Review of “The Threshold” by Sasanka Nanayakkara,
published by Vijitha Yapa in 2016
The
protagonist in Sasanka Nanayakkara’s novel The Threshold leaves
Sri Lankan because of an unrequited love and returns 25 years later because of
it. He is what one could call a parajithaya, the kind of character
who subsisted, thrived, and was nurtured to perfection by our writers,
filmmakers, and playwrights in the sixties and seventies. That of course
doesn’t mar their relevance or deny them a place today, but it does help us to
revisit and reflect on the past. As an untrained, uncultured reader however, I
can only try to do justice to Sasanka’s book in this respect. So here goes.
Piyal
Senanayake, the protagonist, is not exactly your rags-to-riches Horatia Alger
hero. He is able to leave Sri Lanka for the United States so comfortably
because he comes from a rather privileged social background: the bilingual,
urbanised middle-class. He rises to even more affluence in Silicon Valley,
where (back when the sky was the limit there) he cashes in on more profit to
retire early to a five-acre residence belonging to the son of a Spanish noble
in California. As far as broken-hearted lovers go, this one seems to have no
reason for complaint.
Part of
Sasanka’s achievement in his depiction of the protagonist is that the story is
never that simple. Piyal has achieved, yes, but has he achieved enough to
forget? “Haunting” is a frequently used word throughout the book, so my guess
is that he has not: material wealth can instil only that much amnesia in you,
after all. So he leaves the States, returns to his motherland, calls up on a
friend from school, and then calls up on his long lost love Saumya. The problem
is that Saumya is married and is a mother, and what’s more, has become as
Anglicised (metaphorically) as Piyal (her daughter’s name, for instance, is
Natasha).
The first
quarter of The Threshold meanders along, keeping us away from
a possible reconciliation between these two former lovers. I have been told by
Sasanka himself that he is an avid lover of the cinema and music, and that he
too has travelled afar. That shows. Amply. From the first sentence therefore,
he gives the impression that he has first scripted his story, and then
transformed it into a written narrative.
The
conversations between Piyal and his friend from school, a lanky, now obese,
lawyer called Sajeewa are laced liberally with politically partisan statements
(Piyal, probably reflecting Sasanka, takes a more explicitly moderate stance on
the ethnic issue, while Sajeewa is the urbanised, sophisticated nationalist who
dreams of Utopias). Again, scripted so well that I could see them arguing
before my eyes.
However,
after a point (which came to me rather quickly) I sensed that the political
conversations, taking place in a comfortable setting in Colombo, were as
desultory as the exchanges between Scout and Atticus Finch in Go Set A
Watchman: you feel that they are sincerely felt and articulated, but at the
same time you realise that the words and the feelings put out are at one level
oblivious to the political reality, in other words that there is a disjuncture
between the social conditioning of the debate and the reality to which it is
alluding. Perhaps Sasanka realises this (though it takes him more than 30 pages
to so do), but the end-result is that he reinforces a key theme and motif in
his novel: people usually change with ideas.
Which
brings me to the author’s depiction of the interlude between Piyal and Saumya.
Like I mentioned before, not unlike Dhammi and Sugath and the kind of separated
lovers depicted by our artistes in the sixties and seventies, both our former lovers
in Sasanka’s book are from a particular, privileged social milieu, in this case
the Southern bourgeoisie. The degree to which this background has
conditioned him to forget and forgive, the way I see it, shapes the last
quarter of the book, where Piyal gets to meet not just Saumya but her husband,
the redoubtable Rohan Wijesuriya. Identity is a vital concern for Sasanka,
which explains why, despite his own hybridised and elitist existence in
Colombo, Rohan says of Piyal, “He has become out and out an American.”
Because
he drags identity and the dichotomy between being culturally uprooted and
culturally castrated (the former a result of being domiciled abroad, the latter
of being socially cut off from one’s roots), I think Sasanka inadvertently
ponders on the thin line between memory and forgetting that is a luxury for the
social class he depicts. The ultimate litmus test for The
Threshold, then, is not how much the author leaves the door open for a
sequel (because the final passage in the novel does, in fact, invite such a
possibility), but rather how far the interlude between these two believable,
everyday characters transcends their privileged, urbanised livelihoods,
dominated by a comparatively bourgeois ethic.
Being an
uncultured reader and critic, I believe it would be grossly unbecoming on my
part to deliver a verdict in this respect on Sasanka’s book. I leave that for a
better, more experienced writer. For the time being though, what I can do is
attempt to gauge the extent to which the author has succeeded in his
(inadvertent) aim with his own text.
We infer
from the penultimate chapter that Rohan is either oblivious to the interlude
between Saumya and our protagonist or is aware, but has forgotten and is hoping
for the best. Like Nikhilesh from Tagore’s Ghare Baire, he may be
testing his wife’s fidelity by allowing her to converse liberally with Piyal.
We can’t guess, so we can’t tell. In any case, in the subsequent final chapter,
we realise that Rohan has not only taken to Piyal, he has also allowed both his
wife and daughter to “accompany you to wherever you told him you were going.”
Before I get to the point I am trying to make, let me say that those words
intrigue me because of their deliberately oblique, ambivalent nature: “wherever
YOU told HIM you were going.” What is Sasanka telling us here?
Now to my
point. I quote here the final sentence in Sasanka’s book: “Till we meet
again in that anonymous Dutchman’s cosy little bungalow supposedly located
amidst a lush coconut grove hugging the remote coast of distant Tangalle – my
mother’s hometown.” Forget the stream of consciousness here. What
interests me is Tangalle.
The
reference to his mother’s hometown and to a bungalow where Piyal and Saumya
shared an intimate interlude seems to unearth a contradiction in our hero: he
has declared his intention to leave the country forever, to Australia perhaps
to meet his sister, but in his moment of departure, when he is given a rare and
(I daresay) unprecedented opportunity by his own former lover’s husband, he
remembers his past and roots, affirms both, and (as the late Professor Ashley
Halpe comments in his foreword to the
book) leaves possibility for a sequel.
I am not
sure whether he has achieved that test I alluded to before (that the interlude
between our two former lovers will transcend their commitments, conditioned by
and rooted in their respective careers and social backgrounds), but I am sure
that the seasoned critic may find his or her answer to that question if he or
she wades through the last few pages. On account of my inexperience in these
matters, however, all I can say is that Sasanka’s book is worth a read, despite
its sometimes overblown prose and the occasional meandering to political
dialectics.
So how
can I conclude? By saying that Sasanka’s novel makes us wish that he continues
to write. As I pointed out before, he has depicted the conventional, tragic,
and pathos-ridden parajithaya. Owing to his social conditioning,
this parajithaya has the luxury of catharsis that his
counterparts from less privileged backgrounds do not. It is hence an
interesting exploration into the bourgeois ethic, dominated as it is by a
sustained repression of emotion in the face of cold, calculating reason. For
that reason alone, The Threshold delivers not as your clichéd,
love-never-dies narrative, but as a work of fiction which does what all good
fiction should: make us want more.
Written for: Ceylon Today LITE, March 30 2010
Written for: Ceylon Today LITE, March 30 2010
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