Giving presents is fun, although not the drudgery of looking for them. So before coming back to Sri Lanka for a visit this year, I asked my friends what they wanted. The requests were mostly predictable: tea, of course, and spices; batik sarongs and devil masks also made the list. One asked for something that, in the jargon of the export sector, would be called a non-traditional item: a local novel.
No problem, I thought. The 1990s were a great time for Sri Lankan writing in English what with Michael Ondaatje endowing a prize, and it looked like everyone with a disk drive (plus many who stick to ribbon and paper) was inspired to write. If anything, I'd have an abundance of choice. So thinking, I promised her a good read.
But I couldn't just walk into a Colombo bookshop and browse the shelves. I am, after all, a literary critic with a theoretical bent. First of all I had to decide: what makes a good Sri Lankan novel?
The trouble with a literary training is that you can't avoid inhaling the aesthetic. Even if you take classes only with Leftists, quality has a way of corrupting your oxygen. For years, I gave my friends Running in the Family on their birthdays, for passing comprehensive exams, or as aeroplane reading for long trips. I loathed the book for its orientalism; but it was Sri Lankan and, more importantly, 'well written'. It didn't, as it were, let the side down. This time, I was determined not to add to Ondaatje's royalties. (I teach The English Patient in virtually every class, anyway.) This time, I was going to find some thing that took the question of form seriously and made the reader reconsider reality. Any good piece of Sri Lankan writing—journalistic, literary, academic, whatever — must make its reader see Sri Lanka, if not the world, at least slightly differently. It should give pleasure, but also tax the grey cells a little.