Short Story Reads: Night in Tunisia and Other Stories by Neil Jordan

Over the years my shepherd like attitude to books has waned. No longer does my heart bleed if a page has a dog-ear.

Placing a book under a heap of dozen other books to straighten out the dog-ear, applying steam iron on the page, binding books with cardboard hardcover, designing a separate book cover with newspaper cut outs, book title and author name inscribed in a stylish handwritten blue scrawl - these adolescent pastimes no longer hold me.

After losing a British Library withdrawal sale copy to a colleague (the perils of lending books), the epic search for an elusive copy lasted half a decade. Finally, an UK-based rare books website airmailed an almost brand new copy in an otherwise listless 2020, getting to me with no tracking system in place over 30 days, unscathed through rain, lockdowns, sanitizers, with lots of suspense and uncertainty. 

So, I still do love books to a fault then. 

The 1950 born Jordan first established his reputation as a contemporary Irish novelist and later on as an Academy Award winning film maker.

His written work is still published from time to time. Jordan was yet to delve into film making when this particular collection was first published in 1976.

Now on to...

The stories in this collection prominently deal with thoughts. Interesting, observant inroads are made into the intangible, invisible thing - the mind.

There are no convenient endings as racing, random, nostalgic, angry, happy, lonesome and wondrous thoughts are revealed, much like scraps from a dairy entry.

The opening story Last Rites comes across like an experimental piece of abstract cinema, the effect in the tumult of words is disturbing.

Seduction starts with the promise of mischievous expectation, then washes up like a sea wave with the boil of pent up sexual desire.

Sand is another unpredictable tale - what seems to be a harmless squabble between a younger brother and the elder sister leads to a shocking event involving a gypsy and a donkey.

Mr. Solomon Wept is an observant, cold note on the effect of betrayal in marriage on a middle-aged man.

Night in Tunisia is easily the happiest, free flowing story of the collection. Bathed in the perpetual sunlight that childhood seems to be, sea salt and breeze dissolves to the sounds of jazz and a father-son bridge to an alto saxophone.

In Skin, we see how engaging words can vividly describe an Irish woman's mundane life along with an incident that displays her vain hope for change to occur.

Moving on...
A brief, dreamy, drowsy rambling of a woman apparently doused in alcohol during a party, Her Soul gives us a drab look at the female wondering and theorizing where her soul has slipped away to. 

Outpatient tells of strained husband-wife relations, and how both quietly realize that their relationship is meant to smother away.  

In Tree, the view of a whitethorn tree sets off intense nostalgia and the urge to change in a woman driving past it.

The book culminates with a beautiful story -  A Love.

Apart from mind reading, the sense of place and occasion are strong here. A young emigrant returns to Dublin to play out the last strands of his love affair with an older woman, even as the funeral procession of President Éamon de Valera passes by.

To a great degree, the tales in Night in Tunisia and Other Stories hold a mirror to how much we identify with our minds, replicating the chaos that swirls within our seemingly sane heads.

(first edit - May 28, 2013

second edit - June 30, 2020)

(Article by Snehith Kumbla)                                                                                     

Poetry Reads: Basanti Hawa by Kedarnath Agarwal

There are innumerable things about the Hindi language that appeals to this writer's heart. 

Expressing in English has its joys in putting pen to paper, in arranging, rearranging words, in description, documentation, rhyme and flow. 

But for the sheer spontaneity of conversation - Hindi it is.

The following Hindi poem (featured here with my translation) is a school favourite. Years have withered away but the poem has remained entwined in memory.  

Roughly translated as Spring Wind, this Hindi poem by Kedarnath Agarwal (1911 - 2000) is a first person narrative by none other than the eternal traveler, invisible, omnipresent, and free - Wind. 

The poem's sing-song flow is such that it conveys in its deliberate clipped arrangement, a continuous, ageless quality of an element we usually take for granted.

बसंती हवा

केदारनाथ अग्रवाल

हवा हूँ, हवा मैं                                                                                        

बसंती हवा हूँ।                                                  

सुनो बात मेरी -       

अनोखी हवा हूँ।       

बड़ी बावली हूँ  

बड़ी मस्तमौला। 

नहीं कुछ फ़िकर है 

बड़ी ही निडर हूँ  

जिधर चाहती हूँ 

उधर घूमती हूँ 

मुसाफिर अजब हूँ।

(wind am, wind I, the spring wind am I...it begins and then goes - am crazy, mischievous, naughty, no worries, fearless, I roam where I please, am a strange traveler.) 

न घर-बार मेरा,

न उद्देश्य मेरा,

न इच्छा किसी की,

न आशा किसी की,

न प्रेमी न दुश्मन,

जिधर चाहती हूँ

उधर घूमती हूँ।

हवा हूँ, हवा मैं 

बसंती हवा हूँ!

(Breathlessly, the wind blows its tale like a whistle - no home, no ambition, no desire, no hope, no lover, no enemies, go where I please, wind am, wind I, spring wind am I...)

जहाँ से चली मैं

जहाँ को गई मैं -

शहर, गाँव, बस्ती,

नदी, रेत, निर्जन,

हरे खेत, पोखर,

झुलाती चली मैं।

झुमाती चली मैं!

हवा हूँ, हवा मै

बसंती हवा हूँ।

(from where I passed, to where I went, city, village, ghetto, river, sand, desolation, green fields, pond, I went swinging, I went swaying, wind am, wind I, spring wind am I...)     

चढ़ी पेड़ महुआ,

थपाथप मचाया;

गिरी धम्म से फिर,

चढ़ी आम ऊपर,

उसे भी झकोरा,

किया कान में ‘कू’,

उतरकर भगी मैं,

हरे खेत पहुँची -

वहाँ, गेंहुँओं में

लहर खूब मारी। 

(climbed a tree, made havoc, fell with a thud, went for the mangoes, shook them too, said "ku" in the ear, leapt off running, reached the green fields, there, among the wheat, made many waves)

पहर दो पहर क्या,

अनेकों पहर तक

इसी में रही मैं!

खड़ी देख अलसी

लिए शीश कलसी,

मुझे खूब सूझी -

हिलाया-झुलाया

गिरी पर न कलसी!

इसी हार को पा,

हिलाई न सरसों,

झुलाई न सरसों,

हवा हूँ, हवा मैं

बसंती हवा हूँ!

(not for a moment, but for moments eternal, I dwelt here. Then the wind eyes yet another mischief - tried to budge the splashing earthen pot from its hold, but it did not fall! Raw from this defeat, did not sway or shake the mustard, wind am, wind I, spring wind am I ) 

मुझे देखते ही

अरहरी लजाई,

मनाया-बनाया,

न मानी, न मानी;

उसे भी न छोड़ा -

पथिक आ रहा था,

उसी पर ढकेला;

हँसी ज़ोर से मैं,

हँसी सब दिशाएँ,

हँसे लहलहाते

हरे खेत सारे,

हँसी चमचमाती

भरी धूप प्यारी;

बसंती हवा में

हँसी सृष्टि सारी!

हवा हूँ, हवा मैं

बसंती हवा हूँ!

(the pulses shied away on seeing me, I tried to charm, but she didn't yield...I didn't spare him too - a traveler was coming, I lunged at him, I laughed aloud, laughed all directions, laughed all swaying fields, laughed the sparkling lovely sunlight, in the spring wind all creation laughed, wind am, wind I, spring wind am I)      

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(Article by Snehith Kumbla)

(First edit - 20/5/2013

Second edit - 17/6/2020)