Dawn Promislow: My thoughts about The Guest Cat by Takashi Hiraide

Guest post by Dawn Promislow 

(https://www.dawnpromislow.com/)

The Guest Cat

by Takashi Hiraide, translated by Eric Selland. Published 2014, Picador.

It's not often that you read a book, a work of fiction, that is so like life that it takes your breath away. This novel is deceptively simple and follows a man who is a writer (the narrator), his wife, and a cat, through a slim 140 pages. Nothing much ‘happens,’ there are the day-to-day comings and goings of a stray cat, and dealings with a neighbour.

I read the book with increasing wonder at the ordinariness, captivated by the simple days of this writer (days I could identify with, being a writer myself), which gesture toward something larger. The narrator stakes out his story in a geographic way, almost the way a cat stalks—so quietly—taking mastery of its surroundings. He describes in detail his house and surroundings, very simple surroundings, but surroundings which accrue weight and meaning in an allusive and elusive way, over the course of the novel. By a magical sleight of hand, the ending comes upon you—much as a stealthy cat does—and is profound.

I haven’t read anything as devastating in a while, or as haunting. It’s devastating in the way some, perhaps most, life events actually are: events and moments seemingly small and insignificant, yet accruing weight over time; mysterious in their happening, mysterious in their import, mysterious in how we manage them; essentially unpredictable and out of our control. Some actions are final, and cannot be undone. This novel, quiet and understated as it is, carries the weight of truth, and of tragedy, even in the manner of classical Greek tragedy.

The over-arching artistry of The Guest Cat, however, lies in the first-person narration. The fictional narrator—who is also, we feel, the writer himself (Takashi Hiraide)—takes control, by telling of these events, and shaping them, and making them into a book. Of course all books are this: a writer taking control of his or her story, and making an order, a sense, of it. But this book, it seems to me, is a particularly perfect example of this, a particularly moving and profound one.

Three poems: Kavita Mahajan, Sitanshu Yasaschandra, Dawn Promislow

Transitions often transform lives, and even when they don't, they always make life infinitely more interesting. At least that's been my experience. Life has been charitable to me. Every time I appear to be settling into a dull routine, something goes wrong (right?), and I'm pushed into uncertainty, either personally or professionally, and occasionally both.

Generally, this has happened twice in a decade ever since I can remember.

My recent professionally transition came as a surprise, and has taken a while for me to get accustomed to. It has had a fortuitous fallout - my commuting time has suddenly shot up by an hour. And that's given me an opportunity to read during my bus rides to Brampton.

At present I'm reading MG Vassanji's And Home was Kariakoo: A Memoir of East Africa. It's a book that makes you pause and think every ten pages or so because in the midst of describing his journeys across his homeland, the author suddenly makes an observation that at once makes you uncomfortable and forces you to reflect deeply on what he has just said. 

At home, while celebrating Diwali (with flame-less diyas, and excessive sweets) I also read some poems, three of which I liked, and am sharing them here. 

The first one by Kavita Mahajan published in डिजिटल दिवाळी २०१४

मरून गेलेली आई

कविता महाजन

——————

मरून गेलेली आई

घरात फिरत असते सगळं कसं चाललंय बघत

पलंगावर पडलेली साडी घडी करते बेडरुममध्ये

स्वयंपाकघरात ओट्याजवळ उभी

डायनिंग टेबलवरच्या जेवणार्यांकडे लक्ष देत

संध्याकाळी परसात बदामाच्या झाडाखाली

खुर्चीवर बसते थोडावेळ

माहेर मरून जातं आई मरून गेल्यावर

हे आईला माहीत नाही

ती तिच्या आईच्या आधीच मरून गेली म्हणून

घर बदललं आहे

माणसंही

काळ

अर्थातच

पण आई बदलली नाही

ती बोलत नाही अजूनही काहीच. शांत असते

घरभर फिरून पाहते सगळं कसं चाललंय.

Another in Gujarat by Sitanshu Yashaschandra posted on Facebook by ગુજરાતી સાહિત્ય અકાદમી (યુ કે)

વળાંક પાછળ વિશ્વામિત્રી
સિતાંશુ યશશ્ચન્દ્ર

દુનિયા આખીને પોતાની દોસ્તી આપવા જે દોડ્યા
અને
પોતાને જેની ગતાગમ નહોતી જરીકે તેવી ગણતરીઓ કરવામાં પડેલા જગતે
જેમની ઉપર ઠાલવ્યા અવહેલનાઓના ગંધાતા ગંજાવર ઢગના ઢગ

એવા કોઈ વિશ્વામિત્રની નીમાણી કન્યા
– આ મારી વિશ્વામિત્રી.

એને કોઈ એવા ઓવારા નથી, જ્યાં પનિહારીઓ પાણી ભરવાને જાય,
એને કોઈ એવા ઘાટ નથી, જ્યાં પ્રવાસે નીકળેલાં વહાણ પોરોખાવા લાંગરે,
એને કોઈ એવા કાંઠા નથી, જ્યાં લોકો સાંજુકના ટહેલવા નીકળે.

