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In the Convent of Little Flowers: Stories, by Indu Sundaresan
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Now in paperback, internationally bestselling author Indu Sundaresan presents a poignant collection of contemporary short stories about the challenges and consequences faced by women in Indian life today.
Like Jhumpa Lahiri’s Interpreter of Maladies, Indu Sundaresan’s In the Convent of Little Flowers gives readers an eloquent and illuminating collection of stories about contemporary Indian life, exploring the cutting-edge issues that surround the clash between ancient tradition and modernity. In the collection’s title story, a young woman adopted by an American family in Seattle receives a letter from Sister Mary Theresa, a nun at the Convent of Little Flowers in Chennai, where she stayed as a child. Unbeknownst to the Indian woman, the nun is her biological mother’s sister. In another story, the grandmother of an Indian journalist begs her grandson to intervene and stop a young widow from being burned alive. And when a teenaged daughter bears a child out of wedlock, her entire family is thrown into turmoil. With their lush prose, vividly rendered settings, and complex characters, these and the other stories in this elegant collection bring readers into the experience of Indian women at home and abroad, where modernity offers them lives their grandmothers could never dream of, while at the same time taking away parts of their history. With a delicate touch, Indu Sundaresan weaves the pieces of the conflict together, presenting a nuanced and unforgettable tapestry.
- Sales Rank: #865902 in Books
- Brand: Sundaresan, Indu
- Published on: 2009-09-15
- Released on: 2009-09-15
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 8.25" h x 1.00" w x 5.31" l, .45 pounds
- Binding: Paperback
- 240 pages
From Publishers Weekly
Sundaresan (The Twentieth Wife) bluntly questions how evolved the globalized world truly is in these stories of individuals trapped between India's archaic traditions and blitz into modernity. In Three and a Half Seconds, Meha and Chandar's arranged but loving marriage blossoms regardless of the unease they feel regarding the violent peculiarities of their son, Bikaner. As their humble but hard working lives wind down, they become victims of abuse in the home that they share with Bikaner and his wife. In The Faithful Wife, Ram, a journalist, is called home by his grandmother to intervene in a sati, the immolation of a widow on her husband's funeral pyre. The widow in this case is a 12-year-old girl. Finally, in Hunger, two women re-evaluate their own worth as well as their own definitions of love and happiness. The stories are sobering, all the more so for Sundaresan's nuanced character work and blistering social critique; she doesn't pull any punches in her heartbreaking and sometimes repulsive portrayals of oppressors and victims. (Dec.)
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
About the Author
Indu Sundaresan is the author of four novels, including The Twentieth Wife and The Feast of Roses. Born and raised in India, she now lives in Washington State.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Shelter of Rain In my childhood
Deep equator skies
Whitened by an unforgiving sun
I stand now
Under the shelter of rain
I arrive at SeaTac airport early, two hours ahead of time. The terminal is deserted now, with yawning, shiny seats. After I sit, a little girl and her mother come to settle across from me, although empty places stretch to the far corner and, I think, around. The girl carries a sand bucket, which she sets down on the well-trodden carpet. Then, with a spade, she scoops imaginary sand in and out of the bucket. I watch the child's face, her cheeks puffed in whistleless concentration, her hair cut in little-girl bangs, her arms sturdy in a summer frock's sleeves. I was once like this girl -- but also so different. I played in the red earth under the shade of a banyan tree, the mud coloring my palms for weeks. I had forgotten those days. But the letter came out of nowhere, with no warning, to remind me.
As I shift in my seat, the letter crackles against my leg. I take it out of my jeans pocket and smooth it over a knee. The paper is rough, unfinished, torn out of a child's handwriting practice notebook; there are sets of four lines throughout the page, the top and bottom ones red, the inner two blue. It has been so long, yet I remember the exhortations to fit capital letters between the red lines and small letters between the blue. That was how, all those years ago, I learned to write. I look again at the paper, and the blue ink swarming over the page swims into a haze.
Since the letter came a month ago, I have thought of nothing else. An envelope blue as my mother Diana's gaze lay on the kitchen counter for that time. In it, looped in an old, educated hand, words blurring before my now often-tired eyes, there is the story of another mother. The letter says she gave birth to me, not Diana. She lies sick in her house on Chinglepet street in Chennai.
