Cheryl Snell's Blog, page 27
August 11, 2011
Raksha Bandan
Raksha Bandhan, or Rakhi, is the festival for siblings. The custom is for a sister to tie a rakhi (a silk thread) around the wrist of her brother, in symbolic exchange for his protection. The festival gets a mention in my novel Rescuing Ranu:
The baby was dressed in a white undershirt, and she wore a small handmade rakhi on her wrist. Nela had forgotten that it was the festival of siblings, Raksha Bhandan. The ornament, symbolic of the love of siblings for one another, bothered the tiny girl. She kept tugging at it, and Nela thought of her brother Ram, and the way he would patiently hold his arm out so that she could fasten her bracelet around it.
The baby managed to stay on Ranu's hip as she went about her tasks, but just barely. It was a new environment and the baby wanted to explore. Every few minutes, she reached out one or both arms out for some shiny thing, prompting a soft string of cajoling words from Ranu.
Meanwhile, Ranu tried to avoid Nela, ducking whenever she got within speaking distance, but got caught as she was escaping onto the back veranda. "Who have we here? Where did she come from? We didn't see her at the shack. Is she a cousin? Baby sister? Who is her mother? Why are you hiding from me? "
Anxiety flickered across Ranu's face. After a long confused explanation, Nela gleaned that when the girls' mother had died, or been driven away, it had fallen to Ranu to find a way to make sure the baby survived. "Uncle has no more food for her," she said. "I give her to you. If you will not take, I give her to Mami."
"You must not do any such thing," Nela said. "You must take her back home. She cannot possibly eat too much for Uncle!" Ranu did take her back, but did not return to Nela's sleeping porch that night.
Nela paced back and forth along the veranda for hours, watching and waiting. She knew all about men like Uncle. "Now the old man thinks you are the answer to all problems," she complained to Jackson, as the hours ground on. "Some god with resources. More demands will come in! And we still have no answers about either child."
When she was emptied of complaint, Nela stretched out beside him on the pallet, although she did not think she could sleep. He reached for her hand, and Nela rolled away. She kept her back turned until the sun rose.
To make a simple rakhi, use red or yellow silk, a piece about 30" long. Fold in half. Tie a tight knot with a piece of cotton thread about a quarter down the length of the strand. Cut the loops of the folded thread and fluff the open ends.
Divide the longer part of the thread into half, and twist them. Tie the ends with another bit of cotton thread and puff up the ends. Decorate with sequins or beads.
August 9, 2011
Shobhan Bantwal and The Full Moon Bride
Today we have a special treat, a guest post on ethnic fiction by Shobhan Bantwal, author of the new novel, The Full Moon Bride.
About Shobhan Bantwal
Award-winning author Shobhan Bantwal calls her writing "Bollywood in a Book"—romantic, colorful, action-packed tales, rich with elements of Indian culture—stories that entertain and educate. Shobhan has five published novels by Kensington Publishing, with a sixth slated for 2012. Shobhan can be contacted through her website or Facebook, where you can get much more information about the author and her book, and you can order your own copy here.
About Full Moon Bride
What makes a marriage—love or compatibility? Passion or pragmatism? THE FULL MOON BRIDE is a compelling story that explores the fascinating subject of arranged marriage, as young Indian-American attorney Soorya Giri navigates the gulf between desire and tradition.
In choosing between two very different men, Soorya must reconcile her burgeoning independence and conservative background. And she must decide what matters most to her—not just in a husband, but in a family, a culture, and a life.
Ethnic Fiction - Bouquets & Brickbats
By Shobhan Bantwal - author of The Full Moon Bride
For years I had been complaining about the dearth of romantic Indian fiction. Most every South Asian author writes literary novels, serious slice-of-life stories that are beautiful works of prose, but are lacking in plot and drama. So when I took up creative writing I decided to try my hand at romantic stories with a distinctly Indian twist. Besides, I was convinced that the large commercial fiction audience was an untapped market for Indian novels.
I was treading unknown waters with my unusual brand of ethnic women's books, and it was a serious risk. There was no guarantee that a literary agent or publisher would like this type of literature. And yet I wanted to write about my culture in all its multi-hued beauty as well as its dark side. I wanted to tell stories that were realistic and yet dramatic enough to make page-turning fiction. As a result, I created a subgenre, what I call "Bollywood in a Book."
My Indian culture, with its arranged marriages, spicy cuisine, quaint customs like dowry, obsessive desire for male children, and a religion that has many gods and goddesses, offers great fodder for interesting and unusual stories.
