Boyhood tales

Panther
Chhimi Tenduf-La
Harper
2015, pp 263, Rs 299

This novel grabs you by the throat from the word ‘go’. The fast-paced, crisp style with short sentences speeds you through the pages. Panther is author Chhimi Tenduf-La’s second novel. He grew up in Hong Kong, London and New Delhi. He now lives in Colombo, which forms a major part of the plot’s setting. The story is centred on Sri Lanka’s tragic history of ethnic conflict between the Sinhalese and the Tamils.

However, Tenduf-La makes it clear in his foreword that the war that he depicts in the novel and the terrorist organisation (Panthers) are fictitious. But it does not require too much imagination to know which group he is referring to. Like in the recent history of this island nation, the main battle is between the Sri Lankan Army and the ethnic minority rebels. They are led by a most unlikely, even clownish figure only referred to satirically as The Supreme Commander.

But this is not just another of those war novels. The tale follows the optimistic friendship between Prabu Ramanathan, a young Tamil boy displaced by the ‘war’ between the Panthers and the Army; and his Sinhala pal, Indika Jayanetti, a rich Sinhalese lad belonging to a well-connected family. The author has brought in the sub-continent’s craze for cricket — and that game is the glue that holds together this mix of ethnic tragedies, war-orphans, and the mindlessness of an armed struggle. Prabu, in a camp for displaced war orphans, is a cricket batting prodigy, and his pal Indika is not too bad with the willow either — and the game gives a chance for the Tamil boy to get a scholarship and an education. And even if you are not a lover of cricket (I am) you will find yourself drawn into the various schoolboy matches, holding your breath — and no, I won’t tell you how it all ends, and whether either or both of them make it into the Sri Lankan National squad.

There are so many glimpses of life during a civil war — families separated, killed, lost — children having to “grow up” overnight, boys and girls becoming adept at wielding machine-guns and explosives, training camps where these young minds are indoctrinated with vengeful agendas — Tenduf-La manages to take the reader through all that without making heavy weather of it all.

The style of jumping between the first person narrative and the normal style keeps you sufficiently off-balance and interested — and disturbed. The author’s device of giving Prabu his wonderful pidgin English style of speaking without either making a mockery of it or overusing it makes many moments more poignant and lump in the throatish. The short staccato bursts of sentences where each word is punctuated with a full stop is cleverly and effectively used. It. Is. Hard. Hitting.

The underlying resentment that the Sinhalese had for the Tamils and vice-versa comes across. If it sounds clichéd and like something you’ve heard before — well, it is because ethnic conflicts and the illogical fanning of flames by selfish tyrannical “leaders” is the same in any corner of the globe. Some “battle” scenes are heart-wrenching — especially one where the army launches aerial helicopter attacks on camps where women and children are sheltered — so mindless and wanton.

The fact that the bunch of fictitious rebel “soldiers” are conferred names that are Charles Bronson classics by the Supreme Commander lends this tale a charming, surreal tone that underlines the sadness. So when top-notch rebels are called Mr Majestyk, Dirty Dozen or Machine Gun Kelly — you pause to remember those rollicking Bronson films (if you are old enough) and take a breath and give in to the temptation of a smile. This one angle of veering off into naming section commanders after Bronson films lifts the novel and allows it to fly lightly with all its heavy cargo of death, destruction and displaced bitter human beings. 

This and Prabu’s wonderful pidgin English (“...I am very excite to be here...thank a lots for this opportune...I am of the name Prabu...”) lends this novel a strange air of light sadness.

The author has taken a lot of Hindi-film-like liberties in his final resolution, but one cannot really fault him for being so illogically optimistic — it is the need of the hour, not just for that beautiful tear-drop shaped island nation, but for all of us everywhere.