A map of India has taken up permanent residence on the dining table at home. I could see the map through the corner of my eye no matter what room I was in. I knew I came from that country, twenty-three years ago, but I had not known from where. The letter told me where. It came from the Convent of Little Flowers in Chennai. We have always had beautiful young girls here. Girls whose mothers could not keep them, dear Padmini. I hope that is still your name. It means the lotus flower. All our little girls have been named thus, after flowers. You came to us with that name. Your mother gave you the name. I am sure you have grown up to be as beautiful as the serene lotus in a village pond.
Tears come each time I read those lines. How dare she -- Sister Mary Theresa -- write me after so many years? I was six when Tom and Diana Merrick took me from the Convent of Little Flowers. They have never been back to India since. And neither have I. Now I am no longer that child who left.
There is a faded black-and-white picture in one of Mom's photo albums. Diana, I mean, not the woman on Chinglepet street. In it I stand with an expression so scared, so beaten, I cannot recognize myself. The picture was taken two weeks before I left India. My feet are bare, my hair in a braid swings over one skinny shoulder, a new white frock sprayed with purple flowers billows over my knees. I remember I hated the day of the year when the frocks came. I do not look at that picture very often. And yet this Sister Mary Theresa, Mother Superior, talks of it and brings back the sun-drenched mud courtyard in the shadow of the Gemini bridge. Your mother would send frocks for you on every birthday. Somehow, she always knew the right size. For your sixth birthday it was a sleeveless white frock printed with purple lilacs. Have you seen a lilac blossom, Padmini? Your mother liked flowers. Believe me, the dress each year was more than she could afford to do then. Her circumstances had changed, questions would have been asked, but she was brave, she always remembered.
I volunteered to go on call every week after the letter came. My colleagues stared at me in disbelief at first, then escaped thankfully to their suntan lotions and backyards. But I did not care. If I was going to stay awake anyway through the July nights, I might as well keep my mind numbingly occupied. The ER at Harborview is not the place for dreaming of old memories, just brief stunning reflections of how stupid people can get when it comes to injuring themselves. I spent eight hours in surgery one memorable day trying to stitch a twenty-three-year-old man's hand back to his forearm while across the table from me, the ophthalmologist on call worked in tandem on his blown-out right eye. He had tried to pick up a lit cherry bomb.
Yet for me, there was always time to think of the letter. My mother always remembered, Mary Theresa says. But she never remembered to visit. Did she ever come? Did I know her when she came? Or did she just stand on the white-washed verandah and watch me play under the shade of the many-armed banyan in the courtyard?
That memory comes back too. One I do not want. One I try to hold away. But once dredged up, it is here to stay. Why did that letter come? Damn Sister Mary Interfering Theresa. I suddenly remember her too. Short -- even to a child she seemed so -- with kind black eyes behind thick glasses. Soda Booddies, we used to call them. Soda bottle glasses, disfigured by thickness. Mary Theresa had a plump face, spotted by an unrepentant and errant not-yet-eradicated smallpox. Yet her starched white wimple and her wide smile and her gentle hands that never held the neem tree-child-beating branch made us oblivious to it. But we talked under that banyan. She must have joined the convent because no man would marry her. A smallpox-pitted face is not exactly marriage market material. She was also dark. Even as six-year-olds we knew those things. What a pity, we would think, she would have made a wonderful mother. And we would turn yearning glances to the verandah when she appeared, each of us thinking, make me your child, don't be mother to everyone.
Sometimes Mary Theresa would walk down the verandah doing her day's work. Sometimes -- very often, actually -- she would stand with a woman or a man from the outside and point toward our group, or another one. We were far enough away not to know whom she was pointing at. But we knew that man or woman was either one of our parents or a relative come to see us, or, as we often hoped, someone who would make us theirs. It would be a bizarre game for us, watching these people -- perhaps related to us by blood, perhaps judging us as their future children -- trying to guess whom they belonged to. Sister Mary says my mother always remembered. Did she also come to stand on that verandah? Which one was she?
It never bothered me then. I wonder why it bothers me now. No one has pointed at me for twenty-three years from across a dusty courtyard.
