About the Author
Vyshali Manivannan attends Dartmouth College,
where she is pursuing a bachelor’s degree in English. The daughter of a Physics
professor, Vyshali decided to become a writer at age eleven. She wrote and completed Invictus by age fifteen, when she won a Pearl Street
Publishing Writing Fellowship.
“Since the completion of Invictus,” Vyshali notes, “I have drafted the first
two novels of a planned trilogy, separate from Invictus. Because I
can’t help multitasking, the third of the trilogy is temporarily on hold and
currently I am working on another, separate novel. I am majoring in English and am
considering pursuing a career in writing and perhaps in teaching, as well.”
Vyshali
Manivannan on Travel and Writing
Japan
Two
summers ago, I spent three months in Japan
on
a language study sponsored by Dartmouth,
and I shared my experiences with two homestay families and roughly fifteen of my
classmates. I was doubly foreign—American and Sri Lankan—in a country suspicious
of foreigners, but a country that nevertheless welcomed me as a visitor, a student, an
observer, and a writer. It was difficult to establish a niche for myself in Japanese
society, but I loved the country itself: its punctual transportation, the rush of suited
men and women through its train stations and its streets, the press of people on
Tokyo’s
Yamanote train at seven-thirty in the morning. Tokyo
became
for me a home, a place to watch businessmen as they jostled for seats on trains or strode
through the dripping summer heat armed with three layers of clothing as a guard against
evidencing sweat. I am in love with big cities and with their people, and Tokyo
is
the epitome of that.
Sri
Lanka
The
following winter, I traveled with my family to Sri
Lanka,
the homeland of my ancestors, for the first time. We drove to Batticaloa in the half-light
of a waning moon and a handful of stars, surrounded by a natal presence of language that
never before existed for me outside my home. The roads were without demarcation; cars and
motorcycles and bicycles (often with two clutching at a seat and maybe a third upon the
handlebars) raced in all directions, claiming all parts of a no-lane road. There was the
quick sudden illumination of six large grayish bodies, trunks half-lifted quizzically,
eyes ghostly pale in the peripheral flash of headlamps. I spent a month in Batticaloa
among relatives whom I had never seen before, and the entire trip was like that: swift
realizations and illuminations, as vast as elephants on the side of the road. My heritage
is something I now recognize and accept. Formerly this was not always the case.
Italy
Italy’s
air was crisp when I flew into Rome
last
year. The houses were mud-pink or white, the green palm trees a gentle contrast against
the blue sky. Landing in the airport, I caught a glimpse of a stripped sea like a block of
cerulean without sand or skyline to ground it. I visited the tourist attractions of
Rome,
Florence,
and Venice.
Italy’s
art snatched my breath and left my fingers weak for inspiration and wanting ability. There
is nothing more powerful than witnessing the grand masters; there is nothing more
insidious than admiring the work of the masters and comparing it to your own. I discovered
I am also in love with smaller cities, artistic hubs throbbing with life from a variety of
countries. Florence
claimed
me for its own, and the waters of Venice
reflected
sun and gondoliers’ songs, hypnotic in the fishy air.
France
I visited Paris
after
Italy
and
was compelled to love its people. It was the city that, for years, I had idealized as a
center of art and sophistication, where authors would sit street-side in cafes, cradling
notebooks in their laps, sipping espresso, observing the tides of life around them. The
city did not disappoint me. It was there that I felt completely at ease as a writer for
the first time. I was the recipient of more than a few knowing smiles. The waitresses did
not hurry me. I suspected that others of my kind frequented cafes like this, and the
thought was encouraging. Life seemed less lonely, in Paris
.
Ireland
I spent the last three months on a Dartmouth
foreign
study program, studying English literature in Ireland.
I took courses at Trinity College
in
Dublin
and
shared a house on the outskirts of the city with four other Dartmouth
students.
After having experienced cities like Rome,
Florence,
and Paris,
though, Dublin
was
slightly disappointing. I had expected a city; I discovered a large town. Still, I enjoyed
it thoroughly and my experience was a rewarding one. Dublin
was
dirty, crowded, filled with jovial faces and bodies draped in sweaters and coats and
hurrying to offices and shopping malls. The winter season was marked with spiking rain and
sharp, biting winds. The ongoing sense of independence and the slow pace of classes left
me plenty of time to dedicate to my own projects and to exploring the countryside.
Ireland’s
countryside was beautiful, deeply green and fresh, and the Irish people were extremely
friendly and helpful. There was an instant sense of belonging as soon as I stepped onto
Irish soil.
Future Plans
Studying
and living abroad have helped me develop as a person and have also honed my skills and
discipline as a writer. My latest adventure involves traveling on a grant from Dartmouth
to write a historical fiction story based in my ancestral home of Sri Lanka.
|