એનાં પાણીમાં કમર સુધી બૂડી અર્ધ્ય આપતા બ્રાહ્મણ કે બાપ્તિસ્તા થાપતા
પાદરી, કોઈ કહેતાં કોઈ ન મળે.
એમાં પાણી કહેવાય એવું પાણી જ ન મળે.

ઝૂમાં જીવનભર પૂરેલાં પશુઓ અને બાગમાં બે ઘડી ફરતા લોકોની વચ્ચેથી
એ તો ચુપચાપ સરકી જાય છે, ખબર નહીં કયું પ્રવાહી લઈને,
જૂના રગતપીતવાળી કોઈ બાઈ જેવી, શરીર સંકોડીને.

આ નદીને પરવડે નહીં
લાજ, વેદના, આશા કે આછું હસવા જેવી એકે સાહ્યબી

મેં જ્યારે જ્યારે એની આંખો તરફ નજર કરી છે
ત્યારે ત્યારે ગરદન ઢાળીને એ જતી રહી છે વળાંક પાછળ.

જો કે એક વાર આ યે હતી એક નદી.
જેમ ગંગા, સ્યેન, વોલ્ગા, ટેઇમ્સ, હોઆંગહો, એમેઝોન, નીલ અને મિસિસિપી,
એ બધી નદીઓ છે
એમ આ યે હતી.

ભલેને ઘણી નાની એમનાથી.

તો ય નદી.
વહેતું પાણી, જેમાં જળચર જીવતાં હોય, ચંદ્રનું પ્રતિબિંબ પડતું હોય,
વહેલી સવારે શિંગાળાં સાબર ને મોડી સાંજે ચળકતા દીપડા
જેની સામે વિનયથી માથું નમાવી પાણી પી શકતા હોય,
ને ભરબપોરે બચબચ બચ્ચાં જેવાં ધાવી શકતાં હોય જેને
ઊનાળુ તડકાએ તરસ્યાં તરસ્યાં કરી મૂકેલાં, એની અડખે પડખે પડેલાં,
વીઘાંના વીઘાં ખેતરો, 
એવી નદી.

આવું આવું જ્યારે એની ઉપરના પૂલમાં ઊભો રહીને હું બોલું છું
માત્ર આ વિશ્વામિત્રીને જ સંભળાય એ રીતે
ત્યારે
સાંભળ્યું –ન સાંભળ્યું કરી,
આંખો જોરથી મીંચી, મેલો સાડલો શરીરે થોડો વધારે વીંટાળતી
એ ઉતાવળી ઉતાવળી ચાલી જાય છે, તરતા કચરાના પાલવમાં મોં ઢાંકતી,
વળાંક પાછળ.

છેવટ
ક્યારેક
ન રહેવાય ત્યારે
ચોમાસાની રાતે
અંધારામાં

ઉભરાઈ ઊઠે છે આ નદી
આંધળી છોકરીની આંખો જેવી, ચુપચાપ

વળતી સવારે, વહેલી વહેલી, એ પહોંચે છે, કાંઠા ઓળંગી, પુલ પર થઈ,
ઉતાવળી ઉતાવળી, પગના પહોંચા ઉપર ઊંચી થઈ થઈ,
આવે છે,
કાળે ઘોડે બેઠેલા, કાળો પોશાક પહેરેલા, પથ્થર થઈ ગયેલા, એના એક વારના હેતાળ
રાજાના પગ સુધી છેક,

પછી
એકદમ અચકાઈ, અટકી, ખમચાઈ, જરીક જીભ કચડી, હોઠ બીડી, આંસુ
જાતે લૂછી નાખી, ઓસરી, અવાજ કર્યા વિના ચાલી જાય છે,
મૂંગીમંતર, કાદવ ખૂંદતી
પેલા વળાંક પાછળ.

And here's the final one by my friend Dawn Promislow
published in Muniyori Literary Journal

Morocco

in the Moroccan restaurant
there are tagines

earthenware dishes with dome-lids
in earthen colours
rust, sienna, burnt brown

and when the dome-lid lifts,
steam wreaths,
and earth-like tones, again

orange, yellow-saffroned, browned
lamb deep-stewed
plumbed

and you have never eaten Moroccan food before
this gilded night

and the green-earth tea is silver-lidded
minted
silver-flecked cloth covering

and hot the deep-glint tea and sweet,
honeyed

and the reason you are here is your daughter was in Morocco
once

and she knows about Moroccan tagines
so you are here in this warm-gold restaurant

with her

and she is deep-brown haired and honeyed
and rich with ochre, ambered tales

and honey-eyed, gold-lidded
softly lashed,
and glints her ruby-mouth

in timbered tones

she is twenty-one
and you have known her for twenty-one years,
so far

and rising from the crimson-threaded
damask-chairs
the etchéd glass
the silver-glinting bevelled tray

you leave the restaurant

with her

and walk home
down the far dune
of Avenue Road
turning left at the light
and onto your Toronto street

where on this warm
evening the lights are gold and garnet
jewels
like they are in Marrakesh

West of Wawa

A couple of weeks back I went to the launch party of West of Wawa published by Inanna Publication and Education Inc. It was a great event for a great book. The novel is written by Lisa De Nikolits.

