Dharini Bhaskar is a writer whose work delves into the complexities of human relationships, societal dynamics, and the intersections of love, privilege, and politics. Her novel "Like Being Alive Twice" explores these themes with a blend of urgency, introspection, and narrative inventiveness.
The central narrative of the novel revolves around Priyamvada (Poppy), a Hindu, and Tariq, a Muslim, who are deeply in love in a nation on the brink of rupture. As they stand on the precipice of their future together, unaware of the political storm brewing around them, they are confronted with questions of privilege, identity, and the fragility of their love in the face of societal turmoil.
Bhaskar's narrative technique is particularly striking, as she alternates between chapters that depict the unfolding reality of Poppy and Tariq's lives and chapters that explore alternate possibilities and potential futures. This narrative structure allows Bhaskar to interrogate the notion of choice, chance, and the ways in which individual decisions can shape not only personal destinies but also broader societal trajectories.
The novel grapples with the weight of history, the looming specter of violence, and the precariousness of love in a world torn apart by political strife. Through her vivid prose and incisive storytelling, Bhaskar invites readers to contemplate the ethical dilemmas faced by her characters and to consider the ways in which privilege, power, and prejudice intersect to shape their lives.
"Like Being Alive Twice" is a politically urgent and stylistically innovative work that challenges readers to confront uncomfortable truths about the world we inhabit. With its exploration of love, loss, and the language of privilege, Bhaskar's novel offers a poignant reflection on the human condition and the enduring quest for meaning and connection in turbulent times.
1. What inspired you to write "Like Being Alive Twice"? Was there a specific event or experience that sparked the idea for this story?
>For me, all stories begin with a word—a word I can wed myself to. For my first published novel, the word was Scheherazade—a woman who survived by weaving tale after tale. For this novel, the word is poppy. I love the sound of the word, the P's exploding, but equally, I love what the word signifies—I think of John McCrae's anthem, 'though poppies grow / In Flanders fields'. That these delicate red flowers emerge against rivers of blood—to me the fact holds within it possibility. And around the word, and the promise of possibility it carries, has grown a story that trails all that is and all that can be in a fast-imploding world.
2. The novel explores the themes of love, privilege, and political turmoil. Can you elaborate on why you chose these themes and their significance in today's world?
>The story has chosen the themes. But equally, I don't think we can ignore the world—and where it is today—when we choose to write. As the Palestinian poet Marwan Makhoul said, 'In order for me to write poetry that isn't political, / I must listen to the birds / and in order to hear the birds / the warplanes must be silent.' Or, to quote Neruda, 'And you will ask: / why doesn’t his poetry / speak of dreams and leaves / and the great volcanoes of his native land. / Come and see the blood in the streets. / Come and see / the blood in the streets. / Come and see the blood /in the streets!'
3. The narrative alternates between the actual events and the potential outcomes. What motivated you to structure the story in this way, and what effect were you hoping to achieve?
>Again, the story has chosen. Besides, at some level, as writers, as human beings, we yearn to know if changing a set of circumstances or a moment in time can lead us to an altogether different denouement. To opt for a split narrative is to follow each possibility and witness what it harbours within it.
4. In your book, Priyamvada (Poppy) and Tariq navigate their love amidst a dystopian state. What drew you to explore the dynamics of their relationship in such a challenging environment?
>Is there any other kind of environment? I'm not sure. We speak of dystopian worlds, but the fact is, we live in the middle of a nightmare, where glaciers melt and the sun scorches and lakes dry up and people rage against people. Maybe there are gentler, kinder spaces we can speak of—but if I want my writing to mirror what is, or speak of what tomorrow brings, I cannot speak of a gentle world. That possibility has ceased to exist. So, love—even something as tender and luminescent and enriching as love—must, like the poppy, take root in a dark and merciless and ravaged environment. There's no other way.
5. How did you approach the portrayal of privilege in the novel, particularly in the context of Poppy and Tariq's relationship?
>Focusing on privilege was a conscious decision. The assumption often is that privilege grants space for assertion; that it lets one rail against circumstance, advocate for change, speak up and speak out. Yet, the fact also is that privilege brings with it an illusion of safety and immunity; the conviction that the world outside cannot impinge upon the worlds within; that taking a stance is unnecessary, even foolhardy—for, why jeopardize the benefits being reaped? Given the inherent tussle the word 'privilege' holds within it, I wished to dive in and understand it closely through the protagonist and those who populated her world. I wished to know if the safety she believed was her birthright, her prerogative (by dint of the fact that she came from a specific background) would secure her against the times. I wished to know if the love she chose—the love she half-believed she could safeguard—would withstand the fury of a rampaging state.
I wished to know if John Donne was prescient, after all, when he said, 'Send not to know / For whom the bell tolls, / It tolls for thee.' I wished to know.
6. Can you discuss your process of weaving together fact and possibility in the narrative? How did you balance these elements to create a compelling story?
>The exercise involved imagining moments in time, then reimagining them. I compare the process to creating a charcoal drawing. You sketch a figure with fleet lines, then blow it off, the outline still visible, and attempt another figure on the same sheet.
Many years ago, I had experimented with such drawings. Now, I wanted to experiment similarly with the word.
7. "Like Being Alive Twice" delves into the pursuit of peace amidst turbulent times. What message or takeaway do you hope readers will glean from the characters' journeys?
>I don't know if it's pursuing peace. I think it's pursuing meaning, or a kind of truth, or a still moment—but where do we find such moments?
I am the last person to offer a message or a takeaway. I don't think it's the novel's job to offer either. I hope each reader finds what s/he must, and I hope, at the end of it all, s/he buys a collection of poetry.
8. What challenges did you face while writing this novel, both creatively and in terms of tackling sensitive topics?
>My chief challenge has always been time. And I think this is especially true for those of us with little children who need our time and care and attention every day, every hour. So, really, my struggle all along has been to find short snatches of time when I can world-build or word-hunt; when I can weave together a sentence; when I can grow a sentence into a paragraph that sings as it should.
9. Your novel has been described as politically urgent and stylistically intrepid. How did you navigate the balance between storytelling and addressing pressing societal issues?
>I believe in letting a story lead me by hand. I believe in keeping the story central. It's dangerous, I think, to let pressing societal issues take over and steer the narrative while building fiction.
In other words, I have learnt to trust the story, to slip into the lives of characters, to let Poppy and Tariq and Fatima and Mariam and Mitali guide me. They are central. The political themes you speak of—they are extensions of the lives of the characters, not extraneous to them, or detached. The characters remain the book's beating heart.
10. Finally, what do you hope readers will remember most about "Like Being Alive Twice" after finishing the book?
>I hope they find a sentence they can hold on to. I hope they find a word they can carry in their pockets. I hope they are reminded of poetry.
Beyond this—I dare not hope. Besides, every reader has a specific and secret conversation with a book. I cannot predict or dictate how the conversation will go. I cannot even eavesdrop. That's what makes reading so beautiful—it is a pact between the one who reads and the book; it is an act by which a story that has been written gets rewritten; it is active and transformative. It is all.
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