I was lucky that my publisher loved my brand of fiction. Nonetheless the branding has its positive and negative sides. Readers who love a rare cultural experience while enjoying a good storyline appreciate my novels. On the other hand, conservative readers who have no interest in going beyond their comfort zone, stay away from them. My book covers portray women in saris, bindis, henna-painted hands, and ethnic jewelry, making them easy to spot, and easy to avoid.
Social and political repercussions are part and parcel of writing ethnic fiction. Recent acts of terrorism have made Americans wary of dark-skinned people and their varied ethnicities. My books could easily be mistaken for stories from a terrorist culture, creating hostility on the part of certain readers. Religion also plays a role in readers' decisions to read a book. Books separated by ethnicity can easily hurt sales for an author like me. Nonetheless I have many happy readers who are devout Christians, Jews, and Muslims who enjoy a good story for its entertainment and educational value.
Additionally, I have introduced controversial subjects like female-fetus abortion and dowry abuse in India in my books, leading some South Asian readers to chastise me for bringing awareness to the darker side of Indian culture. Fictional characters live amidst families, towns, and working environments, therefore a fiction writer cannot avoid portraying social and political issues. These elements add a layer of intrigue and conflict to spice up a story.
I have come to view the challenges of an ethnic writer's life as an interesting rollercoaster ride.
Readers can find my books, events, contests, photos, recipes, and contact information on my website or visit my facebook page:
Thank you, Shobhan, for visiting Shiva's Arms. We wish you much luck on the rest of your tour!
About Shobhan Bantwal
Award-winning author Shobhan Bantwal calls her writing "Bollywood in a Book"—romantic, colorful, action-packed tales, rich with elements of Indian culture—stories that entertain and educate. Shobhan has five published novels by Kensington Publishing, with a sixth slated for 2012. Shobhan can be contacted through her website or Facebook, where you can get much more information about the author and her book, and you can order your own copy here.
About Full Moon Bride
What makes a marriage—love or compatibility? Passion or pragmatism? THE FULL MOON BRIDE is a compelling story that explores the fascinating subject of arranged marriage, as young Indian-American attorney Soorya Giri navigates the gulf between desire and tradition.
In choosing between two very different men, Soorya must reconcile her burgeoning independence and conservative background. And she must decide what matters most to her—not just in a husband, but in a family, a culture, and a life.
Ethnic Fiction - Bouquets & Brickbats
By Shobhan Bantwal - author of The Full Moon Bride
For years I had been complaining about the dearth of romantic Indian fiction. Most every South Asian author writes literary novels, serious slice-of-life stories that are beautiful works of prose, but are lacking in plot and drama. So when I took up creative writing I decided to try my hand at romantic stories with a distinctly Indian twist. Besides, I was convinced that the large commercial fiction audience was an untapped market for Indian novels.
I was treading unknown waters with my unusual brand of ethnic women's books, and it was a serious risk. There was no guarantee that a literary agent or publisher would like this type of literature. And yet I wanted to write about my culture in all its multi-hued beauty as well as its dark side. I wanted to tell stories that were realistic and yet dramatic enough to make page-turning fiction. As a result, I created a subgenre, what I call "Bollywood in a Book."
My Indian culture, with its arranged marriages, spicy cuisine, quaint customs like dowry, obsessive desire for male children, and a religion that has many gods and goddesses, offers great fodder for interesting and unusual stories.
I was lucky that my publisher loved my brand of fiction. Nonetheless the branding has its positive and negative sides. Readers who love a rare cultural experience while enjoying a good storyline appreciate my novels. On the other hand, conservative readers who have no interest in going beyond their comfort zone, stay away from them. My book covers portray women in saris, bindis, henna-painted hands, and ethnic jewelry, making them easy to spot, and easy to avoid.
Social and political repercussions are part and parcel of writing ethnic fiction. Recent acts of terrorism have made Americans wary of dark-skinned people and their varied ethnicities. My books could easily be mistaken for stories from a terrorist culture, creating hostility on the part of certain readers. Religion also plays a role in readers' decisions to read a book. Books separated by ethnicity can easily hurt sales for an author like me. Nonetheless I have many happy readers who are devout Christians, Jews, and Muslims who enjoy a good story for its entertainment and educational value.
