A Sense of the Story: Roopa Farooki
“The objects of the Poet’s thoughts are everywhere; though the eyes and senses of man are his favorite guides, yet he will follow wheresoever he can find an atmosphere of sensation in which to move his wings” – William Wordsworth
Roopa Farooki gives us a sense – or five – of her new novel, The Flying Man.
When writing my fifth novel, The Flying Man, I was particularly aware of the sensual and physical world of my main character, not least because he is constantly reinventing himself in new countries. With each change in persona, there would be a different location – the cityscapes of New York, London, Paris and Hong Kong, the seaside settings of Marbella and Biarritz, the heat and dust of Cairo and Lahore, and these different environments were communicated through the character’s own perception. I used the intimacy of the senses to convey the uniqueness of the individual’s experience, and also to help the reader feel this experience for themselves.
Sight:
The impertinently yellow and upright daffodils in Hyde Park, and the sight of the waves crashing over the moonlit Grande Plage of Biarritz; these are both scenes described in the opening chapter of the novel, and have personal significance for me, as I lived near Hyde Park as a child, and lived near Biarritz when I had my two oldest children.
Sound:
The car-honking, goat-bleating, bell-ringing chaos of the streets of Lahore – the town where I was born – I hadn’t been there for many years, but re-visited it in memory and with the help of my travel diaries.
Smell:
The fragrant “Three Generations” soup that Maqil’s third wife makes him when he is ill, the memory of which almost reduces him to tears many years after he has left her.
Taste:
The bitter coffee and sweet custard pastries that Maqil has in the Prado in Madrid, a flavour that reminds me of Spain; while writing the novel, I made a trip across the border from France to make sure that I got it right.
Touch:
Maqil’s second wife, Samira, holds out her hand to him when she sees him after a long absence, during which he has finally gotten old. But instead of taking his hand to shake it with a formal greeting, she touches his face, his ageing, lined face, and he feels as though “he has been touched by Midas, and turned to living, liquid gold”. I wanted to express what it felt like to be touched by someone you had always loved.
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