This novel starts out trying to chronicle the spectrum of marriage types that lie between Love Marriage and Arranged Marriage, and in the process goes on to tackle a myriad of issues ranging from the Sri Lankan civil war and the Tamil Diaspora to family history and relationships to exile and home to customs and ceremonies, and ends up as a smattering of all of the above with no coherent focal point. It also left me wondering whether this was a novel being narrated in memoir format as claimed, or a memoir masquerading as a novel.
Written in lyrical, essay-like chapters, some a few lines, some a few pages, the narrator, Yalini, a twenty-two year old Tamil student born in the USA visits Toronto to care for a dying uncle and attend her cousin’s Arranged Marriage wedding. In the ensuing period she revisits family history on both sides, going back several generations, and unearths quite a few skeletons in the family closet.
The Tamil struggle in Sri Lanka, since the country’s independence from Britain in 1948 (and not in 1947 as implied), permeates the entire novel, and separates as much as it unites Tamils between those who remain in the struggle back in the homeland and those who flee to other lands and support the war to appease their conscience and stay engaged. Yalini will always be the outsider looking in and is viewed somewhat scornfully by her 18-year old cousin Janani who is straight off the boat, committed to the cause, disdainful of the West and yet marrying a Toronto based mobster who in turn is funding the conflict back home on the proceeds of his illicit deals. This arranged marriage also symbolizes the formalizing of the Tamil conflict abroad and exposes its global tentacles.
The style of the narrative is poetic but borders on the sentimental and melodramatic, with lines often repeated for effect than for substance. Yet one is able to forgive this 22year old who is in awe of all things “back-home”—a condition of those born abroad who feel dislocated, live in awe of their parents’ chequered pasts and think that the grass is more alive on the other side, though bloodier. And there are no referees in cricket, dear Yalini, only umpires—take note! The characters do not come alive to me in this format and are mere sketches, even though their personal stories are interesting. The author is courageous however, in tackling the thorny LTTE practices that finally ended up getting that organization proscribed as a terrorist group in the West, but she shies away from naming its leader by his real name, probably because he was still alive when this book was published.
The unfortunate loser in this novel is poor Canada, and as a Canadian, I took notice. My beloved adopted land is portrayed as open to misuse, allowing avowed terrorists to enter and avail of our generous medical system, while our government at the time turns a blind eye on terrorist funding sources that flourish and fan carnage abroad. I can see why the incoming Conservative government with their “let’s get tough on crime” push and “don’t play us for a sucker” stance on immigration was so popular at the time.
This is a bold first novel, and judging from the author’s educational background and the editorial clout listed in the credits, she has had much support in bringing this book to life. But I question whether the elaborate detailing of wedding and funeral ceremonies, however exotic they may appear to Westerners, makes for good literature, or whether the elimination of quotation marks that separate dialogue from narrative—especially in this style of writing—makes for easy reading, or whether the mixing of tenses is cool grammar. But who are we to question the evolution of the novel? Wherever it lands next—this style or some other prevailing—that will become the new normal; just as the Tamils will have to accept the new normal of Sri Lanka, where their place is even more in question after the end of the civil war.
The grass is not really alive on the other side, dear Yalini. Perhaps that is the underlying intent of this novel, to reveal the post-1948 Tamil condition and then to retreat, never to prescribe or take sides. It is a heavy yoke and will pre-occupy Sri Lankan Tamil writers, both at home and abroad, for a very long time.