My main influences in writing this book and others in the series have been my heroes and master storytellers, R. K. Narayan, and Ruth Prawer Jhabvala; sadly, neither still with us. Their writing influenced my life in a way I could never have imagined, and the characters they wrote about have never left me. I was in love. I can still conjure them up in a second, as well as the houses, streets, and towns they lived in. They were stories where the small things, the minutiae of life, were equal to if not more important than the larger events, which I now believe to be the very essence of humanity.
I am not an Indian like Narayan, nor am I married to one as Jhabvala was. My orphaned father came to the UK as a refugee, fleeing Lithuania on the advance of Stalin, and a likely transportation to the salt mines of Siberia if he was captured. My mother came from Italy to find work, and my sister and I were born in England. There were many like us at that time, born in one country, yet living alongside two more. For me, the fracture of identity began almost immediately, and has continued throughout my life. Maybe it was that same fracture which created my fascination with India, as something entirely separate and seemingly far less confusing than the multi-language, multi-cultural home that I lived in? On reflection, much of my childhood was wonderful, with song and dance, parties, and people from all three nations. Our lives were rich with experience, words and food, yet two questions refused to be answered. Where was I from, and more importantly, where did I belong?
As a psychotherapist, and then a writer, the questions kept coming. My observations, imagination and dreams encompass the world, but should my writing do the same? How far can reading, learning and imagination take me when it comes to writing about the ‘other?’ For me, and many others of mixed parentage, who is the other? Should we be confined to only writing about our country of birth, or should we write about the country of a parent? If so, which one? Should we be restricted to a single race, that is, our own, or a bloodline? If we are multi-racial, which race? Some of my relatives came from Sicily and have features and names that might connect them to the Moors who inhabited the region in the Middle Ages, with dark skin and black, tightly curled hair, yet others are blue-eyed and blonde. There are possible links to other races too. How far back should one go? At what point does learning, imagination and fiction become an arrogant, ‘authoritative knowing’ that might cause offence, and rightly so? Just where do the limits lie?
Most writers are now aware of cultural appropriation, yet the parameters are unclear. If all writing about the ‘other’ ceased, including historical and travel, (and why should one cease and not those too?) then a large portion of the literary world would collapse like a house of cards. At the end of the day, we are all part of a single human race, and far more is shared than divides us. We are all ‘other.’ People have always studied each other’s lives, and re-lived them through imagined, fictional narratives. Writers build bridges to ‘other’ worlds, and hopefully will always continue to do so.
Perhaps it is the intent behind the story that matters? Perhaps if we follow softly in the footsteps of those who have gone before, and honour their experiences, both past and present; are mindful of those we have conjured up; remind ourselves and our readers that these are after all works of fiction; remain endlessly curious and forever humble; always hold respect for our subjects and readers, and remain in a place of continual learning yet never fully knowing; then certain paths can still be trodden?
I hope so, and also truly hope that I have achieved that here. Readers of various races and cultures say I have, but I remain open to kind correction if at any time I overstep the mark.
Thank you and all good wishes
A. K. Karla