Additionally, I have introduced controversial subjects like female-fetus abortion and dowry abuse in India in my books, leading some South Asian readers to chastise me for bringing awareness to the darker side of Indian culture. Fictional characters live amidst families, towns, and working environments, therefore a fiction writer cannot avoid portraying social and political issues. These elements add a layer of intrigue and conflict to spice up a story.
I have come to view the challenges of an ethnic writer's life as an interesting rollercoaster ride.
Readers can find my books, events, contests, photos, recipes, and contact information on my website or visit my facebook page:
Thank you, Shobhan, for visiting Shiva's Arms. We wish you much luck on the rest of your tour!
Arranged Marriage
Like so many westerners, I'm fascinated by this subject. The idea that parents should choose their child's mate because they are the ones who know the child best and know what's best for the child has endured for centuries. In practice, it may fall far from the ideal, as when one of our young friends recently revealed his feelings for an entirely "suitable bride" (of his own choosing) to his family. His parents were surprisingly OK with it, until the boy's grandmother raised her objection: the bride was TOO vegetarian. Her inability to stomach fish made her entirely "unsuitable."
This is how I portrayed marriage negotiations in a draft of Shiva's Arms:
"Hush," said Varun. "Amma is trying to marry you off to someone in the parlor." There was a rumor that child-marriage was about to be outlawed, the legal age raised to thirteen. He twitched his new mustache, a growth Shiva had nicknamed Bandicoot after a legendary rat that lived on the property and could not be caught...
Shiva nodded; she didn't give the matchmaking in the parlor another thought.
It was only when the defeated look on her parents' faces began to seem permanent did Shiva fear for her freedom. A suitable match would provide the parents with momentary happiness, but after the wedding they would only see their daughter when her husband's family allowed it. "Taking pains with a daughter is like watering another family's garden," she overheard one family's representative say as she was ushered out of the house.
Some minor disgrace might render Shiva unmarriageable and put an end to this parade of grasping, fortune-hunting crones. She had to come up with a plan to save herself...
Wizened female relatives of possible suitors finagled their way into the parlor of the old stone house. With cunning eyes, they calculated the immense wealth all around them. Each one imagined that Shiva's mother would drop to her knees in gratitude that her ruffian daughter could have a future with a respectable family. But Shiva's mother was a good negotiator and would not be swayed by the trickery of some old abacus- counter. "Your nephew is quite dark, quite rugged-looking, I see," she might say, holding the suitor's photograph in her fingers as if it offended her.
"It was taken on a cloudy day only," the marriage-brokering aunt would sniff, clattering her bone china cup on the saucer. "The boy is quite fair under sunlight, perhaps fairer than your daughter. Her skin must be toughened from her times on horseback, isn't it?"
Shiva's mother kept her voice low, so that the old woman had to bend forward to catch all the words. "It is so surprising what some people will criticize! Some people have nothing better to do than limit a child's abilities, and measure her value in gold and jewels only. My Shiva has great wealth beyond beauty, and I must be careful who I give her to! On the occasion of her baby-naming ceremony, the priest saw that she loved all the objects set before her to determine her future. He pronounced her capable in all areas."
Peeking out from her hiding place behind the damask curtain, Shiva silently cheered her mother on as she exposed one old woman after another for the greedy viper she was.
But as time wore on, Shiva's mother became more anxious, more fretful, not so indulgent of Shiva's childishness. She became less critical of the women, more eager to establish a fruitful rapport. Shiva, standing behind the heavy curtain, hand over mouth, was terrorized by the thought of a new life in which she would be captive. What would she hide behind, which curtain, whose family? Her throat seized up. I can't breathe! Throwing off the damask, she'd hurl herself into her mother's arms, sure she was about to die...
All the coughing fits in the universe could not have changed Shiva's fate, and deep down she knew it. At each unveiling, she would do her best to discourage the bride-seeker. Her rude answers to prying questions, inexplicable memory lapses in the middle of her singing performances, the sudden physical awkwardness in her dance movements did not change the fact that she was the daughter of a wealthy man with a large dowry to give. Her parents became stricter and more unyielding to her resistance, which came to nothing in the end. Her parents didn't really want her, it was clear, so Shiva consented to be married to a stranger called Trichur Venatesan Sambashivan, Iyer. She was fifteen years old.
This is how I portrayed marriage negotiations in a draft of Shiva's Arms:
"Hush," said Varun. "Amma is trying to marry you off to someone in the parlor." There was a rumor that child-marriage was about to be outlawed, the legal age raised to thirteen. He twitched his new mustache, a growth Shiva had nicknamed Bandicoot after a legendary rat that lived on the property and could not be caught...
