Dipika Murherjee’s Writer’s Postcards is an irresistable peice of reading worth having in the reading list for November. Here The Asian with the permission of The Penguine SEA, offer you a very rare oppertunity to sneakpeak into the book. We are sure you will pick this.

About the Book:

Part travelogue, part memoir, and part commentary, Writer’s Postcards is a collection of essays that examine imagination and culture through the lens of geography. A flaneuse and person of the world, Dipika Mukherjee takes readers through various encounters from her highly mobile life: the lugubrious literature of Brazil; the linguistic diversity in China and Tibet; and meeting the Dalai Lama while travelling as a lone woman through New Delhi. She examines the political unrest in Myanmar after the brief international reach of Burmese books; weighs in on Chicago’s literary landmarks and famous writers; reminisces on the languid feasting of Diwali celebrations at Port Dickson by the Malaysian-Bengali community; and finds new notions of home, identity, and belonging in the Netherlands-among many others.

Thought-provoking and unabashed in its entirety, this is a collection of essays that goes beyond the personal and communal to examine issues of international concern.

About the Author:

Dipika Mukherjee is an internationally acclaimed writer and sociolinguist with a passion for Southeast Asian literature. With over two decades of experience, she has mentored aspiring writers in the region and founded the prestigious D.K Dutt Award for Literary Excellence in Malaysia in 2015. Mukherjee has edited five anthologies of Southeast Asian fiction, including the notable titles Endings and Beginnings and Bitter Root Sweet Fruit.

Her literary achievements include being longlisted for the Man Asian Literary Prize with her debut novel, Ode to Broken Things, and winning the UK Virginia Prize for Fiction with her second novel, Shambala Junction. She has also authored the captivating short story collection Rules of Desire and several poetry collections, such as Dialect of Distant Harbors and The Third Glass of Wine.

In addition to her writing, Mukherjee is a dedicated educator. She teaches at the Graham School at the University of Chicago and StoryStudio, leveraging her expertise and a Ph.D. in English (Sociolinguistics) from Texas A&M University. Mukherjee’s exceptional work has been recognized through numerous grants and fellowships, including the Esteemed Artist Award from the City of Chicago’s Department of Cultural Affairs and Special Events. She has also been honored with prestigious awards like the Quill and Ink Poetry Prize and the Fay Khoo Award for Food+Drink Writing. Through her teaching engagements and creative writing workshops held in various cities worldwide, including Chicago, Amsterdam, New Delhi, Kolkata, Penang, and Kuala Lumpur, she continues to inspire and nurture aspiring writers.

Excerpt: 

Are you sure you are not a serial killer?’

The Grab driver is joking, of course. He is driving me back to my cottage—Rumah Balai—set within the dense foliage of Rimbun Dahan, where I am the writer-in-residence for five weeks. I have come from my home in Chicago to work on my novel in rural Malaysia, where part of the novel is set.

Tonight is a cloudy night, and the solar lights along the way are completely dark after a few days of rain; there is no illumination at all. Our cottages are not air-conditioned, water is recirculated, and everyone is encouraged to create compost for the herb gardens from the food we consume, but even the eco-warrior in me understands how driving on an untarred road by the light of car headlights can make grown men a little nervous.

During the ride from Kuala Lumpur, we discovered that he has the same last name as a deceased journalist married to my distant uncle in the Bengali community. It never ceases to astonish me that no matter where in the world I am, the enormous Klang Valley operates as a village, and a link to the community can always—always!—be found. We feel like family, and have spent the journey discussing the Grab driver’s sixteen-year-old daughter who wants to study creative writing at the Nottingham campus. He worries she will never make money from writing. He is actively dissuading her from her dreams. I have been mentoring Malaysian writers for over two decades, and I know the sad realities of the profession; I have said nothing in her defence.

Suddenly, like a glowing white mirage, Rumah Balai is framed in his headlights. Rumah Uda Manap and Rumah Penang, the two other historical buildings lovingly restored to their former glory, tower like monuments in the darkness. The headlights catch the glints of the flowering trellis in the frosted windowpanes as the light of the moon starts to shine dimly through the clouds.

‘Waaaah!’ says the driver. ‘You live here?’

I nod.

‘How much is the cost, ah?’

In Asia, I am used to this, to being asked how much something costs, how much my family earns, what I paid for the car now parked in the driveway. There is a genuine curiosity about life, and I learnt very early on to detect if the question is not benign. So now, I tell the driver that I have been awarded a residency, and it costs me nothing.

I open my front door while he waits. His eyes are still open in wonder when he asks if he can see inside.

Much later, I’ll think how stupid it is to invite an unknown male inside, no matter how many acquaintances we have in common—I am still a lone woman. But as the lights from the antique lamp holders flood the house, I just open the door wider and invite him in.

The intricately carved four-poster bed with the princess mosquito net, the Chinese cupboard with the frolicking phoenixes, the picturesque kitchen with the enamel mugs . . .he takes it all in.

‘I had a Russian passenger once who told me that in Russia, writers are treated like royalty,’ he says. He gives me a megawattgrin before he turns to leave. ‘I think my daughter should become a writer!’

I stand on the balcony, grinning happily, as much for me as for his daughter, as the red backlights are swallowed into the forest again. One of the many cicaks sounds thik-thik-thik over my head. In Bengali, it is saying truth-truth-truth. 

Rimbun Dahan is the home of the architect Hijjas Kasturi and his wife, Angela, and is set on fourteen acres, about a half-hour drive from Kuala Lumpur. It is a world of international artists and dancers and painters and sculptors and poets and writers . . . all developing traditional and contemporary art forms. There are multiple artist studios, a dance studio, an air-conditioned artists’ lounge, and a library with spotty internet.

There is a remarkable underground art gallery. We are free to forage in the extensive herb garden for aloe vera and curry leaves. In a corner of the herb garden, I find the Proiphys amboinensis from the family Amaryllidaceae, which the Malays know as sepenoh; not only do the applied leaves reduce swelling, but the plant is also used to fend off the ghostly pontianaks and hantus from entering a new home.

Unfortunately, nothing fends off the mosquitos. Not even the industrial-strength repellent we all have on as we sit poolside during the orientation, where I meet the other residents for the first time. We all slap ourselves periodically.

Angela Hijjas looks at my bare legs and smiles. I have the same indulgent look on my face when Pan, our Belgian Greek horticultural intern, shows up on his first day in shorts. We all learn, rather quickly, that the organic stuff is useless, and it is the industrial-strength DEET-level stuff that is any deterrent.

I meet the other residents—Ruth Marbun, Ajim Juxta, Syarifah Nadhirah, all visual artists—about four days into my residency. During this time, I have tried to figure out the slithery night noises as I awaken from sleep, swept the reptile droppings from kitchen cabinets and floors, and learnt to close my windows so that the resident monkey patriarch wouldn’t perch on my windowsill feasting on insects and eyeing me (untilI charge at it with my umbrella like a demented Mary Poppins).

Ajim, a Malaysian artist, grew up in rustic surroundings, and Rimbun Dahan does not faze him at all. The Indonesian artist, Ruth, speaks with affection about the large monitor lizards by the pool. Then Nadhirah, or Dee as we call her, tells the story of a family of bats invading her room in the evening, heading straight for the electrical fan and lying, wounded and bleeding, on her floor. Dee called the caretaker, weeping.

I take a swig of my gin and tonic. This is going to be a long five weeks ahead

Disclaimer: Published with the permission from Penguine South East Asia