The Orphanage For Words

— By T R Ramachandran | Jul 19, 2015 12:54 am 

Poetic and haunting, these stories sum up the fleeting nature of emotions, about how deep they run for the time they do.

Shinie Antony is an instinctive writer with thoughts flooding her mind. Bestselling author Chetan Bhagat is a fan of hers. Her collection of short stories in her latest offering “The Orphanage For Words”, Shinie’s expressions are by and large smooth.

Clearly she is shaken by the sudden death of her father two years ago in whom she wanted to confide a lot of things. Being her favourite person in the family, she deeply regrets not having done so. The title of the book gets one thinking what to expect in it and will it tickle your imagination. If no one wants to use certain words, where do they go? This is especially so when fathers die and mothers don’t remember?

The book is essentially intended to document the “unsaid, what is forgotten, spoken long ago, means nothing anymore. The bad poetry of first love. Old yellowing letters at the bottom of a trunk. Words that jam your hands on the steering wheel long after the lights turn green. Lies men tell women to get them into bed, lies women tell the men they cheat. An old man holding his wife’s hand in dementia. The ungolden silence of silences…”

The twenty odd stories in the book seek to sum up the fleeting nature of emotions about how deep they run for the time they do… Shinie has written books of short stories, two novels and compiled anthologies. She won the Commonwealth short story prize for the Asia region in 2003. There is some fascinating description of emotion bursting into the open bringing to the fore how the mind constantly jumps from one topic to another. As expected characters are flawed as it is not possible for everyone to be perfect. This book appears different compared to the author’s other books.

The Orphanage For Words
Shinie Antony
Publisher: Rupa Publications
Pages: 179; Price: Rs 250

It is difficult to conjure up the themes of some of the short stories. The author like most daughters admits that her “father was the love of her life. If he is gone there is no one to call dad anymore. If your mother has Alzheimer’s she won’t respond to ‘mom’. The minute that affection is gone or mixed up with other feelings, you can continue to say ‘darling’ it won’t mean a thing. Shinie’s previous books have dealt with specific aspects of life. Her first book “Barefoot and Pregnant” was about dysfunctional motherhood; “Polygamous” about infidelities and “Séance on a Sunday Afternoon” about urban loneliness.

“The Ophanage For Words” is about loss, coming to terms with it. Let’s start with the words that make no sense in our life anymore. Loss demands a de-cluttering. Novels and stories are so different — one is leisurely telling, the other an urgent whisper. Writing is a complicated joy. She maintains real bonding comes through only at times of acute grief like death of a dear one or losing a body part. Whom can we turn to, whom to trust?

And is there such an entity — ever understanding, all forgiving, non-judgemental – that we can’t turn to? Our search and belief can scare us… Poetry is much more touching than prose. There is no point in writing anymore as the noise level in the book world is so high, it feels like all of us are talking all at once. I am not sure about any medium…may be everyone knows everything, nobody needs to read or listen anymore. Communication cannot work without the first basic frankness with self. Honest monologues might lead to honest dialogue. And if that traps them into themselves at least they are connecting with themselves, however non-normal as that might seem, she observes in interviews.

One thing that stands out in this book is that all the characters are fluently communicating with themselves. Shinie believes honest monologues might just lead to honest dialogue. In the chapter “Plans” she says that it is in a Bangalore pub that “I first thought of death. I come here every Friday evening to feel hot and happening. When I am drunk enough to slur my speech, I feel adequately social, kiss total strangers and exercise what a jealous colleague calls my ‘babe blues.'” Suddenly life became more interesting.

“There was something to look forward. Planning a classy end appealed to me. Nothing sustains like the promise of death. In fact from early adolescence I had the feeling of this surety that I would die before thirty.” But the minute she walks out of the pub, even before that if the truth be told, I would feel the darkness descend.” A kind of congealing in my core. Once someone commented on it and I almost panicked. The truth, like a dirty bra strap, is just over one’s shoulder.”

Then coming to the chapter of fathers, where she describes her dad as a self made man. A strong, active, rational person who lives for others. After ten wordless days on a ventilator following a massive stroke, he left early in September. She and her brother kept vigil in the hospital and got to meet him for two minutes in 24 hours. When they were told their father had only five minutes left they blinked stupidly. “He was the most fighting fit seventy-nine year ex-military man we knew. We stared at him blankly, sure we could reach if only we knew how. Then he came off the ventilator. Dad was demoted to be dead and there was not a thing we could do about it.”

In the chapter “Mornings” she observes “my whole world was crumbling, obsessing me with the cracks and strains; a second pregnancy. My husband’s spitting image is my first thought. Anything can be explained away if one obtains the right words or talks long enough or loud enough or believes in God, any God from the many out there.”

Speaking of hearts, the men were going to kneel around her in a circle so she’d wear a skirt entirely made of men. Only to this end did ‘M’ invokes the spirits of dead femme fatales. They came haunting on high heels, these bad girl ghosts, most as she had pictured them, with mussed hair and not a stitch on them.

May be trapped in their solitary cells as you say but they are fluently communicating with themselves. It is when the self-talk is at odds with what is ‘right’ or ‘accepted’ speech with another that they find themselves alienated.

Communication cannot work without that first basic frankness with self. The concluding story “Words” draws attention to slip of the tongue and sweet nothings, baby and bitch, killer lines and jokes that fall flat. For words once spoken have to go somewhere.” The book is about the fleeting nature of emotions.

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