In the introduction to The Punch Magazine Anthology of New Writing: Select Short Stories by Women Writers (Olive Turtle, an imprint of Niyogi Books), the editor and publisher of the magazine, Shireen Quadri, notes that the endeavour of this book was “to begin the new decade on a new note”.
Little did she know while inviting submissions in 2019 that in less than a year, the world would witness the breakout of a new viral infection — one that would wreak untold havoc. While the pandemic resulted in the delay of its publication, the final product featuring stories by 18 women from different countries was worth the wait.
While the concerns or backdrops may appear overrepresented, the way in which the stories unfold render them a freshness.
And all said and done, these are stories written by women writers. Unlike Gulzar, I don’t feel we shouldn’t celebrate this distinction and read this collection “without any prejudice of gender”. The very reason a collection of women's writing was/is needed is because they were/and continue to be ignored, erased, and face prejudice because of their gender. In that light, gender is a crucial discriminator because it tells you outrightly who the storyteller is and what’s being said in the story.
An understanding of interiority and perceptiveness are two qualities you'll find in abundance in this collection. It may not do justice to the observation completely, but here’s, for example, a segment from "Honour" by Rochelle Potkar: “Sometimes she wondered about those cars. What if someone was watching through darkened windows? What if they knew what she was up to? Those people with books on their laps…”
Further, sample this paragraph from the very first story of this collection "Static A. D." by Ameta Bal: “I love people, but I don’t trust them. They’re beautiful on their own, unaffected, alone in their heads, being true to themselves. But put a person in front of another person and you have two monsters.” It seems fitting now that this collection begins with this story, an echo of how people were trying to live with themselves in the isolation that the coronavirus pandemic resulted in.
There are stories in this collection in which growing up is scrutinised and also a few where we find characters rejoicing in the silliness that’s a product of restricted freedom in a gendered society — an unparalleled perk compared to the agony of being cut off. Anjali Doney’s "Pandemonium" is a case in point.
Then there are stories in which relationships are laid bare, the bonds of love are unbundled, and each strand is examined. And that’s the beauty of such stories. In particular, Geetha Nair G.’s "Falls" and Helen Harris’s Olya’s "Kitchen".
While the former will remind most of us of hopelessly falling in love with someone, the latter is a story where a grandmother’s language of unconditional love is feeding the family. Always particular about things, this grandmother leaves a void when she dies. Harris writes, “Our lives changed after Babushka Olya’s death. That summer, I turned 11, and in the autumn, I started secondary school. It was a new stage, and the loss of Babushka Olya and her cooking became part of the wider range.”
Humra Quraishi’s "Kashmir Valley’s Soofiya Bano", Meena Menon’s "The Closed Cinema", and Shilpa Raina’s "The Vacation" touch on sensitive issues, but even in doing so, these writers find that fine thread, a universal connection — humanity. Be it the exodus of the Kashmiri Pandits or the horrific tales of disappearances in the Valley, both find an uninhibited utterance in these stories as they highlight a wound that remains to be healed. While literature tries to spotlight the pressing issues, in real life, some wounds remain unhealed, some stories don’t find closure, and some people are never meant to be.
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