“That Was” by Sarayu Srivatsa

That Was, Sarayu Srivatsa (Platypus, October 2021)

Neither the “Indian abroad” nor the “gaijin in Japan” novel are particularly rare, but by making an intra-Asian combination of these two, Sarayu Srivatsa has, with her latest novel That Was, turned these two sub-genres on their head.

Kavya, orphaned at six with little or no memory of the cause, is raised in Bombay by her aunt and uncle. Her uncle has business in Japan; somewhat improbably, perhaps, and certainly unusually, she spends considerable time there.

This gentle story unfolds in two directions: in the first, which largely bookends the novel, Kavya slowly uncovers the memory of what had happened to her as a child, something telegraphed from almost the first pages: Kavya’s uncle is Kashmiri and the one memory that sticks is her running with her elder brother Arun who died in whatever tragedy ensued. In the second, Kavya develops relationships with a diverse cast of characters in Japan: Yasunari, a budding architect on whom she has a crush; his ageing grandparents Obaasan and Ojiisan, the latter also an architect; Akiki, a counter-culture artist, and a mysterious woman obliquely known as “S-San”.

 

Nothing very much happens: Kavya’s self-discovery comes mostly through philosophical interactions with, in particular, the elderly Ojiisan and through her taking up photography which becomes an exercise in seeing. The author was herself a professor of architecture and trained at Madras and Tokyo universities. Her history in Japan dates back to her father who studied at Tokyo University and joined the Indian National Army during World War II. War didn’t stick, but Zen did, the influence of which permeates That Was.

The novel begins somewhat tentatively, popping between Bombay, visits to the maternal grandparents in Bangalore, postcards from Japan, a first job in journalism: Kavya seems somewhat lost, as might be the reader. But as Kavya gradually finds herself, the pieces start falling into place, and the picture comes into focus: that picture is Kavya herself. The novel is written in a first person which brings the reader inside the character, something achieved through careful writing and control of rhythm: a long discursive passage will be followed by a short image of sharp contrast between ethereal and prosaic.

 

That night, as Ojiisan, Obaasan, and I stared at the moon, the intense scent of the tablet drove the mosquitoes away.

 

Srivatsa has a keen eye for the everyday and is not above poking at some of the absurdities of modern Japan:

 

Not far from Toscana was À La Mode, a chic hair salon … The salon was like a bunch of cherry blossoms — all pinks and creams, the mirrors gilded with gold leaf. The hairdressers were in uniform — a silken pink blouse and a short vermillion skirt.

 

The real world intrudes; one suspects that some situations are drawn from life. While Kavya is studying in Japan:

 

I shared the dormitory with seven girls: three from Singapore, two from Hong Kong, and two from Malaysia. They avoided me, referred to me as the immigrant girl, the girl from elephant land, so I kept away from them.

 

Kavya brings a Japanese sensibility back to India and up into the Himalayas where she finds that her childhood friend from Bangalore—Malli, a servant girl with a clubfoot—seems to have realized all this for some time.

The not entirely unexpected denouement nevertheless arrives unexpectedly, powerfully yet with closure, a sense of finding something in the recognition of loss.

 

The combination of India and Japan is not an obvious one, despite S-san’s asking:

 

Did you know that the word torii comes from the Indian torana, and its design originated from the gates of the Sanchi monastery? And did you know that Baizaiten, the Japanese goddess, was derived from the Indian deity Saraswati? Some Buddhist temples and Shinto shrines have halls dedicated to her. She is the goddess of everything: water, time, language, music, knowledge.

 

And, indeed, it remains rare in fiction, Anukrti Upadhyay’s Kintsugi being one of the few recent novels that comes to mind. One imagines there will be more.

If this deeply-felt and poignant novel has a drawback it’s that the references to Zen can be a bit literal: Srivatsa wants to leave no doubt what she is talking about. Unnecessarily, perhaps, because the sense comes through regardless. Otherwise, Srivatsa has a light touch and the result is touching.


Peter Gordon is editor of the Asian Review of Books.