Inheritance [Balli Kaur Jaswal]

I really shouldn't attempt to write this... as if this were an assignment due on Monday. It isn't, so I shall not. 

Two days - it took me this to finish my first SingLit novel, as far as I can recall. 

It was about a family who goes through tough times. This family was Sikh. This family was Singaporean. This family felt, for a few heart-wrenching seconds, like my own. 

Dalveer and Harbeer have three children: Gurdev, Narain, and Amrit. Karam is Harbeer's nephew, but he doesn't get to be a narrator in the story, so, screw him. Also, he's an asshole. 

We see their story unfold over a period of twenty years - this is paralleled by Singapore's own growth as a nation. We see the effects of rapid industrialisation on the nascent city state, and we begin to identify some of the more... unspoken problems faced by its people. In its endeavour to grow, advance, burgeon -- people, genuinely good people, are left behind. In our struggle for success, the few among us who cannot cope have struggled, and have struggled without much help. 

Amrit is the centrepiece of this tale - it is her disappearance as a teenager that gets the proverbial ball rolling. We do not see it roll 'smoothly', given the novel's fragmented state - it is divided into 4 distinct segments: the first occurs from 1970 to 1971, the second is set in 1977, the third from 1984 to 85, and the final in 1990. 

So, Amrit disappears. We learn that she begins her spiral into mania or some other form of mental illness at a young age. Her grades suffer, and she begins to seek the company of boys at coffee shops. Without pause, Jaswal writes that Amrit is 

raped. You see the word here troubled me slightly. But, yes, she was raped, by multiple boys who fed her whiskey and took turns. Her mind went "blank". 

She spirals further, and she makes this act of going to coffee shops and alley ways a habit. She drinks and fucks and drinks and fucks, without pause, almost. Amrit is a disappointment to her family, her father in particular, as her shameful, "dishonourable" acts do not cease even with the pleading of her family. 

I wish to write more about the rest of the family, for their stories are enthralling as well. Very quickly: Narain is a homosexual who struggles with his sexual orientation at first, which is particularly tough in 70-80-90s Singapore. He struggles with coming out to himself, then to his family, and still struggles with going public. Gurdev is the average joe of the lot - a father of three daughters working an insurance job. Someone who supports the government almost wholeheartedly, like his father but unlike his brother. He raises his kids much like other stereotypical parents do. Karam is still an asshole. 

But it is still the story of Amrit that has affected me most. Hers is the story of the forgotten in Singapore. Jaswal's decision to write about a mentally-ill person with the backdrop of a developing Singapore is a welcomed one. As a Singaporean born with a bonafide silver "Non-stick rice paddle spoon scoop", I cherished the opportunity to learn about 

1. How Singapore's expeditious transformation shaped the lives of its people

2. How this affected a particular minority race that I do not belong to

I was hearing from voices that sounded like my own, more or less, but were far different for they represented a different era, a different culture, and a different experience. Narain's story is something I've heard of before- the struggles of the LGBT community are not lost on me- but I've just never heard it this clearly in a Singaporean context. This is most certainly due to my ignorance of SingLit. 

Gurdev's cookie-cutter  life, albeit less dramatic, still reads fresh and interesting. His daughters are written especially brilliantly in his final entry in the novel - Rani, his youngest, tries her best at school but still faces immense pressure from both her parents and her school to succeed. The 12 year old decides one day that the pressures have become insurmountable and proceeds to leave her family (something Amrit had done on many occasions). However, her truly heroic and mature sisters, Kiran and Simran, go to her rescue. Without telling their parents, they escort her to a friend's house to 'cool off'. Later, they negotiate her return with their parents, on the condition that they be more understanding and accepting of who Rani is. This entire excerpt also reads as thinly veiled criticism of the 'right' way to raise a child in Singapore - with all the scholarly pressures, tuition classes, and "just need to work harder" sentiments in tow. 

 

Ah but I digress yet again. 

Amrit, who has bipolar disorder. Who meets a slew of colourful, mostly lecherous characters, that lead her to a whole bunch of cacophonous experiences. I have glamorized her experience. Her story was the hardest to bear. 

