‘The Iron Fence’: A writing on Various Wars
Reviewing a Sri Lankan novel in English is a daunting task. Generally, the genre is still in a no man’s land in every sense that matters – socio-cultural, political and economic. With a population of over 20 million people, most of them supposedly literate, even a Sinhala novel rarely goes above a first edition of 2000 copies. For writers in English, even a print run of 1000 copies would be a daunting task, as Colombo’s English-speaking book hunters spurn them by and large, preferring to spend their money on trendy novels, thrillers and coffee-table books from the West. Only those who resort to writing the anecdotal, randy and bawdy have any measure of success, the rare exception notwithstanding.
In this context, Neluka Silva’s ‘Iron Fence’ is a commendable effort. The author teaches English at the University of Colombo, and this is her fourth book. That shows a capacity to go against conventional wisdom and great odds, but what does “Iron Fence’ tell us about life in Sri Lanka as seen and felt by the author? At first glance, it is a story about campus life, but it’s much more. Interwoven into the plot are an analysis, and a bitter criticism, of Sri Lanka’s class wars, language wars (both overlapping), race wars and middle class morality.
The book, based in the late 1980s, has several parallel themes – the class wars as they exist on campus, inter-racial love, love between people of urban and rural backgrounds, and the tyrannical male domination which can exist within families of the wealthy and supposedly sophisticated elite of
The book, based in the late 1980s, has several parallel themes – the class wars as they exist on campus, inter-racial love, love between people of urban and rural backgrounds, and the tyrannical male domination which can exist within families of the wealthy and supposedly sophisticated elite of Colombo
Colombo. It’s the latter which I have some trouble with, as parent-child relationships regarding the latter’s choice in love comes dangerously close to the melodrama which was screenplay staple for Sinhala films in the 60s and 70s (and even today). An offspring, usually a daughter, falls in love with the worst possible choice (in doting parents’ eyes, who instill the PTA at home in retaliation, resulting in tragedy).
This scenario, one would have thought, is now definitely archival. It’s hardly credible that in this day and age, a tyrannical businessman father from the Colombo elite can terrorise an undergrad daughter in this manner. But it may be that I am mistaken on this score, and the author knows what she’s talking about. Given this elite’s welcoming acceptance of the politi- cal tyranny which has overwhelmed this country, it is quite possible that rebellious daughters are still beaten into submission by tyrannical fathers. That part of the plot is carved directly out of the country’s overwhelmingly feudal heart. What is attempted here is a deep critique of antiquated family, race and class relationships, focusing on wealthy, monocultural homes and the multicultural university.
The story’s told mainly from Roshini’s point of view. Though an English undergrad in Colombo, her childhood was spent in England and she would have read English in London if things hadn’t taken a different turn. Left without choice and attending university in Colombo, she falls in love with Senaka, a mechanic’s son from the hill country and a campus student activist. The other protagonist is Deepthi, the daughter of a wealthy and a brutal father and a powerless mother who’s no more than “an ornament at cocktail parties.” She’s in love with Mano, an undergrad from Jaffna (“A bloody Tamil” in her father’s eyes). Both are in conflict situations, and the country is at war, both north and south, adding to their troubles.
The author’s prose is clear and straightforward, but she indulges too much in the colloquial ‘Sri Lankanisms’ which pepper our English speech. But she has the ability to invoke atmosphere, to write the kind of prose which brings a place alive, as in the following passage:
“What fascinated her were the descriptions of the landscape of his village. He watched her amazed, wide-eyed expression as he described children running on to the road trying to sell flowers to the cars driving up and down the mountains. When he mentioned the little waterfall behind their house, she could almost picture the green moss and slime on the rocks as children slipped into the freezing water after they came back from school. He talked about rows and rows of vegetables in the red and muddy soil, planted, uprooted and then weighed and loaded to be sent to the markets. Men and women picking vegetables in the cold mornings, with scarves wrapped around their heads, carrying baskets of carrots and beetroot as they brought them back to sheds to be stored and weighed.”
Another remarkable thing about this work from a Lankan writer is that it isn’t prudish. Sex is a subject studiously avoided by most of our English writers (of either sex) as they still live mentally in the time of Jane Austen. But Neluka de Silva writes candidly about first time sex between two undergrads, with an eye that is both realistic and compassionate. Roshni is hurt when her Senaka tells her after their love making: “I’ll marry you if that’s what you want.” There was, we are told succinctly, no romance in the statement. But this is the story of a young woman who can make up her mind about her own sexuality, a type of character hardly encountered before in our English fiction.
Publicity sells books, and publishers abroad know this. Over here, publishers leave the authors to do their own work. Getting a newspaper review done is a Herculean task, as no paper has a full-time book reviewer, just as we have no literary agents. Authors have to discover themselves, nurture talent against the odds, write while holding onto other jobs, endear themselves to publishers who pay no royalties and hope that Colombo’s coffee-table and thriller book hunters will buy their books. It makes you wonder why people choose to be writers in the first place. Well, it’s because they are writers, and writing is in their blood.