Alagu Subramaniam

British Author (1910–1971)

Alagu Subramaniam
Alagu Subramaniam
Born1910
Jaffna, British Ceylon
Died1971
Jaffna
Occupation(s)Writer, Barrister
Known forAuthor of The Big Girl & Other Stories

Alagu Subramaniam (1910–1971) was a British Ceylon born writer, a prominent figure in London's Bloomsbury literary circle, a Barrister-at-Law of The Honourable Society of Lincoln's Inn, and an Advocate of the Supreme Court of Ceylon.[1][2][3][4][5][6][7][8][9][10][11][12][13][14]

He is the author of The Big Girl & Other Stories a retro-collection of short stories; they recount scenes of life in Jaffna during the colonial era, which includes the short story "Professional Mourners" which reflects the obsolete customs and practices of professional mourning done by some Sri Lankan Tamil communities.

He also authored the book Closing Time & Other Stories which contains stories set in London during the World War 2 era.

Mulk Raj Anand and Iqbal Singh published one of his short stories in their anthology Indian Short Stories (New India Publishing Company, 1946). His short stories were published by a number of journals, such as Life, Letters Today, Left Review and Tribune.[1]

He was involved with the anti-colonial organisation, Swaraj House, which was formed in 1942 as a break-away group from the British Committee of the Indian National Congress.[1]

He was one of the founders and editors of the literary magazine Indian Writing of which Rabindranath Tagore and Jawaharlal Nehru also contributed.[1]

He was one of the founding fathers of Hindu Educational Society which had established several schools, including the Colombo Hindu College.

Early life

Alagu Subramaniam belongs to the Sri Lankan Tamil community. His father was a judge in Ceylon and his grandfather was a literary personage.[10][14]

He had his early schooling at Jaffna Central College.[15]

Commentary by notable people

"Mr. Subramaniayam could have had a sound practice at the English Bar, but he preferred to pursue his literary work, which is of a higher order"

- Lester Hutchinson, D es L., Former MP (British House of Commons)[10][14]

"Stories told sardonically and succinctly"

- Philip Day, Sunday Times (London)[10][14]

"Among the Sri Lankan writers who belonged to the English-speaking elite of the early post-independence era, the London-based barrister Alagu Subramaniam used to be prominent. At a time we are heading for the third decade of the 21st Century, when most of what used to be commonplace has become history, it was a great pleasure to have a copy of the new impression of the 1964 imprint of The Big Girl & Other Stories by Subramaniam whose "Professional Mourners", I consider one of the best Sri Lankan short stories written in English for the sincerity and localness he maintains throughout his narration. My paper on it uploaded to the www.academia.edu in early 2018 under the topic "Servile Mourning for the Powerful: A Critical Reading of ‘Professional Mourners’ by Alagu Subramaniam" has attracted nearly 4000 views from an international readership spread across the world. I have received many commendations for uploading it as the humour it carries is both innocent, and caustic at the same time."

- E. A. Gamini Fonseka BA (Kelaniya), MA (Edinburgh), PhD (Vaasa), Senior Professor in English, Department of English[3]

Personal life

Alagu Subramaniam was married to a graduate teacher.[10][14]

The Big Girl & Other Stories
AuthorAlagu Subramaniam
LanguageEnglish
GenreShort Stories
PublisherBay Owl Press(Sri Lanka)
Publication date
2018(originally published in 1964)
Publication placeSri Lanka
Media typeReprint
ISBN978-955-1723-41-5

The Big Girl & Other Stories is a retro-collection of short stories by Alagu Subramaniam.

The stories recount scenes of life in Jaffna during the colonial era.[10][14]

The Big Girl contains 17 finely-written episodes(including “Professional Mourners” of humour, surprise, pathos and rare insight into the daily lives of people, with all the historical, religious, cultural and psychological diversity and complexity.[9]

The style of these stories is deceptively simple (although the stories never are). By using simple language and few obvious stylistic devices, every word becomes important.[9]

The book which had disappeared from circulation has now been updated and reprinted in its entirety. These stories evocatively capture the ethos of an era now past and will leave someone nostalgic for a simpler time.[10][14]

Background

When this book of short stories written by Alagu Subramaniam was first published in 1964, Ceylon had been independent of the British for about 16 years. Then as now, the effect of colonialism was a topic of open discussion.[9]

English writers of the past have often written from the perspective of coloniser rather than colonised. However, Ceylonese born Subramaniam writes from a Sri Lankan viewpoint. In the stories we are shown, not told. Alagu Subramaniam makes each story a small jewel of drama and compassion, revealing in large ways and small.[9]

