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.
Click here: Excerpt of Invictus
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