteen short stories in 'Astray', although small in number, should be read as a considerable contribution to the understanding of what many who venture far away from home experience and endure. As Donoghue says in the 'Afterword', 'Emigrants, immigrants, adventurers, and runaways - they fascinate me because they loiter on the margins, stripped of the markers of family and nation; they're out of place, out of their depth.'

‘The Historian’ is a classified as ‘Historical Fiction’ in Amazon.com. It is the debut novel of Elizabeth Kostova and blends the mystery of Vlad the Impaler, the legend of Dracula and fiction.

Briefly, ‘The Historian’ features a nameless narrator who documents her adventure in unraveling a mystery after discovering an odd book. She tells her father, a historian, about this book: it has no words but a picture of a dragon in the middle. The father, Paul, tells her the story of his discovery of the book and how it led him on a wild adventure where he met (and later married) the narrator’s mother, Helen Rossi. Halfway through the book, Paul disappears in search of Helen with the narrator and her companion hot on his trail.

Sometimes, when a writer introduces himself, he’ll receive a response along the lines of, “Can you help me write my memoirs? You should hear my story. It’s a fantastic story.” Many writers will attest to smiling politely at such a response and moving on. After all, there are more than enough works of self-aggrandizement touted as memoirs. Equally appalling are those that chronicle every detail of horror the author has experienced that makes readers question the veracity of the story. Every so often, though, a gem of a book like ‘Joseph Anton’ by Salman Rushdie comes along.

On 27 February 2002, 59 people in a train returning from Ayodhya to Ahmedabad were burned to death in Gujarat. Subsequently, there were riots all over Gujarat. In all, close to 900 people died and more than 2,500 were injured. For the next 12 years, almost everyone lay the blame for these riots squarely at the feet of Gujarat’s Chief Minister, Narendra Modi. He has been neither formally charged nor convicted for any of these alleged offences.

Ruby ShinesBright is a very special little girl. She lives in a place called Flooperville and has a red stone on her tummy which shines bright when she is happy and well.

She is very excited because tomorrow is going to be a special day for her, it's her fifth birthday.

Her granny Ruth has made her a beautiful cake and it'™s sitting in the kitchen ready, however, Ruby can'™t wait until her party, and so naughtily she sneaks down in the night and accompanied by her little black kitten Dotty, she eats it all!