Solomon’s Justice

One example. “Solomon’s Justice” shows how an imported religious tradition (evangelical Christianity) – here a too literal understanding of a Christian story – can desensitise people to what native traditions themselves preserve.[9]

In this story, the collision of traditions is emphasised by the coroner - who wears both white, ‘the appropriate colour for an Asian funeral’ and black, a ‘necktie, the symbol of European mourning’. The magistrate, presiding over a dispute about who is wife and who ex-wife to their deceased husband and thus entitled to make funeral arrangements, insists that the disputants keep ‘the Queen’s peace’.[9]

But the appropriateness of keeping to standards of European decorum in a Sri Lankan context is immediately questioned – ‘”The Queen’s peace in Buckingham Palace?’” The dispute’s ‘resolution’ is eventually provided by a Mother Superior. Her brutal suggestion: severing the corpse in half, thus solving the problem over the funeral, a ceremony intended as a mark of reverence, love and respect for the deceased.[9]

The Thorn

Other stories show how the displacement of traditional culture can affect so deeply the most vulnerable. “The Thorn” shows the emotional effects on a very young girl (learning English reduces her to tears), and demonstrates the casual emotional blackmail involved (your Mother won't go to heaven). These effects embed themselves into even the simplest daily act – eating a meal – causing frustration and distress through the inability to eat ‘properly’ with a ‘thorn’ (fork), rather than her fingers.[9]

The Scholar

Several stories examine the conflict between a modernising younger generation and an older tradition. In “The Scholar” Thambirajah is introduced as successful in the new, modern way (having received a scholarship to study in England for three years). Such success ironically makes him an attractive prospect for a traditional arranged marriage, which his parents duly organise for him.[9]

The story turns on this conflict between tradition and modernity, older and younger generations (Tharimbirajah has met another student, Radha, and both want to marry). However, in the end the force of tradition wins out (and here force means exactly that, physical force – Radha is beaten into submission). The power of tradition is more destructive still than simply separating two young people – but read the story to discover its ending.[9]

Cousin Thampoo

In “Cousin Thampoo” for example, changing the position of a single comma in the story's final sentence would have entirely changed the story's significance. The story's ending as written is the more complex and resonating one, an example of the care, craft and wisdom of writer and stories.[9]

Professional Mourners

In “Professional Mourners”, a funeral in a village is depicted where a self-important organiser of the funeral behaving inhumanly with low caste professional mourners despite their own mother's death on that morning.[9]

The lower caste women, gets unexpected sympathy at the funeral, and the organizer of the funeral put himself in an awkward position.[9]

Professional Mourners (extract from the story)

My grandmother died late at night on a Saturday while my sister, brother and I were fast asleep. We were wakened in the morning by the cries from grandmother’s house and the sound of drums. We dressed hurriedly and ran to her place. A large gathering was there, and the space between the boundary fence and the outer verandah was lined with people. We pushed our way through the crowd to the centre of the hut in search of our mother. We were feeling afraid because it was the first funeral we had attended.

We had hardly entered grandmother’s house when we heard the shouts of the ‘Master of Ceremonies’, who was in charge of all arrangements on such occasions. He was our uncle, a teacher in a small school and a trifle mad. He always spoke rapidly and loudly. And when he was angry he would shout at the top of his voice until the whole village heard him. This morning he was furious because the professional mourners had not yet arrived. ‘I’ll go and fetch them myself,’ he said, and stamped out of the house. I left my brother and sister, and ran after him, as I was anxious to see the mourners about whom I had heard many stories.

We walked through sandly lanes and narrow winding footpaths. There were no dwelling houses about and no noise, though I thought I heard the hissing of snakes under the bushes and the howling of jackals in the distance. ‘The snakes won’t bite you. Don’t be afraid,’ my uncle reassured me.

Presently we arrived at a row of huts near the seashore. By the beach stood fishermen, some mending their nets, assisted by their wives, others on the point of putting their catamarans out to sea.

‘Stop, stop, you stupid rascals,’ cried my uncle as he ran up to them. ’Don’t you know that my aunt’s funeral is to take place today? You low-minded fellows! You should be there instead of on the seashore.’

‘We didn’t know about it, ‘ they said, as they left their fishing nets and catamarans. ‘ We shall be there soon.’ They clasped their hands and bent down.

Admonishing them again, my uncle walked on in search of the mourners. ‘That is where these wretched women live,’ he said, pointing to a few huts even smaller than the ones we had left behind.