 

She is the most ‘un-writerly’ writer I know. She is vivacious and friendly. That’s rare in a writer. She has an infectious smile. That’s rare, too.

And, of course, she is a brilliant storyteller.

Lisa is from South Africa and is a prolific writer. This is her third novel. The first – Single Girls Go Mad Sooner – was published in 1995. 

The second, The Hungry Mirror, published in 2010 by Innana, was awarded the IPPY Gold Medal for literature on women’s issues in 2011 and shortlisted for the 2011 ReLit Awards.

West of Wawa has been extremely well received and was chosen as one of the editor's pick in the September issue of Chatelaine. 

Lisa De Nikolits reading at the launch

The Chatelaine book club also interviewed Lisa, and many other book blogs also featuring her. 

The novel is about Benny, a young immigrant woman on the road across Canada, running away from herself and her past.

During her trip across the vastness of Canada spread over nearly three months and covering thousands of miles, Benny discovers herself. Despite everything that continue to go wrong – thanks to her guileless naivety – she eventually emerges a winner.

The launch event was a big draw, and Dawn Promislow and Danila Botha were among the many writers present. 

Here’s an extract from Lisa’s interview with Lori Ann Bloomfield, a novelist and blogger of First Line Fiction.  

FL: What is your favourite word?

LDN: An interesting question! If you were to look at West of Wawa prior to editing, you’d be inclined to say that my favourite words, (albeit unconsciously) were, ‘looked’, ‘little’, ‘happily’ and ‘cosy’. They’re actually not my favourite words at all and once I spotted this weak-word trend, I weeded them out vigorously!

My favourite word is ‘serene’. I have loved it ever since I first read it in A Tree Grows in Brooklyn – I was so moved by this opening paragraph and I’ve always thought it’s one of the best openers:

“Serene was a word you could put to Brooklyn, New York. Especially in the summer of 1912. 

Everyone was talking about
Lisa's book and her shoes

Somber, as a word, was better. But it did not apply to Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Prairie was lovely and Shenandoah had a beautiful sound, but you couldn’t fit those words into Brookly. Serene was the only word for it; especially on a Saturday afternoon in summer.”

After reading that, how could serene be anything but one’s favourite word? There isn’t too much call for the word these days but I found the perfect place for it in West of Wawa:

The ruined and the destroyed had always held a fascination for her, even before the devastation of her own world. She liked to stand among the decay and pick through the aftermath of vanished lives, searching for clues to uncover what had made it all go wrong. And finding the perfect images to capture her imaginings, well, those were moments when she felt close to serene.”

Images: https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.2259151370278.118791.1593233926&type=3

Bleeding Light

Sheniz Janmohamed

Earlier this month I attended the annual book launch of TSAR. This year, I knew a few more people than last year. This was my second year and as last year, I was again in the midst of innumerable writers.


My friend Dawn Promislow read from her collection Jewels and Other Stories, Ava Homa read a passage from Glass Slippers, probably the best story in her collection Echoes from the Other Land, Sheniz Janmohamed read from her book of ghazals and H Nigel Thomas read an extract from his novel Lives: Whole and Otherwise.

This blog is about Sheniz Janmohamed’s book of ghazals Bleeding Light.

The ghazal is a unique concept in poetry where the singer is as important as (or perhaps more important than) the poet. This amazing confluence of words and music makes ghazals not merely a pleasant experience, but a transcendental, even spiritual one.

Two of the best contemporary ghazal singers are Jagjit Singh and Ghulam Ali and the best ghazals they have sung are:

Jagjit Singh: Tum ko dekh to (poet: Javed Akhtar)
Ghulam Ali: Hangama hai (poet: Akbar Allahabadi).

I had never read ghazals in English before and quite frankly, it took some getting used to and re-readings before I began to enjoy Sheniz’s ghazals. All the ghazals are refreshing and make you see the world differently. Once the light touches your soul, you can’t remain unmoved.

Here’s one that I liked the most because it evokes so many images.


In Crimson


A man sells packets of socks in a gully where most men walk barefoot.
What can he do but rest his head on that ledge, hastily painted crimson?

In Old Town, Allah hu Akbar pounds the walls of crumbling Fort Jesus.
A taxi cuts us off, Allah is Great plastered on his window – in crimson.

At the Coast, we bargain shillings for bags and kisii stone elephants.
Indians are not good customers. The seller brands our skin crimson.

Bombs detonate at the steps of every mosque, in the throat of every believer.
If Allah is a war cry, how can we lift Bismillah from asphalt stained crimson.


If only we planted a thousand trees for each page we discard and crumple.
When her last pen snaps, Israh will draw blood and scrawl words in crimson.


Israh is Sheniz’s takhallus
Image: http://www.philosufi.com/blog/2010/11/sheniz-janmohamed.html