Happy Stories, Mostly by Norman Erikson Pasaribu
“And so, from that point on, in order to make the story even sadder, I decided to start taking Writing classes—where questions like “What is the worst thing you’ve ever experienced?” and “What is your darkest secret?” are routinely trotted out to be answered by people, a portion of whom are sure from the start that it is they who have the most miserable experience, the strangest secret, the wildest imagination, to the point that, from the start, they won’t take much interest in the story I’ll tell them, much less in me.”
~ A Bedtime Story for Your Long Sleep
Longlisted for both the International Booker Prize 2022 and the Republic of Consciousness Prize for Small Presses 2022, Happy Stories, Mostly is the first fiction collection from queer Indonesian writer Normal Erikson Pasaribu to be translated into English by Tiffany Tsao. Following his hugely successful poetry debut, Sergius Seeks Bacchus (2019), Pasaribu offers a wide-ranging selection of stories exploring unique and nuanced perspectives that are an incisive exploration of his own heritage and identity.
There are twelve stories of varying lengths. Some of the stories follow a more surrealist telling, whereas others are closer to reality, but all deal with longing, loss and missed chances in some form. The opening story, a flash fiction piece, is less than a page in length. ‘Enkidu Comes Knocking on New Year’s Eve’ is a visually evocative story that achieves what all great flash does; tells a colossal narrative in as few words as possible. It’s a fantastic introduction to what we can expect in the following stories.
Resilience and survival are recurring themes, especially when connected to fractured family structures. Single mothers feature prominently, tackling the stigma of being a parent to openly gay sons and juggling societal judgement amongst attempts to reconcile their own feelings. In ‘So What’s Your Name, Sandra?’ one such mother is coming to terms with the suicide of her son, for which she feels complicit, having exiled him after discovering he had a boyfriend. She travels to Vietnam, visiting a temple with a giant turtle encased; she recalls a story about the Golden Turtle God who lent the King of Vietnam his sword to liberate his people and land from China. She is moved by the story and her own sense of guilt:
“This is my son,” Mama Sandra told the woman in English, pointing to the turtle in the glass case, tears streaming down her face. “This is my son.” She felt the woman would understand somehow. “This is my son, you know.”
Merging Pasaribu’s Christian heritage and Batak cultural background, the presence of religion - and perhaps its failings - features prominently. In ‘Ad Maiorem Dei Gloriam,’ an ageing nun reflects on her dedication to her faith and God and where it has landed her. The freedoms she has sacrificed to reach a retirement of sorts, where she is more invisible than ever:
“Six months ago, Sister Tula was sent to the retired nuns’ convent in Pondok Aren. Now, she has started sneaking out. She heads to a shopping plaza, carrying a change of clothes—a T-shirt and long skirt. She stops at every shop, contemplating everything she doesn’t need or can’t afford. The gleam of wristwatches. The scent of imitation perfume. The colourful stained-glass plates and cups. Until the day comes when none of them can move her heart anymore, the only one in this wicked world who can complete me is God. This was what Tula told her boyfriend, Anton, forty-five years ago. I guess even God needs His nuns young.”
I have read in other reviews that these stories are connected to Simone Weil’s concept of decreation, defined by Weil as “an undoing of the creature in us—that creature enclosed in self and defined by self. But to undo self, one must move through self to the very inside of its definition.” The concept of decreation has often been attached to individuals moving away from being devoted to faith - and this is palpable in many of these stories.
While religion is present, God is not. Pasaribu does not offer God any sort of answer or consolation for the deep sense of loss and loneliness many of his characters feel - particularly those who do not conform to gender and heterosexual binaries.
‘The Department of Unanswered Prayers’ plays into this concept with a parody of what happens when we pray. An unnamed being is given an induction into their new workplace and role in the department; the corporate office politics played on while they are given a tour, and the hierarchies of sub-departments are explained. The induction is finalised with explicit instructions on what to do if the being finds one of their own prayers for filing:
“Someday, you’ll come across an envelope that has your name on it. You’ll be speechless. You’ll break into a cold sweat, and your heart will pound. After all, you’ve arrived. You’re here. Why is your prayer only getting here now? Just remember: don’t trust any of your feelings. They’re wrong.”
This richly interwoven collection offered the right breadth of variety across the core connecting themes. Standouts for me included ‘The True Story of the Story of the Giant’ - the longest story in the collection about a student who moves to Jakarta, experiences unrequited love and its consequences, and ‘Deep Brown, Verging on Black’ - a short story of obsession where the narrative flips part-way through and we realise how unreliable our narrator has been. It’s a delicious slow reveal into whose perspective you’re really reading:
“I don’t think he remembers me. The first time we met again, he didn’t recognise me at all. Me on the other hand: how often had I woken up in the dead of night, drenched in sweat, thanks to those dreams of the past.”
Pasaribu demonstrates a wonderful and profoundly empathetic ability to see things from others' perspectives. Despite the ways the families and mothers in his stories often reject or struggle to accept their gay sons, there is a deep sense of tenderness in how this is explored. Pasaribu never condemns these characters but expertly finds ways to accept why they feel the way they do. The struggle between motherly love and accepting a child who hasn’t turned out ‘as hoped’ is told with bittersweet care.
It should not be forgotten what a testament these collections are to the work of translators. Tsao also translated Pasaribu’s poetry collection, and it is evident the two have found a great working relationship.
With an intense focus on the ‘mostly’ within the title, Pasaribu reminds us where the line of happiness may lie within a life - who, ultimately, gets to decide they’re happy? For many of these characters, it is no straightforward thing. This is a uniquely developed collection, and many of these stories will stay with me for a long time.
Elaine Mead is a freelance writer and book reviewer, currently residing in nipaluna (Hobart), Tasmania. She is passionate about the ways we can use literature to learn from our experiences to become more authentic versions of ourselves and obsessed with showing you photos of her Dachshund puppy. You can find her online under www.wordswithelaine.com.