He stopped outside and called to the inmates. Two women, dressed in coarse saris which did not come over their shoulders or heads, came out. They wore bangles from their wrists to their elbows, and anklets that jingled as they came forward. He shouted at them angrily: ‘I sent word to you that my aunt’s funeral will take place today. Why haven’t you come all this time?’

‘We were getting ready to come, master, please pardon us for being late,‘ said one of them.

‘Where are the other mourners?’ growled the Master of Ceremonies

‘There are only two of them here at the moment, sir, two sisters. We don’t know where the rest are, but even these two cannot come as their mother died this morning, and they will have to attend the funeral.’

‘Nonsense! Where do these wretches live?’ he demanded.

‘Not far from here, sir.’

‘Lead me there!’

The two women led the way and we followed them. They stopped outside a hut and yelled for the two sisters who came out, tying the upper part of their saris which had slipped down over their pointed breasts.

They stopped suddenly, stared for a moment, and then prostrated themselves before the Master saying, ‘Please excuse us today, Sir. Our mother died this morning and we are too much overcome with grief to come and cry at the funeral of outsiders.’

‘Impudence!’ cried the Master. ‘Two mourners are not enough for my aunt’s funeral. Remember who she is.’

‘Please excuse them,’ said the mourner who acted as the spokesman. ‘It is not fair, as they will have to shed tears of genuine sorrow on the loss of their mother instead of pretending at your place.’

I noticed that the lips of my kinsman were trembling and his eyes were dilated. The woman who had spoken looked down. I shook my head in sympathy. The Master’s anger was now diverted to me, rushing like water through fresh sandbanks.

‘Don’t be a silly fool,’ he scolded. ‘What do you know of these things? Your father’s lawyer friends are expected. His Honour the Supreme Court Judge and the Police Magistrate are coming, and what will they think about us if we don’t have enough mourners?’

The sisters, still on bended knees, begged to be excused.’ We didn’t mean to be rude, sir,’ said one of them, ‘but please let us go this time. On the next occasion when there is another funeral at your place, we will come and howl until our throats give way!’

‘Insolence!’ shouted my uncle. ‘So you are wishing for another death in my house. Probably you desire mine, you miserable creatures! I’ll have you flogged by the magistrate for such impudence.’ And getting hold of their saris he dragged them along the ground for some distance.

‘Please remove your hand; we are coming,’ they wailed.

The Master of Ceremonies released them and strode forward leaving the four mourners and myself to bring up the rear.

On reaching grandmother’s house the women threw their hands in the air, unfastened their hair, and began to cry. They joined other women relatives and friends, who sat crying in groups of twos and threes with their heads resting on each other’s necks. The professional mourners sat down a short distance away from the others and, throwing their hands in the air, now beating their heads, now their breasts, began to wail and moan. They spoke as they cried, using various expressions in praise of grandmother. In the course of their professional duty they heard some of the genuine weepers whispering that grandmother might have been taken away from us long ago, but the great god Siva had spared her till Cousin Thampoo, her favourite grandson, returned from Malaya. This gave them a new slogan. They rose from the carpet, ruffled their hair, crossed their arms, beat their shoulders and cried :

‘Your grandson has come, wake up, my beloved!

Your grandson has come, wake up, my darling!‘

Meanwhile, the Master of Ceremonies had boasted of his great deed to his friends who, contrary to his expectations, were horrified at his cruelty. They protested against the inhuman act of the Master, who was forced to apologise to the two mourners. Many of the guests, too, offered their condolences to the sisters, and my father, after promising to compensate them adequately, told them to go home.

Now that the Master of Ceremonies had been reprimanded, the women preferred to wait till the entire ceremony was over, declaring that they might as well stay a little longer and give the full benefit of their services.

The Master, on the other hand, since an action of his had been severely criticized, tried to make up for it by undertaking extra work and engaged himself more busily in his duties than before. He scolded the drummers for slacking, ridiculed them because they could not even drown the voices of the professional mourners, and exhorted them to beat faster and louder. Then he carried bags full of rice, packets of incense and other ceremonial necessities to the bedside of the corpse. By this time he was tired and panting.

The effort, following on the walk to fetch the mourners, had exhausted him. Suddenly he fainted and fell flat on the ground. Some of the visitors shrieked, while others ran to his assistance, carried him to a corner, washed his face with water, and fanned him. In a few moments he recovered, apologized, and said he would get up soon. His friends assured him that there were others to help in the arrangements and asked him to rest for some time.

The two sisters among the mourners, whose voices had till now lacked their usual intensity, rose and rent the air with their shrill cries, quite unconcerned about the fate of the Master of Ceremonies. The four mourners now worked in unison, their bodies swaying like reeds in the wind, and lamented in chorus:

‘The poor will miss you, oh, you charitable one!

