Book: SILKEN GAZELLES
Author: Jokha Alharthi
Published by: Simon & Schuster
Price: Rs 699
The narratives of Jokha Alharthi combine the mundane with the semi-mystical. Her prose — even in translation — comes off as redolent of the very common as well as the ineffable. Her latest book, Silken Gazelles, is no exception.
In all her works, Alharthi talks about the system of falaj, the ancient irrigation canals that carry water to the fields and arable lands in the small villages tucked away in folds of mountains in Oman. Her narrative also resembles the intricate network of falaj; voices come together, narrative times overlap, chronology goes to and fro, and the readers are left with a sense of deep, poignant longing that is also felt by the characters.
Silken Gazelles is a chronicle of three intertwined lives of three children who grow up to be women in the course of the story — Ghazaala, Asiya, and Harir. Ghazaala and Asiya are “milk sisters”; nursed by the same woman, they grew up in a little mountain hamlet far away from Muscat. Harir, on the other hand, lived in a house on the sea shore. A purported accident results in the death of Asiya’s younger sister, Zahwa, and her— and by extension, Ghazaala’s — mother, Sadaa, dies of grief. Asiya leaves the neighbourhood, never to come back again. At the university, Harir and Ghazaala meet and become friends. Harir, who lives on the campus, is intrigued by the girl on the floor above hers who is always reticent and never interacts with anyone. This girl vanishes one day without completing her degree. Ghazaala never knew that her long lost “milk sister” had been in the university with her, and never gets to meet her. It seems that Asiya’s very presence is chimerical; she would not be caught by those who take a real interest her and, thereby, might tie her into a relationship.
Ghazaala, on the other hand, has a great longing for love. Unlike Harir’s diary entries in first person, her story is narrated by an omniscient third-person narrator. The men in this novel, as in Alharthi’s previous one, The Bitter Orange Tree, are often irresponsible deserters. It is the women who keep the vessel of life afloat. Ghazaala’s husband, whom she had married in court without her parents’ permission, leaves her with their twin sons. Her two successive lovers, referred to by her as “The Singer to the Queen” and the “Elephant” are also irresponsible in their love. The commitment that women often want in a relationship is often missing in their respective partners.
The novel is divided into four parts. They help the story progress and, at the same time, play loose and fast with narrative time. As Harir writes in her diary, “Where is time anyway? How can it pass us by like this — like a river that flows on and on — and then how can it simply stop as if assaulted by a winter freeze?” Times flows on in this novel but sometimes also loops back upon itself, often to tell the tale of a not-so-significant character, like that of Ghazaala’s aunt, Maliha. The tapestry of characters that Alharthi creates is bewildering, dazzling and exquisite. Even minor characters are given a kind of life that they become unforgettable, like Raayaa, the beggar woman who could not stop herself from begging even when her sons are able to maintain her in comfort. The idiosyncrasies of the characters make them memorable.
Silken Gazelles is a narrative about the search for love, about tormented conscience, about trying to hold onto loved ones. It has a poignancy and depth that make it a remarkable and interesting read.
