Even though Peacocks of Instagram was a finalist for this year’s Giller Prize, I initially refused to read it. Why? I was turned off because the word Instagram was used in the title. Silly, I know, but we all have our issues.
The night of the Giller Awards I tuned into CBC TV. This year they interviewed the five finalists on stage and Deepa Rajagopalan literally shone with joy and curiosity. She generously and inventively answered all her questions and the jewel on the crown was that she was from Guelph and does a lot of walking in the Arboretum to foster her imagination. I was hooked!
Peacocks of Instagram is a book of linked short stories, each one a vibrant facet of what I now sheepishly admit is a gem of a book that I almost missed. The stories migrate, like many people today, between India, Canada and the United States. Characters pop up over time, damaged for sure, but still breathing with their own sweet and crazy idiosyncrasies.
Each of the stories situated in India bring back my own precious two months spent there 25 years ago. The sights and sounds are as flagrant as peacock feathers. A buffalo with pink horns sitting in a pothole, a trip in a taxi with no seat belts, no air conditioning, no cup holders, old women chewing betel. She transported me back there.
But her genius doesn’t stop there. In the most relaxed of ways, she tells stories that drive personal narratives in many cultures. Perhaps because she is truly a global citizen - born to Indian parents in Saudi Arabia, having lived also in India, the United States and presently in Canada.
Despite suffering constant sexism, the main characters are wily girls and women who eventually get their revenge. Stereotypes abound – gold jewelry is everywhere, but hey, it’s often true. Motherhood is also a leading trope and as Deepa proves again and again, motherhood is like having your heart outside of your body for the rest of your life.
I was amazed by how much I had in common with the characters. Here’s just one example. One of the young women in the U.S. is teeming with fear about taking her drivers’ test. During the test, she proceeds onto the freeway at which point she slows down. The examiner tells her that the speed limit is 65 mph, not 35 mph. She fails the test.
When I was 16, the day after I received my license, I was stopped by the police for going 17 mph, on the Don Valley Parkway where the speed limit at that time was 60 mph, and I didn’t have my license with me. I had to bring it to the police station the next day. We are connected more than we are separate.
How can lives that contain challenges and tragedy also be brimming with humour? This is a testament to Deepa’s understanding of the human psyche and that life and death, joy and sorrow are forever intertwined. She both understands that we are truly global sisters and brothers and has the talent to bring this to life on the page.
