Strings 2
‘about lighthouses not having to move to save a ship’
September 2024
Three Parables
1. The Partition
All the women of the Malik family were specialists in the Partition of India. There was your Partition historian, the Partition economist, the Partition archivist, the Partition lawyer, the Partition cartographer, the Partition filmmaker, the Partition socialite, and finally the Partition psychologist. It was the firm opinion of these intelligent, accomplished women that the Partition of the country was “the transcendental horizon of all intellectual labor in the country.” There was nothing else worth working on.
So, when the daughter of the Partition psychologist decided to become a writer, it was naturally expected that she would become a Partition writer. After all she had the pedigree, the network, not to mention access to willing Partition publishers. Therefore, when it just so happened that the daughter instead wrote a sci-fi gothic novel — one that was well-written, imaginative, and original yet managing to be prescient — she was met with a reaction of acute and widespread horror. Her mother opposed her: at first vehemently, then threateningly, and finally punishingly. She lost access to the family’s network and marketing channels, was turned down by many of the leading publishers, and had to instead sign with a small, independent house.
Despite being well-written, the book had little success. The mother saw this as a cruel lesson and asked the daughter to reconsider. But the daughter was unwilling to submit, her pose was principled. Never could she give in to “that terribly overdone — even if important — outlook.” A few months later another book followed, and then another, and yet another — none of them having anything to do with the Partition or, for that matter, success — and each to the great embarrassment of her mother. Eventually, the daughter was “excommunicated” from the family and even barred from its burial grounds. She must “find another hill to die on,” were her mother’s precise, if loaded, words.
The estrangement between the mother and the daughter lasted the former’s lifetime. They never exchanged a word again. After her death, during the examination of her private papers, copious volumes of a monograph titled Reconciliation Dynamics were discovered. In the preface, she made comments pertaining to her relationship with her daughter. Written with searing honesty, it mourned the ruin of their relationship and summarily blamed the Partition itself for the fracture. She regretted ever having been a Partition psychologist and the contrition induced her to make reconciliation an apparent subject of obsessive interest. The work was later published to great acclaim and proved to be her magnum opus, and she came to be known as the reconciliation psychologist of the Malik family.
Meanwhile, not long before her own death, the non-Partition novelist finished worked on a memoir of her own. Its principal concern was the breakdown of the relationship with her mother. She went into poignant details of her childhood and the grief of the subsequent estrangement. After her death, her own daughter — admirably the Partition philanthropist — sought publication of the accounts. The book was published — by the Partition publishers — under the title Mother and Daughter: A Tale of Partition, and proved to be the biggest success of her career. In the following years, she came to be known as the Partition memoirist of the Malik family.
Through the efforts of the partition philanthropist, the remains of both the reconciliation psychologist and the partition memoirist were exhumed and their burial sites exchanged.
2. The Artist
Arguing that “there could be no greater truth expressed than what is revealed in the artist’s face,” a budding painter decided to devote his career solely to the creation of elaborate self-portraits. This made it difficult for the young man — who had no other talent besides painting — to establish himself. Critics were not interested in the “tedious and narcissistic exercise of the total egomaniac.” Nor were the audience who found the face “ungainly.” But the painter was incorrigible, and continued with his work, perfecting the unevenness of his nose, the asymmetry of his eyes, and the angularity of his cheeks that shrivelled further with each finished work.
His anxious mother, a very religious woman, sought divine intervention. She learned of a charismatic, up-and-coming holy man in the city and wrote to him asking for a miracle “(not advice, as none could be heeded).” She also enclosed some money, with the promise of further, more liberal, donations when things improved.
A week later, the son received a letter from an anonymous patron offering to buy every single one of his self-portraits, along with a contract for future works. Over the next months, he completed several fresh paintings and sent them to a warehouse as instructed. In turn, he was promptly paid and given a kind note of acknowledgement. The mother, on her end, never failed to send money to the holy man.
The painter was eager to know more. One day, he went to the warehouse and saw there a beautiful middle-aged woman hanging about the premises. Shy at first, she confirmed, indeed, that she was his patron. She admitted to having been enamoured by the striking portraits of the painter (they lay in the “dust pile” of a gallery), and could not be helped but have them for herself. But the situation had been awkward for her as she was a reputable woman with a husband of her own. The anonymity was therefore necessary. Regardless, such great appraisal from a beautiful woman excited the painter and he invited her to his house. He wanted her to meet his mother.
Throughout the meeting, the painter’s mother was disconcerted. She watched with sharp unease, but very closely, the easy banter between her son and the middle-aged woman. It was also transparent to her that the woman was of a similar age as herself. Perhaps, she was even a few years older! But while this woman was yet graceful and beautiful, she herself had grown gaunt and pale. Decades of stern family life and tending to the stubborn son had robbed her — rather prematurely, she thought — of her youthful colours.
After meeting with the beautiful middle-aged woman, the son completed work on a portrait that for the first time revealed a happier aspect of his face, one not wrought by fatigue and despair but in the full colour of incipient romance. Meanwhile, his mother, irked by the episode, abruptly stopped the payments to the holy man.
A few days later, the son received the following note:
Dear S—,
Thank you for the portrait, but I should inform you that our contract must
end. I am afraid that I sense an unnerving quality in the latest work. A
strange colour seems to have set upon your face that has permanently
altered my perception of your work. I can no longer look at you as before.
Best,
M—
3. The Advice
After the wedding, just as the bride was leaving for her in-laws, the bride’s mother gave her the same advice that her own mother had given her: “you must learn to fake it.” Soon after, she died. It was unclear to the young bride what exactly it was that had to be faked: was it something specific? Happiness or anger? Pride or sorrow? Deference or grievance? Love or hatred? Love and hatred? Or was it — not improbably — everything? Over the decades, there were moments of great difficulty and upheaval in her life, but not once did the advice prove useful. The mother’s words had gradually been forgotten. Until one day when her own daughter was leaving for her in-laws and she looked at the terrified face of the young bride, just as her own mother must have looked at hers, the only words she could summon were: “you must learn to fake it.”
UTKARSH ADHRIT is a writer from Patna, India. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in SUSPECT, Gordon Square Review, The Metaworker, and elsewhere. He is currently based in New Delhi.
