Though she has lived in America for over a decade, Sri Lanka remains Karen Roberts’ literary home. Both ‘Flower Boy’ and ‘July’ were set here, and the same is true of her most recent publication ‘The Lament of the Dhobi Woman’. It’s Karen’s first novel in eight years, but in it she returns to explore the emotions, and the place, she knows best.
The novel follows the intertwined lives of Catrina and Seelawathie. The daughter of wealthy Colombo socialites, Cat feels both unloved and unwanted by her parents.
Her nanny Seelawathie becomes the focus of her fierce attachment - friend, confidante, and mother figure, Seelawathie is her one refuge. Then, Seelawathie - young, beautiful and vulnerable – meets Rick. She finds that love, like everything else in her life, doesn’t come easy.
In flouting the dictates of a rigid class divide, she must brave society’s condemnation. Still a child, Cat must bear witness as the person she loves most in the world is put on trial.
Priced at Rs.900 and published by Perera Hussein, ‘Lament of the Dhobi Woman’ is available at all major bookstores.
S.T: Why the title ‘The Lament of the Dhobi Woman’? As Catrina’s nanny, Seelawathie doesn’t qualify…
K: Interesting and thanks for asking that question - very simply, it's about dirty laundry. If there were a dhobi woman in this book, it would be Sarla, since she's the one constantly trying to maintain appearances and keep the family name from being sullied.
S.T: You've said this novel was inspired in part by things you noticed as a young person. Were you determined to give the Seelawathie’s of this world a voice?
K: Yes. There are too many of them out there, going through all kinds of unimaginable hardships. While there are fair employers who earn the love, respect and usually lifelong devotion of their ayahs, cooks, gardeners and maids, there are others who practise borderline slavery. We have so many people who bring "a girl" from upcountry or from a village, because they're "unspoiled" which usually means uneducated and therefore malleable and voiceless ... sometimes pre-teen children who are ripped away from their families (often with the blessing of those same families) and transported to the houses of our rich and made to work. They have no options, no recourse except to shut up and put up. Now I know there won't be too many Seelawathis reading this book, but I write this in the hope that the nonas and mahattayas will - and perhaps something will awaken in their consciences-- in our collective consciences.
S.T: Though July and Lament are very different books, they are both in one sense also about forbidden love. Is love the emotion that binds all these disparate elements in the plot together?
K: Love, certainly, but also hope, that change may come. With July, it was more political and cultural taboos, whereas with The Lament of the Dhobi Woman, the taboos are rooted in bigotry and class. Both protagonists push the envelope, take chances and are willing to risk everything for what they believe in. Granted it doesn't pay off for either of them, but the fact that they went the distance is what counts.
S.T: The strongest voices in the book seem to belong to the women. Do you enjoy writing them into life?
K: I do, but it was incidental not necessarily intentional. The domestic dynamics of most households involve women. Besides I am a woman so it's easier for me to get into the mind of a woman than a man - so maybe I just take the easy way out?
S.T: Through the eyes of a young Catrina, Seelawathie's village is a paradise uncovered, but you also touch on how claustrophobic it can be to live in such a close knit and conservative society...did you consciously set out to explore both sides in your writing?
K: I think what I set out to do was to draw the parallels and differences between city and country life. One could argue they are both paradises - Colombo must seem magical to someone used to gravel roads and thatched huts. Similarly, for Catrina who has only known a grand house with a manicured garden and concrete walls, the openness and simplicity of the village would be equally magical. I believe the claustrophobia exists in both environs. It may be more contained within the confines of a large household, but it's there nonetheless. And a village is a larger version of a household isn't it?
S.T: What was your experience of writing this novel like? How did it fare in comparison to your first two?
K: It was never difficult. I am one of those people who write like I read. I turn the page to find out what happens next. I have no plot, no storyline, no beginning, middle or end. I have a vague idea when I first start out and it sort of flows from there. I finish one page and have no idea what comes next until it does. It's as much a surprise to me as it is to my reader. When I wrote my first book, I was amazed at how easily it came. If it had been a difficult process, I might have quit midway. I'm lazy like that! I think everyone has a story to tell - it takes a bit of discipline. That's all.
S.T: Your previous novels have been published abroad, what made you turn to a Sri Lankan publishing house for this one?
K: Had PH been around when I wrote The Flower Boy, I may have gone there. Back then, there were no local options except perhaps to be published in India. I think Sam and Ameena have done a fabulous thing for Asian publishing. They have given so many local writers voice and opportunity where there had previously been none. It seems the right thing to do.
S.T: You published Flower Boy and July within two years, but Lament came after a long break. What has kept you occupied in the intervening years?
K: Raising my son and stepdaughters. As I said previously, writing isn't hard for me, but it does take discipline and a certain commitment. I didn't want to commit to anything until I felt I could fulfil that commitment - even though it was just to myself.
S.T: So far, all your books have been set in Sri Lanka. What keeps you coming back? Do you think you might ever attempt a novel set somewhere else?
K: I think people naturally gravitate toward what they know best and are most familiar with. I also think that when you write about places and people and subject with which you are intimate, it lends authenticity. For example, John Grisham sets almost all his books in the deep South of the US because that's where he was raised and that's what he knows best. I am envious of authors who do exhaustive research about places and people - as I said before, I'm a bit lazy. Will I set a book elsewhere? Perhaps - but only when I run out of subject matter at home. Which may be a long, long time.
S.T: Any plans to return to Sri Lanka?
K: I've lived in California for 12 years now. I always wanted my son to have the kind of continuity we had growing up - to go to the same school and have the same friends from Montessori (yes, he did go to Montessori and his teacher was a wonderful Sri Lankan lady called Yvonne!) through High School.
He is 15 now and his best friends are kids he's known since he was four, so it's all worked out. I would eventually like to spend several months each year in Colombo - I miss home. I miss my friends, my extended family, my street, the food, the chaos and confusion, the trips out of town.
Extract from the book
Seelawathie heard the silently screamed accusations and looked down at the red polished floor. At the leg of the dining table which was scraped and unshiny from being frequently kicked by me.
Her heart beat a slow tattoo of shame. In the face of this soundless attack, in the cold light of day and without Rick here to defend her even simply with his presence, all the whispered endearments and exchanged promises seemed ridiculously naïve and foolish. Stripped of the glow of passion and without the darkness of the veranda to conceal its flaws, her great love seemed small, vulnerable and incapable of surviving Sarla’s anger.
I ran into the dining room, excited because I had seen Uncle Rick’s car cruising down the driveway, and stopped. I looked from my mother to Seelawathi. “What?” I said. “What are you two staring like that for?”
My voice broke the tension and sent it careening around in sharp little shards and a shower of bitter debris. Seelawathi looked startled. When she looked at me, I saw her eyes were wounded. Her lips looked bloodless. She turned and left the room without another word or look.
I turned on my mother. “What did you say to her?” I demanded. “I know you were being mean to her again! I know it. Why can’t you just leave her alone?” I was beating my fist on the dining table as I spoke, making the small silver salt and pepper containers jump. A little coffee slopped into a saucer.
“Control yourself.” My mother’s voice was like a whiplash.
I stopped. “I was merely giving her instructions about various things I want done. I obviously need to speak to her about your appalling lack of manners too.”
“Uncle Rick just arrived. That’s what I came here to tell you,” I said, making my own voice as cold as hers.
A carefully shaped eyebrow arched. “Has he, now. How interesting.” |
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