Who is going to feed us on festival days?

Your grandson has come, wake up, my beloved!

Your grandson has come, wake up, my darling!’

After a while their lamentations waned, but there was a fresh outburst when the priest arrived. This was followed by a lull to enable him to perform the religious ceremony.

During the ceremony the priest became curious about the repeated mention of ‘grandson’ and, being told the story, he called Thampoo to grandmother’s bedside to burn some incense and offer prayers. Thampoo, who had maintained an abnormal composure throughout the day, burst into tears just after he had said the prayers.

‘You had been waiting for me for many years,’ he cried. ‘What fate was it that kept me away? And when I came at last, you lay unconscious on the bed and I was not even able to speak to you.’

The mourners took up the theme and wailed :

‘Why do you remain silent, mother of a great lawyer?

Answer for the sake of your loved ones!

Open those eyes that are shaped like a fish!

Like those of Minakshi, famed goddess of Madura!

Your grandson has come, wake up, my beloved!
Closing Time & Other Stories
AuthorAlagu Subramaniam
LanguageEnglish
GenreShort Stories
PublisherOhm Books Publishing(United Kingdom)
Publication date
2021(originally published in 1971)
Publication placeUnited Kingdom
Media typeReprint
ISBN979-853-1049-59-9

Closing Time & Other Stories is a collection of short stories set in London and depicts the life of a foreign student in the Second World War era London.[15]

Single Room

Single Room is about a new student in London, looking for a room for himself.[15]

The Kid

The Kid features a law student who is also a writer.[15]

Liabilities

Liabilities is about a barrister who also works as a manager of a bookshop.[15]

Closing Time

Closing Time is about a number of writers and poets who move from one pub to another after each one closes.[15]

Bibliography

  • Subramaniam, Alagu (1964), The Big Girl and Other Stories, Universal Printers(Sri Lanka)(Original from The University of Michigan; Digitized 5 Mar 2007), ISBN 955-1723-41-4
  • Subramaniam, Alagu (2018), The Big Girl and Other Stories, Bay Owl Press(Sri Lanka)(Reprint), ISBN 978-955-1723-41-5
  • Subramaniam, Alagu (2021), Closing Time, Ohm Books Publishing(United Kingdom)(Reprint), ISBN 979-853-1049-59-9

References

  1. ^ a b c d "Alagu Subramaniam". Open University. Retrieved 19 September 2020.
  2. ^ "Professional Mourners by Alagu Subramaniam". Scholar’s Park. Retrieved 19 September 2020.
  3. ^ a b "Reminiscences of the Traditional Jaffna Community in Transition under Colonialism". The Island (Sri Lanka). 23 June 2019. Retrieved 19 September 2020.
  4. ^ "Spam Professional Moourners, By Alagu Subramaniam". Bartleby.com. Retrieved 19 September 2020.
  5. ^ "Servile Mourning for the Powerful: A Critical Reading of "Professional Mourners" by Alagu Subramaniam". Academia.edu. Retrieved 19 September 2020.
  6. ^ "Alagu Subramaniam Analysis". Internet Public Library. Retrieved 19 September 2020.
  7. ^ "Spam 'Professional Mourners' By Alagu Subramaniam". Internet Public Library. Retrieved 22 September 2020.
  8. ^ Subramaniam, Alagu (9 May 2012). "The Mathematician". Wasafiri. 27 (2): 25–27. doi:10.1080/02690055.2012.662313. S2CID 219612432. Retrieved 22 September 2020.
  9. ^ a b c d e f g h i j k l m n "The Big Girl". Daily FT. 16 February 2019. Retrieved 22 September 2020.
  10. ^ a b c d e f g "The Big Girl". Perera Hussein Publishing House. Retrieved 22 September 2020.
  11. ^ "The Big Girl". Rakuten Kobo. 14 January 2019. Retrieved 22 September 2020.
  12. ^ "The Big Girl". Sarasavi Bookshop. Retrieved 22 September 2020.
  13. ^ "A Funeral and Its Professional Lamentation". Thuppahi’s Blog. 6 March 2017. Retrieved 19 September 2020.
  14. ^ a b c d e f g "The Big Girl And Other Stories". Mary Martin Bookshop. Retrieved 22 September 2020.
  15. ^ a b c d e f "The extraordinary Alagu Subramaniam". Daily Mirror(Sri Lanka). 21 November 2020. Retrieved 22 November 2020.
  • The Extraordinary Alagu Subramaniam, Thuppahi's Blog