I came away from that hot city to rainy green Seattle. Tom and Diana lived in a golden western sun-lit condo on Queen Anne Hill. Everything about those three words excited me. Queen. I had seen pictures of one. Anne. The name of a queen. And hill. I had not seen a hill before. Chennai, Mary Theresa tells me now, is flat. I had not seen mountains feathered with wayward snow on October evenings. I had not seen the sun set behind the Olympics or the ferry making its lone streaking way through the calm Puget Sound. Or Mount Rainier, glorious godly Mount Rainier, suddenly appearing on the horizon. For months, I knelt before the windows of our home (how easily the our comes now) and watched the sun set each day. I remember Dad, shattered in Vietnam -- not from bodily harm -- yelling out at night and Mom soothing, crooning, holding him in her arms, lit by the streetlight outside the windows. I would stand at the door to their room and watch until they called me to their bed to lie between them. Until then I had only seen little flowers cry at night, not grown men.
My life since has been peppered by Seattle rain. Rain in the winter -- hardly had that in Chennai -- rain in the spring, and summer and fall. Chennai is very close to the equator. It must be hot. I remember now it is hot. Is that why I love the rain?
I did not choose this life. I did not even choose to be born, let alone to this nameless woman in the southeast corner of India. I did not choose to be given away, or be taken by the sunny blond couple who stood on the verandah one day and, I think, pointed at me. But they took me. I came here. I belong no more to Chinglepet street.
I don't think I have ever realized I am different. I cannot say not American, because what really is American? But I look into the mirror more often now and I see that dark skin. To me it seems as dark as Sister Mary Theresa's, yet I am married where she took the veil for hers. Autre temps, autre moeurs. Sister Bloody Mary Theresa. I am so angry I will not even now allow her the luxury of having chosen then a life for the love of her religion, for the love of her God, or even, for the love of her work. It must be because somebody rejected her. Or she would not be a nun at the Convent of Little Flowers. And I would not have met her, and she would not have now written me the letter. Do you remember much of us, dear Padmini? The convent was built in the shadow of the Gemini Flyover, the only road bridge in all of Chennai then, and a big landmark for giving directions. I have seen pictures of America. There are many many such flyovers there. Some even in the shape of clover leaves. But this you must know, these you must have seen. I'm afraid nothing much grows even now in our courtyard. It is still the same, a bare maidan, dusty when the rains do not come; but under the banyan it is shady. The tree has added a few more arms to the ground since you were last here. Every day I stand on the verandah and watch the children play under its shade and thank God it i...
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15 of 15 people found the following review helpful.
In the Convent of Little Flowers Review
By Pooja D
"IN THE CONVENT of LITTLE FLOWERS" (Atria Books; ISBN: 978-1-4165-8609-8) is a compilation of impressively elegant short stories by Indu Sundaresan.
She skillfully with utmost confidence takes the reader on a journey to the ancient culture, the unique diversity of India- its age old traditional rituals while at the same time making the reader question them and ponder over their hold on its inhabitants. The readers are introduced to compelling array of characters that are unforgettable, each is a portrait painted adeptly and even with their flaws and complexities are treated with respect by the author. The characters are struggling under the weight of thousands of years of ingrained beliefs and teachings on class, caste and sexuality- as it challenges their today's modern view, hopes and dreams. Thus the foregoing conflict within themselves and for their place in the 21st century India which influenced by western modernity cannot totally accept the age old practices or let go of their sway on them.
All the nine stories in this collection explore the intricacies of relationships between friends, neighbors, sisters, husband-wife, grandparents and children-societal ties; their deep roots, their connections to past. It is interesting to note that the names of characters that people these pages are also taken from the Indian mythological legends with consequences in present day.
In "Shelter of Rain," Padma, the American raised Indian adoptee prepares to meet her guardian nun from the orphanage 'Convent of Little Flowers'. Indu's evocative prose effectively opens our hearts to the conflict going on in the protagonist's mind and heart.
"Three and Half Seconds" story about unforgettable characters of Meha and Chander. Meha during the evening of her life reflects on the devastating consequences of giving in to their child's every want and turning a blind eye to the early warning sign. This story may be the most disturbing as the reader can identify with the helplessness of society-neighbors bound by belief of non interference.
"Fire" is a powerful story of obsessive destructive love; the power of money and the name of tradition to silence all wrongdoings. Payal, makes the most difficult journey to her childhood home to confront these issues.
"The Key Club" is formed when the eight richest, powerful men of Chennai realize that there is something which their wealth cannot give them. Sundaresan cleverly weaves in the story the main character Ram's longing for his best friend's wife who was the college sweetheart he left as she was not up to his financial stature...was of lower class.