Shiva nodded; she didn't give the matchmaking in the parlor another thought.
It was only when the defeated look on her parents' faces began to seem permanent did Shiva fear for her freedom. A suitable match would provide the parents with momentary happiness, but after the wedding they would only see their daughter when her husband's family allowed it. "Taking pains with a daughter is like watering another family's garden," she overheard one family's representative say as she was ushered out of the house.
Some minor disgrace might render Shiva unmarriageable and put an end to this parade of grasping, fortune-hunting crones. She had to come up with a plan to save herself...
Wizened female relatives of possible suitors finagled their way into the parlor of the old stone house. With cunning eyes, they calculated the immense wealth all around them. Each one imagined that Shiva's mother would drop to her knees in gratitude that her ruffian daughter could have a future with a respectable family. But Shiva's mother was a good negotiator and would not be swayed by the trickery of some old abacus- counter. "Your nephew is quite dark, quite rugged-looking, I see," she might say, holding the suitor's photograph in her fingers as if it offended her.
"It was taken on a cloudy day only," the marriage-brokering aunt would sniff, clattering her bone china cup on the saucer. "The boy is quite fair under sunlight, perhaps fairer than your daughter. Her skin must be toughened from her times on horseback, isn't it?"
Shiva's mother kept her voice low, so that the old woman had to bend forward to catch all the words. "It is so surprising what some people will criticize! Some people have nothing better to do than limit a child's abilities, and measure her value in gold and jewels only. My Shiva has great wealth beyond beauty, and I must be careful who I give her to! On the occasion of her baby-naming ceremony, the priest saw that she loved all the objects set before her to determine her future. He pronounced her capable in all areas."
Peeking out from her hiding place behind the damask curtain, Shiva silently cheered her mother on as she exposed one old woman after another for the greedy viper she was.
But as time wore on, Shiva's mother became more anxious, more fretful, not so indulgent of Shiva's childishness. She became less critical of the women, more eager to establish a fruitful rapport. Shiva, standing behind the heavy curtain, hand over mouth, was terrorized by the thought of a new life in which she would be captive. What would she hide behind, which curtain, whose family? Her throat seized up. I can't breathe! Throwing off the damask, she'd hurl herself into her mother's arms, sure she was about to die...
All the coughing fits in the universe could not have changed Shiva's fate, and deep down she knew it. At each unveiling, she would do her best to discourage the bride-seeker. Her rude answers to prying questions, inexplicable memory lapses in the middle of her singing performances, the sudden physical awkwardness in her dance movements did not change the fact that she was the daughter of a wealthy man with a large dowry to give. Her parents became stricter and more unyielding to her resistance, which came to nothing in the end. Her parents didn't really want her, it was clear, so Shiva consented to be married to a stranger called Trichur Venatesan Sambashivan, Iyer. She was fifteen years old.
August 7, 2011
Examining Ophelia
[painting by Janet Snell]
I was always afraid of popping into his mind at the wrong time, just as he was drifting off perhaps (perchance to dream?). He'd shake his fists as if he was the only one enslaved, but he'd rise and light the candle, the circles of pale yellow falling on his pen. The light was like the velvet curtain rising above the stage, the signal to push me down between folds of parchment again, creasing me with his ravaged nib. In the morning, I'd feel grateful for the ink stains that obscured my most recent reality. Smears and blobs fat as tears would make a better truth possible. You think I protest too much? A soliloquy in a pocket, another un-smooth course. The options could drive any muse mad. There are ghosts afoot tonight, and under a glass, the old story looms larger than life, as tangled as the weeds in my waterlogged hair.
How the Chipmunk Got Its Stripes
One interpretation of the Indian myth.
August 5, 2011
Separation Anxiety
She dreams he is coming home. A flicker of light upon a spine, he is floating toward her over food courts and luggage carousels, through time zones pocked with stoplights and the bulge of alternate lives. They never travel together, in case one doesn't make it back. Like the royals, they say. They argue "heir" and "spare" loudly enough to wake the neighbors. On the other hand, they flirt with the idea of suicide pacts, but in whispers, and only at dusk just before the streetlights come on.
The woman gets out of bed now, still dreaming, and stands in front of the refrigerator on one foot. She does not move, but waits there with nerves vibrating like colors on a map, one stumble away from whitewashed walls and worst case scenarios, disasters involving dynamite and ski-masks.
