Poet With No Name

Her name is not Sei Shonagon, after the 10th century legendary lady-in-waiting of the Heian court whose diary, Pillow Book, preserved her li...

Her name is not Sei Shonagon, after the 10th century legendary lady-in-waiting of the Heian court whose diary, Pillow Book, preserved her life and times for centuries, on a chance gift of paper from the Empress. In fact, we never know the real name of the narrator of Jan Blensdorf’s debut novel. She is only called Sei Shonagon twice — by her mother and later by the male guests she entertains at the Bridge of Dreams. An incense shop. A bridge to the past and future.

We first get a glimpse into her life from a hospital bed where she, half-American, half-Japanese, lies in a coma just able to smell and hear the rain. As she drifts in and out of consciousness, we learn that her life turned upside down when her American father died. As the habits of daily American life ebb away in her Japanese uncle’s stifling household, the seven year old takes refuge in writing.

When she gives her written offerings to her Japanese mother, she tells her: “You are my little Sei Shonagan.” She would hear the name many years later. By then, like Sei, she would acquire a background in the study of the noble arts: poetry, calligraphy, brushpainting — and survival.

Story continues below this ad

Journalist-writer Blensdorf spent time in Japan — the book was born out of her experience — and it works best when she looks in at modern Japanese life. How Tokyo has resigned itself to the hundreds of rail suicides — haven’t we heard this before? — which happen every year and is more interested in devising methods to deter would-be victims. How everyone rushes to and from the rail stations, strangers all. And wander through “the biggest perpetual-motion toyshop in the world”. How beneath the culture of self-discipline and self-restraint — “even during childbirth women are expected to remain silent, in control” — lurks “madness and passion and blood enough to rival any of the ancient myths”.

As the narrator grows up and moves to Tokyo, we get a peek into other aspects of existence. The lack of space for instance; people rushing to buy cloud paintings because “in Tokyo, there is no sky.” The release people continue to seek through shopping, the national drug.

Blensdorf also captures the colours of the seasons beautifully. At the ‘‘Autumn Leaf Viewing’’ at the Imperial Palace, the narrator is mesmerised as she stands beneath a tree and looks up into a sky blazing with red and gold light. Then again, during ‘‘hanami’’ or blossom-viewing, the cherry blossom “symbolises the brief, beautiful flowering of a life”.

And yet, while the narrative blooms, the plot doesn’t. For instance, the abuse twist thrown into the tale seems to be an afterthought. Then, the narrator’s character is not drawn out — she has a mysterious air about her, always behind the screen. Blensdorf seems more intent on culling out details of Japanese history, past and present, to embellish the story. There’s no beautiful economy of the haiku here, though Blensdorf must have delved into Shonagon’s poetry for inspiration: “In Spring, it is the dawn that is the most beautiful.”