‘Tales from Qabristan': A novel about a young man's childhood memories is as vivid as a photograph

Scroll.in

24-05-2025

'Wise are those who listen to the tales from Qabristan
for only then can you
Admire the flowers bloomed in the garden of the grave.'
If I were to describe Sabin Iqbal's Tales From Qabristan, in one sentence, I would say that it is like flipping through the pages of an album of vivid photographs taken through the protagonist Farook's lens that capture his world as it is. However, since a single line wouldn't do the book justice, I'll talk about it with all its quirks and wonders to convince you to read it.
The Kayaloram House
The novel is a wonderfully done portrait of the inhabitants of the Kayaloram House through Farook's reflections on his life following his father's death. He seems to be scrambling to keep alive the tales that his grandmother and mother have told him and through them, the memories of those who have become tombstones in the graveyard. These stories translate bigger theoretical discussions of grief, feminism, caste, religion, and capitalism that are forgetful of very many people of the country, into the slow-moving, everyday lives of all those that occupied a space – no matter how small – in Farook's life. The Middle-Eastern Oil Boom, the massive immigration that it set off, the families it left behind, neglect, affairs, abuse, alcoholism, death and life that trudges on as if nothing ever happened, all find a fitting place in this novel.
I call it a photo album despite its literary medium because of the care and craft that went into its writing, allowing the production of vivid imagery with all of Kerala's visuals, sounds and scents through exquisite language that is far from cliche. Iqbal presents a breath of fresh air through sentences that twist and turn, each one challenged by the next, with descriptions that draw attention to the right details, skillfully capturing a South Indian setting like no other – for instance, he writes: 'Crystal droplets pucker the faces taut with grief; bigger drops patter on plantain and teak leaves, and drip down the eaves and awnings of the mosque, and the mossy cheeks of its twin minarets.'
The narrative adapts to Farook growing up and switches between endearing moments of childish indignation, innocence and fascination and a rather world-weary, cynical and at times, regretful young adult. The reader's expectations of encountering perfect characters are challenged through depictions of their human errors and thoughtless decisions. Time and again, the male characters shock readers with the cruel carelessness they subject their wives and children to. Several tales of women married off at youth and abused, and of the eyes that are unthinkingly shut towards their predicament, brought tears to my eyes, at times, for these stories do not stray too far from home. Despite Iqbal's gentle exploration of these issues, alongside those of alcoholism and religious practices, the story rejects a moralistic tone, committing instead to documenting the lives of these people as they were, in all their reality and imperfections, making the book all the more charming.
The state of women
Despite the book's excellence in more areas than one, there were moments when I wished the lens had tilted slightly – that the angle had changed, or the frame widened, to capture something just out of view. At times, I felt that the descriptiveness of the writing, coupled with the commitment to narrate the everyday, slowed the story down and took perhaps a few pages more than I would've liked to pick the pace up once again. I also found that despite the strong, memorable and nuanced roles that Grandmother and Ma held, other women in the story could've been fleshed out with more details through a retelling of the lives that they lived outside of men.
Often, the absence of men in their lives, the abuse that they suffered at their hands, or the sexual relations they shared with them became central to their character, ignoring, in my opinion, their 'everyday' and limiting them to just one aspect of their entire life. I do concede that this might have been a reflection of Farook's small scope of interaction with them, only through stories and gossip, which often interests itself in such matters. Perhaps, it is also a reflection of the devastating and thus central position such events might've taken in their lives or even that of the limited lives that these women were forced to live.
In a related but distinct vein, the narrative also explores the compelling experience of a transgender woman in the story that documents cruel violence and the state of rigid and ridiculous gender norms today. Even so, it might be worth noting that such instances of forced conversions as a result of violence, as mentioned in the novel, might not be the truth for most transgender people today, and for them, it may remain voluntary. Nevertheless, this storyline, much like the rest of the book, is moving and quietly arresting. Tales From Qabristan 's strength lies in the way it pieces together fragments of memory, allowing the lives it recounts to remain messy, unresolved, and real, and I think that is what makes it a memorable and worthy read.