Janika Oza's A History of Burning is a multigenerational saga exploring the impacts of colonialism and exile
A History of Burning is an epic novel about how one act of rebellion can influence a family for generations
Janika Oza is a writer from Toronto. She won the 2020 Kenyon Review Short Fiction Award and the 2022 O. Henry Award and made the 2019 CBC Short Story Prize longlist for her story The Gift of Choice, which is a chapter in A History of Burning.
A History of Burning is an epic novel about how one act of rebellion can influence a family for generations. It's 1898 and a 13-year-old boy in India named Pirbhai needs to make money to support his family, and ends up inadvertently being sent across the ocean to be a labourer for the British. He has a choice to make, and what he does will change the course of his life, and his family's fate, for years to come. The story takes readers to Uganda, India, England and Canada in the wake of Pirbhai's choice as the novel explores the impacts of colonialism, resistance, exile and the power of family.
A History of Burning is on the CBC Books summer reading list.
Read an excerpt from A History of Burning below.
Pirbhai, 1898
The last day Pirbhai spent in Gujarat was ignited by a sun that could not last. The heat was a dry beast, scorching the fields yellow as gora hair. He eased himself onto a step by the water's edge, letting his chappals graze the foam. Jamnagar offered him nothing. For as long as he could remember, every day was the same. By foot, or sometimes hitching a ride on the back of a cart, he wandered the streets, pleading for work. Today the landowner barely raised his eyes, and he knew he was probably one of many boys turned away. Look around you, dikro, the man had muttered. Do you see any rice, any grain? Dry, all dry. Come back after monsoon. When Pirbhai pointed to the white buds bursting across a field, the man laughed until he coughed. His lips cracked and blood pulsed on his stained teeth. Those are for British exports. Not for us.
For as long as he could remember, every day was the same. By foot, or sometimes hitching a ride on the back of a cart, he wandered the streets, pleading for work.
That morning, Pirbhai had watched his Ma ask the gods for forgiveness, praying over his middle sister, whose bones clacked as though loose inside her skin. For days her body had expelled water — sweat-water, wiwi-water, chee-water —and now she was limp and dry as the crops outside. When his ma had turned to him and told him to try Jamnagar today, that a neighbour's son had found work there last week, Pirbhai had imagined saying no. He had thought about rolling over on his sleeping mat, refusing to leave home and playing gilli danda with his siblings in the deadened grass instead. They would fight over who got to be striker and who fielder, and as the eldest, Pirbhai would get first pick. He would strike the gilli all the way to the sea, and his siblings would whistle, Ma looking on in awe.
But he was 13, the oldest son, no longer a boy. If he returned bearing nothing again, Ma would suck in her cheeks, then silently scrape her portion onto his plate; a reminder of the strength he would need for tomorrow. Bhai, his mother always called him, brother, reminding him of who he was, to whom he was responsible.
The reddening sky warned him to start his journey back, but the wind pulling off the water stilled him. He pressed his palms to his face, the imprint of the sun behind his eyelids a single ember. When he opened his eyes, there was a man. A merchant, his belt buckle polished and skin supple and oiled so that its brown shone almost gold. The man shifted a lump of tobacco in his cheek, exposing teeth like chipped bricks.
"Looking for work, dikro?"
Pirbhai nodded, eyeing him, too weary from the day to believe.
The man opened his fist for a second. It was long enough for Pirbhai to spy a pile of coins, grimy but solid, winking in the late afternoon light.
"You and I, we were meant to find one another," the man said, and pressed a coin into Pirbhai's palm. Pirbhai closed his fingers over the skin-warmed metal, unable to resist its unnatural weight.
"You have work?"
The man pointed out at the water.
"I'm looking for boys just like you. Young, tough, hard-working. You'll work hard, na?"
Now Pirbhai focused, aware that this was his chance. He raked a hand through his hair, relieved that he still appeared strong and capable, even as his stomach curled around itself. He smiled to show the man his teeth, that they were straight and square, his best feature — a sign of inner health, his ma always bragged.
"I'll work the hardest," he said, and he meant it.
Now Pirbhai focused, aware that this was his chance. He raked a hand through his hair, relieved that he still appeared strong and capable, even as his stomach curled around itself.
The man clapped him on the shoulder and fished into his pocket, drawing out two things. First, a small tin of tobacco, which he flipped open and offered to Pirbhai. Tentatively, Pirbhai accepted, taking a pinch and dabbing it inside his lip as he'd seen so many men do: languorous restless men, hungry-eyed. His heart leapt knowing that he might no longer be one of them.
Beneath the tin of tobacco, the man shook out a long strip of paper. It was crisp and covered in small black etchings. Pirbhai's spirits sunk. A test. He had hardly been to school, never learned to read. Now he would have to prove himself smart enough for the job, and he would fail.
The man passed him the sheet of paper. He didn't ask Pirbhai to read the words, or to recite a poem like the wealthy boys could, or to take up a pen and write. Instead, he produced a small cap of ink and tapped it open, gesturing to the line at the end of the page.
"If you want to work, you just need to put your thumbprint here," he said.
Marvelling at his luck, Pirbhai let his right thumb sink into the pool of black, all the way until it hit the bottom.
Excerpted from A HISTORY OF BURNING by Janika Oza. Copyright © 2023 Janika Oza. Published by McClelland & Stewart, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited. Reproduced by arrangement with the Publisher. All rights reserved.