Upstairs in their bed, her sleeping man looks deeper into his mind's eye, searching out his oncoming train. The tracks beneath it are unmoving and soundless. The man stirs. The train fulfills its destiny.
Blood Lotus: An Online Literary Journal: BL #21
Thank you! Blood Lotus: An Online Literary Journal: BL #21: "In This Issue… Isaac James Baker Jason Bradford Rachel Bunting Thomas Michael Duncan C.B. Forrest Jennifer Givhan Scott Horn Monica Koeni..."
August 4, 2011
Kabir
Some friends of ours made us a gift of an excellent translation of the Songs of Kabir recently (without the "thees" and "thines") and I thought I'd share, virtually.
The mystic poet Kabir is said to have been born six hundred years ago. He died at the age of 120, and upon his death, his body turned into flowers. He's known for his couplets, but here is a longer piece:
The bhakti path winds in a delicate way.
On this path there is no asking and no not asking.
The ego simply disappears the moment you touch him.
The joy of looking for him is so immense that you just dive in,
and coast around like a fish in the water.
If anyone needs a head, the lover leaps up to offer
his.
Info and reviews about the book can be had here.
August 3, 2011
Grilled Cheese
She always liked grilled cheese sandwiches, the gooey melt of them, the buttery crustiness. Today, when she bites into the one I just made for her, her mouth turns down. She purses her lips.
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing."
"Not hungry?" She's never hungry these days, although she still worries about gaining weight-- the lifetime habit of a beautiful woman.
"It's your favorite," I remind her, pushing the plate closer to the table's edge. She says the sandwich has no flavor. She says it as if she's afraid of being overheard.
I take her to lunch at a new place the following day. She's restless and needs to get out, but the unfamiliar surroundings unsettle her. I point out the pictures on the wall similar to the ones in her bedroom, the identical plastic ficus. She hugs herself and looks at the door.
When the grilled cheese comes, there's the frown again. The pursing. "No flavor?" Nodding, this time she she has tears in her eyes.
We come home to a stack of junk mail. The people who send it seem to know she is ninety, are betting she has Alzheimer's. Orphans, the homeless, soldiers, and politicians all scream for donations. Sweepstakes promise her winnings in return for small fees. Even the legit causes she once supported with an annual gift, notice that she has lost track of time, and dun her monthly. The checkbook has long been hidden, but today I find a five dollar bill in a return envelope on top of the letters to be mailed.
"Would you like to go out for lunch today?" I ask her a few days later. We have been kept in by thunderstorms, which scare her although she cannot hear the actual thunder very well. "Let's go to that place..." she begins, and I hope I've guessed correctly when I open the door to her favorite coffee shop, the one she'd take us to after Sunday School and recitals, the place where we'd stop after shopping for new school outfits, a wedding dress, maternity clothes.
When her grilled cheese comes, she tucks into it as if it's the most delicious food she's ever tasted.
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing."
"Not hungry?" She's never hungry these days, although she still worries about gaining weight-- the lifetime habit of a beautiful woman.
"It's your favorite," I remind her, pushing the plate closer to the table's edge. She says the sandwich has no flavor. She says it as if she's afraid of being overheard.
I take her to lunch at a new place the following day. She's restless and needs to get out, but the unfamiliar surroundings unsettle her. I point out the pictures on the wall similar to the ones in her bedroom, the identical plastic ficus. She hugs herself and looks at the door.
When the grilled cheese comes, there's the frown again. The pursing. "No flavor?" Nodding, this time she she has tears in her eyes.
We come home to a stack of junk mail. The people who send it seem to know she is ninety, are betting she has Alzheimer's. Orphans, the homeless, soldiers, and politicians all scream for donations. Sweepstakes promise her winnings in return for small fees. Even the legit causes she once supported with an annual gift, notice that she has lost track of time, and dun her monthly. The checkbook has long been hidden, but today I find a five dollar bill in a return envelope on top of the letters to be mailed.
"Would you like to go out for lunch today?" I ask her a few days later. We have been kept in by thunderstorms, which scare her although she cannot hear the actual thunder very well. "Let's go to that place..." she begins, and I hope I've guessed correctly when I open the door to her favorite coffee shop, the one she'd take us to after Sunday School and recitals, the place where we'd stop after shopping for new school outfits, a wedding dress, maternity clothes.
When her grilled cheese comes, she tucks into it as if it's the most delicious food she's ever tasted.
