Does this review contain spoilers? I don’t know. I can’t tell what it has spoilt.
Show me a human with a clear sense of identity and I will agree that Singaporeans need to figure out theirs. I think Jaswal’s Inheritance makes a very strong case that Singaporeans do and don’t, if only you accept that it’s possible to have and not have an identity at the same time. Why do I identify with the description “her seat at the back was hot from the engine. A gash in the upholstery pokes the back of her thigh”? What kind of crazy identification is that and could I see myself standing up in a room full of delegates from different nations and announce that this is how it feels sometimes to be a Singaporean? How do I explain that I can feel the texture of that gash and the heat of that engine and consider these feelings more intimate than the ones I feel when fireworks go off during the National Day Parade?
The earnest, long-suffering first generation of this novel reduce themselves to roles within a community (mother, father) sacrificing individuality, freedom,and indulgence with the hopes of fulfilling their dream of better dreams for future generations. And in doing so, force unwanted dreams upon the second generation. An accident, an accident they would not prevent even if some part of them knew it was coming.
The second generation fretfully attempts to stop the next generation from inheriting the same burdens they did and takes drastic measures. Distances are established, ties are broken, important phone calls not made, and gatherings are marked by absences and the feeble attempts to justify them. Casualties and anomalies of the “success narrative” are conveniently buried, forced to roam and rot in the peripheries and the shadows, back alleys, and drains. Start running away from home and school, then run away from the state and country, run away from your job, run away from your humanity and reality, and when will you stop running? We are all in the longkang, but the only stars are the five on the national flag. There’s no romantic cliche possible, not the ones we are used to anyway.
A lot of this is familiar territory, but Jaswal makes it a point to remind us that it should not be. And I think that’s important, and heartfelt. When we urgently want to form an identity, we cling to cliches, tradition, history, familiarity, and our inheritance. We want to be part of something enduring. To be disowned and to disinherit are frowned upon and mourned. But should it be? The firm “it’s not your time” is not a betrayal. It’s quite simply an affirmation of disinheritance. Identity is never formed, but always forming. Rewrite it. And don’t kid yourself, one drawer isn’t going to be enough to contain all the writing. Neither will a house, be it a Naval Base bungalow, a fertile spread of Punjab farmland, or a HDB flat. Nor will a country, a religion, the world.
Perhaps our identities, like Amrit’s, are all bigger than the world can contain. But we mustn’t stop writing, or seeking, or living, or hurting just because the world has no place for us to demonstrate what’s going on inside us. The first three-quarters of the novel were good, but the final quarter was bold and brilliantly written. And not because there are any twists, because if you ask me I don’t think there’s any. But for the sheer honesty, the unapologetic departures, the refusal to end with a studio portrait of a family of three generations smiling for the camera, having pushed through and survived the many trials and tribulations. A book is not a lifetime, a portrait of a family does not look like that, does not end like that.
Looking forward to reading more of Jaswal’s works.