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Gauri Awasthi: In reading the first story of your collection, “Skylark Girl,” I was immediately struck by the idea of what constitutes magical realism and then kept returning and questioning it as I read through the world of the stories. Especially in the context of writing from folk and oral history traditions that often come with othering and are categorized as magic realism, though they might be lived realities in one way — which is directly handled in the academic context of that particular story. Could you share your ideas on genre when writing fiction?

Aruni Kashyap: Thanks for these observations! I was primarily thinking about my location as a writer from Assam in India’s Northeast when I wrote the story, “Skylark Girl.” I think writers from under-discussed literary traditions not only have to write towards a vacant space, as there is little discourse about the places they write about, but also are often forced to feed into the stereotypes — if at all they exist — about the locations they come from. Numerous stereotypes existed about Assam and the wider Northeastern region when I moved to Delhi twenty years ago. I don’t know how much has changed now as I have not lived there many years, but being a writer from Assam meant that you would be writing about violence, the Assam-India conflict, and secessionist insurgency. I did write about that, but I also wanted to write about the ghosts my grandmother talked about, the haunted houses, and the talking parrots that are part of our folk tales. I found there was no interest in that. I was repeatedly forced to fill a gap that journalism created, and state-sanctioned narratives had erased.

The incident in “Skylark Girl” is based on a real-life event that has happened many times. In this instance, I was asked why I don’t write about the violence that has wrecked the state (which I have written about, by the way); the questioner had no idea, and that’s alright. But my explanation wasn’t appreciated. Instead, the person later came to me and said they felt very attacked by my response. It is astonishing: you ask a stupid question, and when you are unintentionally exposed as a fool by the answer, you accuse me of attacking you? I had no intention to expose the stupidity of the questioner. I simply answered the question. But that would have been unbelievable and uninteresting in fiction, and my intent was not to ridicule, so I had to make Sanjib — the protagonist of the story, an Assamese writer— a little prickly.

But on a broader level, I am asking questions about Postcolonial Literature or Global Anglophone literature: is it possible to write in English by remaining acutely aware of and consciously borrowing from Indigenous and vernacular aesthetics? That is a question I am trying to ask in every book of mine, and in this book, I wanted to explore it through a set of short narratives. It is an essential question to me as an academic who contributes to this body of work that is now often called Global Anglophone. Is it possible to embrace a decolonial aesthetic by embracing the folk, the oral, and the vocabulary? These are my literary questions. I don’t think magic realism is a term that adequately describes what I am doing, but I am OK using it if we don’t have another term for it. These literary terms have a shelf-life. If my fiction asks provocative and subversive questions, I am fine.

GA: I love the lines of questioning you present, particularly: “Is it possible to write in English by remaining acutely aware of and consciously borrowing from Indigenous and vernacular aesthetics?” I am in absolute agreement with you about questioning the very vocabulary. Relatedly, since you are a translator and grew up with the mechanics of languages different from English — could you speak to the effect that has on your narrative or dialogue, if any? 

AK: I think my writing is always aware that it is operating from a multilingual space. Sometimes, I have even borrowed, taking a leaf from writers such as Chinua Achebe, idioms and phrases from Assamese language when I felt like expanding the possibilities of English. The good thing about the English language is that it is highly porous. Again, to borrow a simile from Assamese language, English is like the “potato” — it goes with all kinds of curries! But at the same time, I am aware that the current practices of linguistic insularity in the anglophone cultures — especially in the US — is untenable. As a writer and academic, I have endeavored to imagine a multilingual literary culture, write an English that [carries] the lilt of the other languages that are part of my emotional and intellectual make-up. I also hope these concerns are evident in the way I write fiction, and I think this is best exemplified in my short story collection The Way You Want to Be Loved (Gaudy Boy, 2024) where I try to straddle my fiction writing practice of both western and vernacular and Indigenous literary tradition. This is the space I am also most comfortable with as it allows me to maintain a distance from neoliberal identity politics that centers a very commercial version of the self instead of centering community, literary imagination, and an unflinching eye towards the brutalities of the world.

GA: There is a clear conflict between colonial and postcolonial themes running throughout the collection, echoing R. K. Narayan’s ideas from his essay “A Literary Alchemy.” In it, he presents his concept of Indian English, which he believes to be the inevitable result of a natural process. He argues, “We have fostered the language for over a century and are entitled to align it with our own habits of thought and idiom. Americans have adapted the English language to suit their native mood and speech without feeling apologetic and have achieved directness and clarity in expression.” What challenges do you face when writing in English, especially for publication in the West?

AK: I don’t think my challenges are unique or widely different from other immigrant writers from the Global South or writers of color in this country. It is true that since I am from a space that is so little depicted in Indian English fiction and doesn’t feed into the existing ideas of India that is replete with biriyani and Bollywood, some agents and editors have been befuddled. I work as a translator, as you know. Once, an editor responded to my translated pitch from Assamese by saying that they could only read French, so they couldn’t evaluate the novel I pitched. It is an absurd response; I wonder how they are in a reputed press! Does this mean this editor would only publish French writers in English translation for the rest of their life? Wouldn’t that be a terrible business strategy for the press? I have been told no one cares about Assam, so please set your novels in X city or X country. But all these things are confusing and often ill-informed. Do we read Garcia Marquez because we simply want to know about Colombia? Should I look only for Mississippi in Faulkner? Do we read Achebe just because I am curious about Nigeria? We read novels because we are forever fascinated by human life, the joys and sorrows of human life. I love Achebe because he created immortal characters such as Okonkwo and Ikemefuna. I want mainly to be judged — and that is not asking for much, by the way — based on my ability to write good sentences, create characters, and plot a story; the rest of them are background noise: important like a canvas, indispensable, you can’t create the joys and sorrows of the human heart in its absence, but still a canvas?

