Although I try to represent numerous cultures here, I notice a pattern among works that reach wide circulation in English. Many works feel urgent and serious, filled with metaphors of political instability and violence—and they add much to our personal libraries, increasing our awareness of new voices. But this week’s selection, Mui Poopoksakul’s translation of Duanwad Pimwana’s Bright, is both a charming portrait of a unique childhood and a refreshing change of pace. It’s the first novel by a Thai woman to appear in English translation and is groundbreaking on multiple levels.
In a series of slice-of-life vignettes, Bright tells the story of Kampol Changsamran (his family name means “bright” in Thai, hence the English title), a small boy whose parents abandon him in a rundown cluster of tenement houses. The synopsis sounds grim, but the execution is anything but. An entire community, from a wise grocer to young schoolchildren, team up to provide Kampol with food, shelter, and some semblance of a happy childhood. Widely praised for its depiction of Thailand’s communal culture, Bright’s closest parallel in English would be Sandra Cisneros’s The House on Mango Street, bringing a community alive through a meaningful cast and vibrant snapshots. Meticulous characterization and a thoughtful portrayal of childhood make it worth your time.
From the first page, Pimwana warns us not to expect sweeping tropes or epic journeys. Instead, she describes Mrs. Tongjan’s tenement community, which is “so unextraordinary that memory can hardly be bothered to register it.” Its main feature is “an open lot that’s perfect for turning around without having to reverse.” Despite this unremarkable setting, richly imagined characters keep the reader turning the page. After fierce arguments and an eviction, Kampol’s parents leave him to fend for himself; their neighbors grill him for details but are also eager to show off their generosity. Among the adults, there’s Mon, an overworked seamstress; Dang, a drunken bicycle repair man; and Bangkerd, an irascible mortician. Yet shopkeeper Chong, a grocer of Chinese descent, emerges as resident philosopher and Kampol’s primary caregiver. When others forget to feed him, Chong cooks Kampol fried rice and reads him poetry. When the boy becomes lost at a crowded shrine gathering, convinced he saw his parents, Chong is waiting to carry him home on his back. His empathy renders the mundane moving throughout the novel. In one vignette, a mentally disabled girl writes a birthday greeting for her grandmother; though he knows it’s illegible, Chong (one of the few literate adults) “pretends” to read an elaborate message while her family praises her. Such moments of kindness are appealing, creating emotional investment in what might otherwise be a tale of grinding poverty and misery.
Words Without Borders noted how much of the novel’s power lies in its ability to recreate a sense of “childlike innocence.” Yet its portrayal of childhood is more nuanced, contributing to a keen sense of humor. However sweet they seem, these children live in a world where cash is king—and they are the keenest hustlers of all. Two local stores competing for business allow the children to set up a flea market in their respective parking lots, immediately drawing shoppers who had “fallen for the adorable little kids.” One manager tries to lure them inside to sell more of his merchandise, but “they weren’t interested” because, “they were doing brisker business outside…than in.” Kampol tries numerous schemes, from collecting phone service fees to breeding crickets, to make money. When his school principal visits him and pities his situation, Kampol tries to make money for a fellow street child selling rice, asking between tears if someone could buy him some. He is not above using his situation to help himself and others, a key point that drives the novel’s strong characterization and narration. Those who find themselves abandoned or alone are never victims in Pimwana’s hands. Kampol has suffered, but in doing so, learned self-sufficiency and resilience. Pimwana’s ability to combine poignant moments of connection with the ruthlessness of survival is both unusual and unmatched. Bright is a portrait of childhood I won’t soon forget—and, I hope, a beacon of more to come.
Duanwad Pimwana, Bright, trans. Mui Poopoksakul (Two Lines Press, 2019)
Photo Credit: hasse42 via Pixabay.
