Mynah birds are known for a lot of things, one of which is probably success: they’re an incredibly widespread group, turning up in Africa, the Americas, the Pacific, and obviously all across Southeast Asia. Another is sound. Specifically, the common hill mynah – Gracula religiosa, which is apparently the bird most often referred to by the term mynah, and of which the Sri Lankan hill mynah (fairly probably the mynah that appears in the first sentence of Paul Cooper’s debut novel River of Ink) is now broadly understood to be a separate (rather than sub) species – is widely known both for its own piercing, insistent whistles, trilling out in throngs from the treetops in the evenings, in the mornings, and for its ability to imitate other bird calls. It actually doesn’t do this in the wild, apparently; in captivity, though, they can capture almost anything. Cellphones. Drills. Melodies. Naturally, human voices. They’re so dead-on perfect that it’s hard to escape the feeling that there’s some kind of joke, and the mynah is in on it, and you are not. Leave them alone and they sound like themselves. Put them in a cage, they throw your own voice back in your face.
River of Ink tells the story of Asanka, a court poet in Sri Lanka conscripted by an invading monarch to translate a Sanskrit epic, the Shishupala Vadha, into Tamil. Despite the scale of the events, however, the focus of the book is close, tight. That first sentence sets the tone: “Do you remember the mynah birds that used to live in the courtyard outside your room?” Actually, not even the whole sentence; the first three words. Do you remember. Characters chase memory through the novel, trying to wrap their hands round one solid version of their history, their past: story of a love affair, story of a conqueror, a people, a country. It doesn’t work. Memory plays tricks; that may, in fact, be all memory does. Fifteen years pass and you find a hole in a wall and everything you are, everything that led up to that point, shifts in colour and outline.
Even more central than memory, though, is intimacy. The whole novel exists within the frame of a direct address, but it’s quiet, close, almost whispered, and again and again the story hinges on exactly these moments – intimacy rejected, desired, broken, made impossible, not understood. Everyone in the novel craves some kind of contact: Asanka’s two main drives (apart from his (for the most part) impressive instinct for self-preservation) are his love for poetry and his love for Sarasi, a servant girl in the palace he teaches to read. For Sarasi, poetry is resistance, but it’s also connection; with history, with Asanka, and in a very physical way, with her lost family. Even Magha, the conqueror; he says of Dayani, the queen he widows and subsequently forces to marry him, “I’d prefer her to love me.”
Threaded throughout the book is another direct address, in the form of letters to Asanka written in the voices of characters from the Shishupala Vadha, speaking from after death: I am Shishupal; I am Rukmi; I am Ilvala; I am Rukmini; I am Krishna. Asanka is scandalised, even repelled by the blasphemy of writing as a figure from the epic, but at the same time he can’t resist the letters; in a real way, they come to save his life, providing him with the means to more authentically translate the poem by entering the minds of its characters. Intimacy again, but this is different; this address doesn’t begin with a you, but with an I. Asanka returns again and again to Auden’s quote, reiterated here as a Lankan proverb, but can’t seem to make it to the second half; he’s stuck at “poetry makes nothing happen.” He is also very good at talking; listening, less so, but what these letters – the mad poet’s ravings, as he’d have it – at least try to teach him is the fundamental importance of, after you, hearing the I spoken back. Magha can’t do this, not really, which makes for one of the most affecting portraits in the book: the utter loneliness inherent in power through control, in denying one’s vulnerability. He’s a man bereft of any closeness, and that very lack prevents him from understanding it, from understanding any human relationship on any basis but control.
Another intimacy – outside and between the characters, embedded in the text – on which the novel thrives is its evocation of setting: both place and time. From the mynahs onwards, every page teems with detail; Asanka burning a fruit leaf to repel insects, men “throwing charmed white sand on the delicate [rice] shoots to keep the worms and flies away,” Magha speaking in a voice “smooth as coconut water.” It’s not just namechecking: the wealth of concrete artefacts, both in imagery and in observation, are indispensable to the novel. They move Polonnaruwa from being a backdrop into a character invested in the action, one which suffers and heals, resists, survives, speaks. It is alive, then, but it is also text: poems are written on palm-leaf paper or carved into walls, thrown into trees, hidden under ferns or statues of the Buddha that seem less carved than grown out of the earth. Even the ink: coconut husks, shellac, bone. Poetry can’t be separated from the land, because the land is literally in every word.
The details Asanka picks out are all alive, right up to the end, with an image of the kurinji flower in bloom, which, we learn at the close of the previous section, happens only once every twelve years. (The word for this, apparently, is plietesial – they bloom once, they seed, they die.) So the novel opens with birds and closes with flowers; or, it opens with flight – his reminisces of his escape into poetry with Sarasi, their dream of a life together, the window when they could have run: “That was the moment to escape” – and closes with roots. Twelve years is a long time, although time is fluid here; as Asanka says early on, “two weeks can pass like two years in Polonnaruwa,” so the wait for the bloom could be a lifetime, or seconds. Poetry has its own timeline, anyway; like a temple, or a sea, and also kind of like memory, it’s chained onto the past and yet every encounter creates a new now. This, the book suggests, may be what makes it invincible – it is at once intangible and unbreakable as mountains, and it always has room for a joke you don’t get. Interestingly, mynah birds aren’t a strict natural grouping. The name refers to any bird in the starling family in the Indian subcontinent, partly due to the fact that said family (Sturnidae) came to that area on two separate occasions during their evolution. Birds, rather like language, or plietesial flowers, don’t make much happen, but they do have a strong tendency to survive.