Parallel Lives Perhaps?

I hemmed and hawed over Elizabeth Tan and Jon Gresham’s 'In This Desert, There Were Seeds' (2019) before finally deciding to read it. There's nothing wrong with the stories. They're just not my usual genre, but I thought I should keep up with times and check out the trends of current writing topics. The stories seem to be able to traverse both Singapore and Western Australia. The content isn't that unique to either country. 

Twenty stories form this anthology tied in to the themes set by the editors in an open call on ‘challenges, hopes and joys for our future’ (Western Australia) and ‘Our Imagined Futures’ (Singapore). These stories are written by writers who are based in Western Australia and Singapore, and the anthology is supported by both Margaret River Press and Ethos Books.

Titled 'Harihara', the first story written by Singaporean Cyril Wong talked about the relationship between Sumitra and Vinita, two elderly women who found love with each other and lived together as wives for years, till Vinita passed away at seventy-two years old. In that vague way, it was written how Sumitra couldn't go living after the death of Vinita, who had passed away peacefully in her sleep one night. There was no warning. Then it hinted at Sumitra's eventual natural death a year after Vinita's passing, which poetically happened in Karnataka, at Harihar's Harihareshwara Temple, in front of the statue of Harihara. There’re two other stories that talk about dealing with the loss of a loved one, presented in a different manner- Tinashe Jakwa’s ‘Purple Flowers’ and Laurie Steed’s ‘Sometimes Close, Sometimes Distant’.

Sumitra remembers Vinita reaching out for her hand, as if unconsciously. They held hands with nobody watching them; in front of Harihara, a unity denoting (some say) different aspects of a supreme truth. For the first time, Sumitra felt a tingling sensation passing through her body (or, she liked to think, through both their bodies).

Maybe the tingling was love, or it started out as love, but it soon became altogether more (at the wake, not so long later, grief would be the catalyst leading to Sumitra's transcendence).

The statue of Harihara did not change its expression, but Sumitra could almost feel its acknowledgement, an emanation of approval.

The second story by Australian David Whish-Wilson, 'Vigilance Security', read a little like a mini-series made for television, almost like urban noir. A little chilling if I think deeper about it. It tells of a creepy landlord installing hidden cameras in his tenants' flats, his voyeurism, and eventually a murder and vengeance. 

For the last time, Nigel Brearley waves to the camera mounted on the blank wall. It is all there, recorded for when they come, when they find Beth's body — the months of Nigel waving to himself, talking to himself, observing himself and his fellow residents from a distance; the recorded images more substantial and enduring than Nigel has ever felt.

Some stories have an abrupt ending, and many expect me to read between the lines for its significance or how the protagonists' lives go after this. I don't do well with contemporary stories in an urban setting. I prefer clarity, and on the whole, the stories are neither something I want to relate to, nor what I deem interesting. The other stories simply ramble. If I wanted rambling, I'd talk to the acquantainces or read their loooong IG stories. Zzzzz

The last story in the book is 'A Minor Kalahari' by Diana Rahim. I assume that the title references the Kalahari Savannah in South Africa. It sort of did. Hahaha. When I read it, I laughed. It was a story about a watermelon growing in a grass patch in front of Mr Tan's house, and while it created wonderment for the neighbors. It generated huge discussion and of course the town council wanted it removed. 

Not a single thing had grown in the neighbourhood, in the whole island, for the past eight years. All that was left were rectangular beds of dirt and sand where grass, bushes, flowers, and trees used to be. So one must understand why, on that morning, Mr Tan could only read the presence of the watermelon as an omen.

Then, the watermelon was found split open. It was messy. Nobody knew if it did so naturally or someone took a fist or a hammer to it. Mr Tan and his neighbors Ms Sharifah and her son Raiyan took the seeds. They would try to grow another watermelon. While dreams had been shattered on this desert of an island, the appearance of the watermelon and its seeds represented hope amongst the grayness. "Somehow, the watermelon ruptured that hypothesis. The neighbourhood, the whole island, was a desert. But it was no afterlife. In this desert, there were seeds." And from this story, the title of this collection was derived.