It was Narain's letter to the Social Development Unit that got me sobbing. 

"The story, as Amrit would like to believe it, is that I pushed her out of the way. She claims she remembers my hands on her shoulders, pulling her out of harm's way... The truth as I witnessed it is this: Amrit saved herself. She stepped off the road, away from the bus, and collapsed into tears. I crouched next to her and, for a long time, we remained there in complete shock. Eventually, we returned home. Amrit looked as though she was still in a daze but her words were very clear. ' I need help,' she said." 

---

"'That Narain is too trusting.' Banu agreed. 'Some doctors just search and search until they can tell a patient something - of course they'd find something wrong with Amrit! As if it is so easy to fix everything.'" 

Banu is an asshole too. 

"Gurdev rejected this. 'Rubbish,' he spat. 'What kind of illness causes somebody to shirk their responsibilities in life, spend too much money, sleep around, and drink too much? If that's the case then this quack doctor can explain all of our laziness. Next time I want to take a round-the-world trip and squander my life savings on alcohol, I'll just say it's because I'm sick in the head. What a convenient excuse." 

Gurdev too. 

---

 

It really was much harder.
Waking up everyday, living on temporary grace. Living by myself. It was all hard. Not as hard as what others face every single day, but it was still painful for me.

----

It always starts in my chest, you see, this feeling that I am sure you yourself are familiar with. That little well inside that starts to overflow when the flood comes. 

At once I am taken back to my past, my secretive story. I try to tell it now, but it always comes out funny and unintended. I tell myself that it's okay, it's for my own personal growth. Catharsis, yes, my favourite word. If I share my story, perhaps it would mean I'm grown. I've grown. Still growing.

I think of Amrit first. Narain reminds me. 

Then I think of myself. 

Then of people like me. Strange faces I do not know, and I am not certain they exist. But common sense tells me otherwise. Boys first, army boys who suffer like I did. Perhaps girls, but my story is not so intrinsically linked to theirs, I assume, perhaps falsely. 

Should I offer my services to someone? Should I lend my ear, and lend my story? So others could find their way, quicker than I had? Could I? 

I think of volunteering again, at 'Woodbridge'. I struggle to find the courage of going alone. 

Selfish. Am I selfish? Am I being selfish? 

Later, as the story ends, I find myself thinking of my own grandparents, and the ghosts they may see. 

I write down quickly that I ought to visit my grandmothers more. I hope I succeed in that plan. 

Harbeer and Dalveer are one in the same: Harbeer. But Balli (can I call her Balli?) writes her final chapter from the perspective of Dalveer. And she appears so real. A ghost who subsists by her husband's side, interfering only when needed. Bearing the majority of Harbeer's grievances. Balli adds a nice little comparison to the Chinese's Hungry Ghost Festival - a nice, strangely heartwarming touch. Dalveer, even as a figment of Harbeer's imagination, appears full of life, and full of character. 

For a split second, I believe in ghosts. And I get closer to empathising with Harbeer, someone whom I had felt alien from the start. He became a man, so familiar in my life - a man who can only live, with the lies he tells himself. 

---

Inheritance. 

So what did Singapore leave behind? What did our forefathers give us? What did Harbeer leave each of his children (and asshole Karam)? 

Nothing equal. Everything measured. 

Everyone 'got what they deserved'. 

You work hard, you get more. 

You behave properly, you get more. 

You fit in, you get more. 

Like Balli, I see this trend in Singapore - right from our beginnings to our current state. And I disagree. It is unhealthy, unhelpful, and unbecoming of our people. We should be kind and accepting - simple human things that are, obviously, not as simple as I have made it out to be. 

---

Each day I fail at treating each soul I meet as precious and holy. I see them like the clouds in the sky - beautiful, ugly things to be looked at. That is my primary reaction, my first thoughts. Of course I know that each face is tied to a life full of rich detail - yet I forget, constantly. 

Oh, how to be kind? How do I view life apart from mine as a vivid, intricate tapestry? 

By god if I don't make it my job to find out.