Sanjay Nigam's
The Non-Resident Indian and Other Stories
IndiaStar--A Literary-Art Magazine
Non-Resident Indian and Other Stories
Reviewed by Robbie Clipper Sethi [Editor's intro:
Non-Resident Indian and Other Stories begins with the myth of Trishanku, in a prologue entitled "Stuck." A mortal desirous of immortality, Trishanku pays for his brief stay with the gods by spending eternity "stuck" between heaven and earth watching souls transmigrate from one life to the next. Trishanku is Nigam's metaphor for the non-resident Indian, "stuck" in a variety of North American locales, from New York to Texas, Phoenix, Albuquerque, Los Angeles and others. At Walden Pond, Arvind Prakash Sehgal reconnects with his youth as a college radical in India. In the southwestern desert, a giant sequoia grows in memory of Uma, from "a hill station at the border of Mysore and Kerala, one of the most fertile regions on the planet." The range of settings is impressive. Nigam's n-r I's may not live in India, but they live all over the United States. Characters in these stories are certainly stuck, though whether they are trapped between heaven and earth, watching souls transmigrate, is up for interpretation. Most of Nigam's protagonists are men, from a snake charmer, in the only story set entirely in India, "Charming," to a doctor in New Jersey, who fancies himself the descendent of Rajput kings. Here again Nigam's range is exceptional. An independent Indian widow in upstate New York flies in the face of stereotypes of the sari-clad, duty-bound mother. When Nigam's narration settles into the consciousnesses of his strongest characters, the stories develop beautifully. In "The Window" a chemist's dissatisfaction with his well-paying career in the pharmaceutical industry is believably and touchingly represented. American Thoreau influences yet another Indian in Arvind, though he is no Gandhi. Nigam's "It was his life, even if it was measly" echoes Thoreau's "The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation." In "Another New York Story" Pradeep tells the story of his work at the family business -- a Manhattan news stand -- his TV-addicted sister, his Idahoan friend, Carl's praise for an Indian fast-food restaurant that substitutes tabasco and ketchup for curry, his love for a frustrated, would-be actress. Pradeep treats Cindy to as good a description of New York as I have ever read: "Living here is like being tied down in front of two TV sets. On one, you're bombarded by slick music videos -- tanned bods and shiny metal -- and simultaneously, on the other set, they hit you with non-stop horror: freaks, blood, filth. This is your life, and you live it like it's quite normal, even though nothing jibes with anything else." Pradeep's self-deprecating voice is refreshing and funny, despite how stuck he is between those televisions. "Waitresses hate me," he muses: I suppose I come off abrupt and snotty. Not that I mean to be. But it's a strange feeling, sitting at a restaurant table, being skipped by the waitress in favour of a customer who arrived later. A mistake, no doubt. Still, I wonder, is it because I'm not white? "Numbers" tells the story of an Albuquerque math professor, Arun Bakshi, who can neither figure out his daughter's word problems nor the new tax laws, though in college in India they called him "the mathemagician" and his American colleagues, after his paper is accepted for publication, call him "Ramanujan Junior." Nigam's sense of humor, a deft, compelling voice, is his greatest asset in these stories. His purpose is not so much to recreate reality as to capture the essence of his characters' consciousness, whatever it may be. The usual demands for plausilility must be suspended to appreciate these stories. Many are more symbolic of life in America than representational. Some are surrealistic, some downright kinky. Their subject matter and Nigam's flexible narrative technique are further evidence of Nigam's remarkable range. The title story is a long development of the consciousness of Navin Kumar, descendent of Rajput kings, suburban New Jersey doctor, as dissatisfied with his life as any mid-life casualty could be, compounded with nostalgia for India that cannot be banished to the past, even by the pre-monsoon heat on a trip from which he does not wish to return. I am not sure how Nigam's luxurious epilogue, "Battle's End" fits into the collection. Ghatotkacha lies dying after the apocalyptic battle of the Pandavas, despairing of his dual nature and his troubled relationship with his father. Is the n-r I half monster, half-human being? What half is the monster? Is Bhima, the strongest of men, symbolic of the culture from which n-r I's have come? Nigam may be carrying the influence of R.K. Narayan in these opening and closing pieces, as in the story, "Charming," which does not develop nearly as well as the portrayals of immigrant Indian males, young or not so young. When his own, unique voice breaks free of influences, Nigam's writing can be brilliant. These stories would suggest a kind of monstrosity in immigration to a country that has always identified itself as white, despite evidence to the contrary. But, as with the half-and-half character of the Mahabharata, there's something thoroughly noble in that monster. |