Priyanka Mattoo – ‘It was like going from being a rock to a rubber ball’
On her memoir, Bird Milk and Mosquito Bones, that follows the trajectory of her life over the last three decades from her native Kashmir to Saudi Arabia, England, Italy and USA
What gave you the idea for the book?
It felt like a compulsion at some point. I had always been a big reader, and it had never occurred to me that I too, could someday write a book. But I started writing these essays after I left producing, and once I started to write down all the stories (in) the essay form, (that) made it more manageable... if I could go down into the moments of my life. That was a format that I could wrap the story around. So that’s where I started – with my core memories.
How did you weave together the story, since it starts in the middle and moves back and forth through time?
I wrote all the pieces individually whenever they came to me. Originally, I placed them in chronological order and it absolutely did not work. I realised that it’s because it had to be in order of emotional growth. The realisations and awakenings that we have about things that happen to us in our past don’t happen in a convenient order. They happen whenever our bodies decide to figure out what’s going on. That was what I was trying to get across.
Was the process of writing painful or cathartic, or both?
It was much harder than I expected it to be, because I thought it was writing a light-hearted series of essays. There were chapters that took me months to write. What I did in the interest of practicality – I am after all, a desi woman! – was that I got the most painful parts out of the way first. And then, I got to move on to the lighter stuff – my wedding, my kids. But I have to say, every time I wrote one of those tough chapters, I felt so much lighter after, to shed that weight and really process it.
Do you think by the end writing this book, you define resilience differently?
It definitely changed because I think the definition of what it meant to be a good Kashmiri girl was, you know, we’re hard as rocks. It’s something that our parents pass down as a protective measure from a very early age. And there is a sort of shutting yourself off to the possibility of being hurt, which I did choose to do. I think the process was a little bit of going from being a rock to being a rubber ball. You know, it still holds the same kind of power, but is a little bit is more able, I think, to feel all the feelings and empathise with other people. And it’s allowed me to connect with other people, because the softness is what we all are seeking out when we develop friendships.
Did you worry, when you were writing the book and telling your story, that because of what’s been happening in India politically since 2019, your story could be hijacked for other agendas?
I’m used to our story being hijacked by whoever finds it convenient. That is the history of our people. I think that’s why I approached this from a personal angle. It’s just a story of one family. It’s not a political story, but hopefully in the personal, it allows people to connect with who we are.
The book deals with so many different kinds of families – your birth family, but it also deals with found family and building those communities and connections. Do you think of these two as opposing, and did they clash with each other, or did they create a medley that harmonised?
That’s a really good question. I feel like we read a lot about found family from people who are running away from their own family. When people hear that I wrote a memoir about my family, they assume that there has been some kind of fracture. I love my family – we’ve had our issues like any family, but they’re the rock-solid foundation of my life. I would say (the two) have absolutely merged in a beautiful way. I went looking for people who made me feel like my family made me feel, who made me laugh, who were warm, who took care of me, who cared about food, and socialising, and art and all the things that I cared about.
You talk about your friendship with other artists, like Ali Sethi and the writer Elif Batuman. Can you tell me a little bit about how these artists shaped your writing?
When I experience a piece of art that I really love, I feel it in my body, it’s very visceral. That’s how I wasn’t as an agent, when I represented comedians – a sense of urgency kicks in, and I must scream from the rooftops how I feel about this. I talk about art as like laying down a feeling that you hope someone else picks up, right? That always informs me whenever I’m stuck in my writing.
You mentioned your experiences in Italy. What were the lessons of warmth that you took away from it – that it is okay to not pursue pain all the time?
Yes, it was identifying that just because something is difficult doesn’t mean it’s good for you, which I believe is a message that was drilled into us when we were little – that if it’s hard, you just double down and tolerate it, and you get through it and you conquer it. And in some cases that is true. But there is also, if you were hearing an alarm bell, (it could be saying that) this is not right for you.
Food comes up a lot in the story, and food as cultural memory is such a big part of diasporic writing that it can often be dismissed as a tired trope. Did you think about avoiding because of this particular reading?
Food is important to me, as you can tell. The one constant (in our lives) was the cooking. Also, Kashmiri cuisine is not something you can easily go out and get. I can count on one hand how many Kashmiri restaurants there are outside of Kashmir. But as a thing we could continue to go back to, it is very important. Also, I love to eat! I’ve written a lot of food pieces, and it was always in my writing.
Yes, you included recipes, including the one for your mother’s rogan josh!
I finally got that out of my mom’s hands! Food for me is a love language. It’s what I do when I’m stressed, when I’m tired, when I want to show love, when I socialise, so I don’t know any other way. I’m sure other people have other hobbies! I don’t.
How different is writing a memoir from screenwriting?
I love doing both. I love writing essays. I love screenwriting, I love to write about young South Asian women, and now’s the opportunity when people are actually buying things like that. But it’s fiction. I use it for a TV show. It’s not real.
Will we see you write a book of fiction?
It’s never occurred to me – I don’t have an idea for a novel. But never say never! I know that I would not do it unless they felt confident that I had something to offer. What usually happens is I get an idea that I can’t stop thinking about that kind of haunts me – if that happens, then I will answer the call!
What do you hope that this book will accomplish for your family, for your community and for your readers?
For my family, we come from a very long oral storytelling tradition in which these family stories have been passed down over and over again. It’s crucial to me to get the stories done (so that) I can remember and say, here is a family – we existed. For my community, I hope that they have all been memorialised (and not just) in headlines or for various political reasons. I hope that it’s a celebration of who we are instead of what has been done to us. And writing is much easier for me if I don’t actually think about readers! (But) I hope that it allows people to access feelings they might not have let themselves feel before. My favourite thing in the world is when I read a book, and I underline a feeling that someone has described, and I feel that spark of like, oh my God, I’m not alone. I hope they I experience all the things that I experienced when I read something that I love.
Rush Mukherjee is an independent journalist based in Kolkata.
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