Good Evening
Good Evening

Caught Between Worlds, Shadows and Light

THE PROFESSOR OF LIGHT, by Marina Budhos, Putnam, 254 pp., $23.95.

DON'T LOOK BACK, if you're racing, pursued by the flames of Sodom and

Gomorrah. Or you'll be turned into a pillar of salt. Don't look back, if

you're Orpheus on the threshold of escape, holding your Eurydice by the

hand, leading her out from captivity in the Underworld. Steal a peek of

your beloved, and the game will be up. She'll fall back into the abyss.

Whether it's horror or longing that compels the glance, fight it, or

the costs will be tragic.

The western canon offers many examples of the dangers of looking

back, and it is this anxiety about memory that animates "The Professor

of Light," Marina Budhos' lyrical but schematic second novel. Her

characters, immigrants to successful addresses in the First World,

wrestle against the impulse to cultivate "home" and its habits, once

permanently abroad.

For Warren Singh, a philosophy professor in New York City and the

novel's namesake, the claims of the past are psychological blocks to

achieving his ambition: to write the definitive book about the dual

nature of light, as both matter and energy.

The past asserts itself through ever more insistent letters from his

mother and sisters in Guyana - the second poorest country, after

Haiti, in the Western Hemisphere and a place that some might argue is

its own Underworld of political burlesque and economic need, its own

Sodom and Gomorrah of racial sins.

Warren's relatives report, in blue aerograms "sliding through the

mail slot with a scary hiss," that the house is falling apart. That, in

a country "that once shimmered with green paddy fields," there is no

rice to buy. That they never receive the money he sends to the village

gas station. And that his brother Joseph (once upon a time, his partner

in dissecting Descartes) is close to death.

If it were not for Sonia, his Jewish-American wife, the letters would

pile up unanswered in the room where he paces, mulling over the paradox

of light and wishing he could disentangle himself from his roots long

enough for sustained flights of scientific inquiry.

Soon, the letters arrive with coaxing gifts: guavas wrapped in pink

tissue, pillows embroidered by Singh's sisters, glass bangles for his

teenage daughter, Meggie, the book's narrator.

The plot, or what there is of plot in this highly meditative novel,

unfolds over several summer holidays in England with Warren's favorite

sister, Inez. Married to a dry Englishman, Inez has become a caricature

of English propriety, "hushing the sunny vowels of her accent," hating

the way that Guyanese men wear their shirts to show their curly black

hair and dismissing them as "rum-headed fellows" who "don't know how to

get on with their lives."

"I didn't come to England to listen to their stories and moan about

the old country," she declares. "I married a good man."

In one of the novel's most vivid scenes, two of those "rum-headed

fellows," childhood friends whom Warren rediscovers quite by accident at

a cricket game, come like a cyclone into Inez' home. Liquor cabinets fly

open. Talk alive with old times and dialect flows like rum. Much that is

English - the porcelain miniatures of Big Ben and the London Bridge

and the meticulously kept flower beds - is ruined. And, in the end, as

Inez had predicted, they demand money, leaving Warren to conclude: "The

people from my past, they want so much. They want more than I can


The reasons for the Singhs' denial of the past, ironically, lie

exactly there. Even before Warren, bound for the United States, says

goodbye to his weeping mother on their veranda, "leaving" is central to

his identity. He is a descendant of Indian indentured laborers in the

former British colonies of the Caribbean. "They say," Inez tells her

young niece, "that every season when the old folks plant their seed cane

in the fields, they remember their lost homes in India and weep tears of

longing, which mingle in the earth. The rum they brew muddles their

children's heads and makes them slow-footed and melancholy, so they can

never leave home."

The ancestors conspire to keep their offspring close. The Singhs'

mother, in Budhos' poetic idiom, ties red ribbons around her daughters'

waists. She sends letters that weigh like stones in the pockets of her

son Joseph, then a government worker in Aruba, to force him home.

She buries an egg under the steps every time her daughter Didi, a

beauty in love with the wrong man, looks wistfully beyond their yard.

Those eggs hatch into "half-born bird-ghosts" that push through the

earth, rising to "let out their fury on those of us who dare run away

and live out our dreams."

This image of the bird-ghost recurs throughout "The Professor of

Light," a book that gains its momentum not from character or plot, but

from the progress of a series of ideas and symbols, chief among them:


It is held up as an ideal, both particle and wave, in a fictional

world charged by many opposites (flesh and intellect, roots and flight,

man and woman, superstition and reason). It is even able to serve as a

metaphor for transnational identity.

As Meggie Singh, a young woman with multicultural credentials much

like the author's, says, summing up the novel's overarching conceit:

"It's like this. My dad always taught me that we were in between. He's

Indian from the West Indies and my mother is not. We live in the States,

but we come here every summer to be with Uncle Tom and Aunt Inez and

George and Timmy. Light is like that. Here and there. In between."

More Lifestyle