"Bedside Dreams" is a tale of heart break of a loving couple who are sent to the retirement home by their 12 sons. The narrator of this story Kamal's wife wonders if things would have been different if their eldest daughter had lived. Indu Sundaresan impressively drives home the point when the narrator says "We had fought, at one time, so long ago, for our country's freedom, but it simply hurt too much to fight for ours. That had been easier."
"The Most Unwanted" is a riveting story about a child born out of wedlock and his grandfather's agonizing dilemma.
"The Faithful Wife" depicts the most ghastly evil `the practice of sati' and examines the influence, authority of a ritual when a woman asks her journalist grandson to come to the village, to persuade his grandfather to stop the illegal outlawed practice of `Sati', where the community is about commit the horror...force a twelve year old widow to burn alive in name of the ancient tradition.
IN THE CONVENT of LITTLE FLOWER stories are mostly drawn from real events or as Indu says in her afterword, "Everything triggers a thought, some thinking and sometimes this develops into a story," She adorns them beautifully with her creative flair, her hauntingly lyrical style enthralls and the poetic prose moves the reader so much that one becomes part of the narrative. The reader is left pondering with some answered and some unanswerable questions.
I highly recommend this book to all and give thumbs up to this engaging collection of stories.
About the Author: Indu Sundaresan was born and raised in India, but immigrated to United States for graduate school. She is critically praised and popularly loved for her brilliant historical novels. She is the bestselling author of The Feast of Roses, The Splendor of Silence and the Twentieth wife (2003 Washington state award). The Splendor of Silence is the heartrending tale set during 1942...waning of British era. The Twentieth Wife and The Feast of Roses (sequel) are based on the life and power of Mughal empress Nur-Jahan.
Indu currently resides in Redmond, Washington.
By: Pooja Deshmukh
7 of 7 people found the following review helpful.
In the Convent of Little Flowers
By Amazon Customer
Indu Sunderesan's new book, "In the Convent of Little Flowers," is a collection of short stories set in a more contemporary time than her previous works. Set mostly in India, the stories touch on topics still somewhat taboo to mention or acknowledge in Indian society. The writing style is so vivid, it makes you feel as if you are a part of the story and you end up thinking about the events long after you have put the book away. I would recommend this book unreservedly and look forward to her next one.
4 of 4 people found the following review helpful.
From S. Krishna's Books
By skrishna
I am a huge fan of Indu Sundaresan's work. She has written three historical fiction novels; two are about Empress Nur Jahan (The Twentieth Wife and The Feast of Roses) and one is set in India during World War II and the Indian independence movement (The Splendor of Silence). All three are wonderfully written novels that any fan of historical fiction should pick up immediately.
When I heard that Ms. Sundaresan had a short story collection coming out, I eagerly sought the chance to obtain a review copy and was thrilled to receive one. I didn't know what to expect, but I knew that they would be amazing stories. And I was right; the stories are very different from her historical fiction work, but they evoke the same emotion within the reader.
The stories in In the Convent of Little Flowers are simply written and utterly beautiful. Some are very emotional; others are horrific (after reading the story about a son who is abusive to his mother and father, I called my own parents immediately, in tears). Each has its own quality that recommends itself to the reader. As such, there is not one bad story among them, not one lesser tale. That is quite a feat for an author, to write stories of such depth and magnitude that they are all equally moving.
All of the stories are about Indians. The majority of them are set in India, though not all. There are classic stories that people of any culture can relate to, stories about love lost between a husband and wife. But there are also stories that are appalling, that make the reader want to weep - the tale of bride burning is one of these. Each story has its own force that propels it forward. Not once did I want to put down the book, to move onto something else. Usually, I read other novels between the breaks in short stories. That wasn't the case with In the Convent of Little Flowers; I just wanted to continue with the stories, to see what Sundaresan would come up with next. With many of the stories, I wanted more. I would love to see some of them fleshed out as full novels, especially the tale of Padma and her feelings about the truth of her adoption.
I highly recommend all of Indu Sundaresan's work, and In the Convent of Little Flowers is no exception. It is a beautiful and moving set of short stories that I think anyone would enjoy.
Thank you to Ms. Sundaresan and her publicist for sending me a copy of this book to review.
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