GA: I struggle with this question myself, so I am bound to ask you selfishly — as someone who has an assumed “Indian identity” and very different experiences, at what part of the writing process do you think about the responsibilities to where you come from as telling the story you want to tell? Are they ever in conflict? Or, is the conflict more from the outside world and less internal? 

AK: What a fantastic question! I used to write with this anxiety. This is because I have admired writers of political fiction all my life. But over the years, I have realized that since I am worried about human rights, justice, and inequality, those concerns will involuntarily get filtered through my characters’ stories, consciousness, actions, and choices. The prose will carry the cadence of my social preoccupations and emotional responsibilities. I leave the job of representing Assam to Priyanka Chopra, who got money from Assam Tourism and the politicians of Assam, and anyone else who wants to do the job. It is undoubtedly not my job. I am joking, but it is also partly true. The best writing emerges when we surrender to the process. Eventually, our prose is like our mirror: it will capture everything that we care about and don’t care.

GA: That makes so much sense because you write about the nuances of so many different characters in this collection. What is your process of characterization — especially in writing the range of the dutiful daughter-in-law to the local politician. 

AK: I think writing from a variety of perspectives is the most challenging as well the most rewarding aspects of fiction writing. Just like an actor channels the core of the character through imagination and empathy, we do the same. I do get my inspiration from my favorite writers. But also, from an Assamese storytelling technique called Thiyo Naam where one storyteller (or performer) stands in the middle of a circle of people and tells both folk and mythological tales for the whole night. I first saw this, transfixed in 1994, when my grandmother passed away. On the day of her memorial, my father and uncles invited a local troupe to perform Thiyo Naam at our ancestral home in Teteliguri Village, Assam. The performance lasts several hours, sometimes overnight. There is, in most cases, one performer, but sometimes, I have seen two as well. But a single person, while telling the story, assumes the persona or perspective of a wide range of characters effortlessly. This is an incredible and powerful act of empathy, imagination, and must be aspired to by all fiction writers to write convincing characters. Almost always, these storytellers would use only a shawl or a small piece of cloth or a gamusa to assume the role of different characters. Just by folding the shawl, or wrapping it in different specific ways, the storyteller became a different character. Hence, it was almost mundane to me — since I grew up listening to stories being told this way — to write from a variety of points of view.

GA: What and who makes your literary lineage? Any books you absolutely recommend? 

AK: So many! My mother’s first novel; Jun, Beli, Tora Aru Onyanno by Dipti Dutta Das from where I learned the basics of fiction writing. Ayanato by Arupa Patangia Kalita is a perennial favorite – it was perhaps the first full-length novel I finished reading cover to cover, in a single day; it is available from Zubaan Books as Dawn, translated by the wonderful Ranjita Biswas who is an amazing translator from Assamese to English. Faulkner has been a long-term guru. I especially love As I Lay Dying, for its ability to move between so many points of view. Garcia Marquez, whose fiction sort of granted me permission to write stories that my grandmother told me. Toni Morrison for her prose, for her blend of humor, politics and storytelling; I would recommend Song of Solomon to anyone. Nadine Gordimer’s short stories and novels: Africa Emergent, The Ultimate Safari, and Rain Queen are some of my favorite short stories and I return to them again and again. Her work and style also enables me to write about politics in Assam because her work is just perfect when it comes to commentary on the intersection of the personal with the political. Also, how can I not mention Amitav Ghosh? His book, The Shadow Lines, saved my life. If I had not read The Shadow Lines and Song of Solomon when I was in my undergrad first year, I wouldn’t have become a writer nor an English professor. Bhupen Hazarika’s memoir and lyrics: absolutely wonderful. I really hope I will be able to spend a lot of time in Columbia University’s archives and campus to find out about Bhupen Hazarika’s time as a student there and his strong friendship with Paul Robeson!

GA: You’ve had quite the literary year; I hope you don’t mind me saying that! But there is so much good book news. If I may probe, what’s next? And what advice do you have for other writers? 

AK: I am working on a new novel, which I am calling my Radcliffe Novel, as I am writing it during my fellowship year at the Radcliffe Institute of Advanced Study at Harvard University. It is a work of autofiction titled My Brother and the Fortune Tellers. I read an excerpt from it here.

The advice for other writers is the advice I give myself, and I wish I had known this 20 years ago: read widely, be an omnivorous reader. If you are not excited about the act of writing and deleting and rewriting; if you think writing is “work” and not a meditative, soul-nourishing practice; if you think the world owes you something because you have worked hard; if you are not supporting and nourishing other writers — it may be a small set every year and that’s okay; then it will be a difficult and sorrowful journey. We must do this because we love it and believe it will change the world. Everything else, the money, the launch, the awards, the fellowships, is a party. In a way, we spend our whole life wondering how to tell a story to change the world, isn’t it? That is a lot of self-confidence and hubris, too, but it also comes with a ton of self-doubt and pain.

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