I’ve been wanting to explore more Sri Lankan literature, especially books dealing with the Sinhalese-Tamil conflict, after my experience with The Seven Moons of Maali Almeida. When I saw A Passage North listed in my Man Booker shortlist reading challenge (that has totally fallen by the wayside), I decided to try it and eat into my reading list at the same time.
All wars are violent, but this one in particular was notable for its brutality on both sides. There is no good data on the true cost in human life, but estimates suggest that between 40,000 and 140,000 civilians lost their lives.
About the Book
A Passage North begins with a message from out of the blue: a telephone call informing Krishan that his grandmother’s caretaker, Rani, has died under unexpected circumstances–found at the bottom of a well in her village in the north, her neck broken by the fall. The news arrives on the heels of an email from Anjum, an impassioned yet aloof activist Krishnan fell in love with years before while living in Delhi, stirring old memories and desires from a world he left behind.
~ Synopsis from goodreads
My Review
This is a slim (~ just over 200 pages) contemplative book. As Krishnan journeys north on the train, he reflects on the past. He explores questions of identity and belonging – a Sri Lankan Tamil living in the capital city in the south, fairly disconnected from the conflict and violence his brethren face in the north.
This book was a slow read for me, and in part, this probably had to do with its tone. It has a tragic beginning, and when a book starts with a tragedy, where does it go from there?
Anyway, the whole book deals with Krishnan’s inner thoughts all the way north and at Rani’s funeral as he observes all the people around him. Anuk’s writing is very philosophical, prompting me at numerous times to close the book and reflect on the words.
perhaps it was not just images of beauty that clouded one’s vision over time but images of violence too, those moments of violence that for some people were just as much a part of life as the moments of beauty, both kinds of image appearing when we least expected it and both continuing to haunt us thereafter, both of which marked and branded us, limiting how far we were subsequently able to see.
I have to say that this seems like a very apt description of PTSD.
One jarring note here seems to be his description of his relationship with his girlfriend, Anjum. Awkwardly written, it seemed like filler to me. I was speed-reading those sections because what I was really interested in were his observations on the Tamil-Sinhalese conflict and Rani, in particular. There are also some beautifully written passages on aging.
Poor Rani! What a terrible life she had! One loss after another until she could take no more. She dies by falling into a well, but Krishnan wonders. Was it suicide or an accident? Who really dies by falling into a well?
Krishnan’s inner monologues are wonderful—they move from one topic to another almost seamlessly, covering topics such as aging, Tamil history, the lives and deaths of some of the Tamil Tigers, Rani, Tamil funeral customs, and more.
This is not a book where a lot happens. But also, so much happens. With just a few thoughts on a train ride, Anuk paints a vivid picture of life in Sri Lanka during and after the war.
I loved the book, but I also felt that parts of it were cumbersome and clumsy. I am never a fan of the stream-of-consciousness style of writing. It has to be extremely well done for me to really immerse myself in it and enjoy it. Sadly, I just couldn’t get myself immersed in Krishnan’s head. While the writing was wonderful in general, in places, it was just too much—convoluted, with run-on sentences beating the same point over and over again.
Overall, it is a bundle of contradictions. It is very well-written but also uneven, and I read it when I wasn’t in a very forgiving mood. This is one of those books where I’d like to pick it up again and just reread all the sections I annotated. Maybe I will change my mind on a reread.
