Pravasan Pillay
Pravasan Pillay was born in Durban in 1978. He attended Brindhavan Secondary in Chatsworth, and has a B.A. Honours (Philosophy) from the University of Durban-Westville. Pillay has worked as a lecturer, freelance journalist, curator, cashier, and editor. He was the editor of the now defunct micro-press Tearoom Books (2009-2019). His poetry, short stories, and non-fiction have appeared in books, newspapers, journals, and websites – including Brittle Paper, Carapace, donga, Green Dragon, McSweeney’s, New Contrast, New Coin, Prufrock, The Con, Sunday Times Extra, and Sunday Tribune, amongst others.
Pillay has published two poetry chapbooks, and a collection of co-written comedic short stories, Shaggy. His debut short story collection, Chatsworth, was published in 2018, and was later translated into Swedish. His latest publication is a chapbook of short stories, Aiyo!.
Pillay lives in Sweden with his wife, Jenny, and son, Vidar.
Extract from the story “Crooks” in Chatsworth (2018)
Kamla squeezed a small ball of toothpaste onto her forefinger, ran the finger under the tap and began quickly brushing her teeth. Her husband, when he was still alive, had always teased her about her refusal to use a toothbrush.
“How long you living in Chatsworth but you still got the barracks ways in you,” he would say, shaking his head teacher-like at her.
She didn’t mind the teasing, enjoyed it even. That was his manner. It was part of the playfulness that had first won her over when he was courting her all those years ago.
Kamla gathered up the toothpaste in her mouth and spat it out. She turned the tap and cupped her hand underneath it. The water quickly spilled over the hollow created by her thin, small hand.
“I’m ready, Ma,” Ambi said. Kamla allowed the water to fall from her hand and looked over to the bathtub.
Her daughter was holding out a soapy sponge.
“Let me just finish here,” Kamla replied. “Two minutes.”
“Awright,” Ambi said, bringing the arm back inside the bathtub. Her face was turned towards the wall, her arms resting on her thighs, her hands over her knees.
Kamla again put her hand underneath the tap and slurped up the water from it. As she gargled, she stared at her face in the mirror. White foam from the toothpaste formed a faint circle around her mouth. She spat out the warm water, and the bottom half of the circle broke.
Her husband wouldn’t recognise the face she wore now. The face of a sixty-eight-year-old.
The wrinkles had been there to some degree when he was alive, but her cheeks had grown sunken and that seemed to deepen the lines. Her lips were thinner, her hair greyer, her eyes duller, and strands of hair had begun to spring up on her chin and upper lip.
He had died eighteen years ago. It was a heart attack, like his father. He was fifty-four when it happened; he had been at work, at the factory. It was his third heart attack in two years.
The minute she saw all the men in blue overalls standing outside her door at midday, she knew. That was what the factory men did when one of their own died at work. They took the news to the wife and gave her a hastily collected envelope of money.
Selected Bibliography
2009. Glumlazi. Durban: Tearoom Books
2013. Shaggy (with Anton Krueger). Pretoria: BK Publishing
2015. 30 Poems. Stockholm: Tearoom Books
2018. Chatsworth. Johannesburg: Dye Hard Press
2020. Chatsworth. Stockholm: Lil’Lit Förlag
2023. Aiyo! Johannesburg: Dye Hard Press
Pillay lives in Sweden with his wife, Jenny, and son, Vidar.
Extract from the story “Crooks” in Chatsworth (2018)
Kamla squeezed a small ball of toothpaste onto her forefinger, ran the finger under the tap and began quickly brushing her teeth. Her husband, when he was still alive, had always teased her about her refusal to use a toothbrush.
“How long you living in Chatsworth but you still got the barracks ways in you,” he would say, shaking his head teacher-like at her.
She didn’t mind the teasing, enjoyed it even. That was his manner. It was part of the playfulness that had first won her over when he was courting her all those years ago.
Kamla gathered up the toothpaste in her mouth and spat it out. She turned the tap and cupped her hand underneath it. The water quickly spilled over the hollow created by her thin, small hand.
“I’m ready, Ma,” Ambi said. Kamla allowed the water to fall from her hand and looked over to the bathtub.
Her daughter was holding out a soapy sponge.
“Let me just finish here,” Kamla replied. “Two minutes.”
“Awright,” Ambi said, bringing the arm back inside the bathtub. Her face was turned towards the wall, her arms resting on her thighs, her hands over her knees.
Kamla again put her hand underneath the tap and slurped up the water from it. As she gargled, she stared at her face in the mirror. White foam from the toothpaste formed a faint circle around her mouth. She spat out the warm water, and the bottom half of the circle broke.
Her husband wouldn’t recognise the face she wore now. The face of a sixty-eight-year-old.
The wrinkles had been there to some degree when he was alive, but her cheeks had grown sunken and that seemed to deepen the lines. Her lips were thinner, her hair greyer, her eyes duller, and strands of hair had begun to spring up on her chin and upper lip.
He had died eighteen years ago. It was a heart attack, like his father. He was fifty-four when it happened; he had been at work, at the factory. It was his third heart attack in two years.
The minute she saw all the men in blue overalls standing outside her door at midday, she knew. That was what the factory men did when one of their own died at work. They took the news to the wife and gave her a hastily collected envelope of money.
Selected Bibliography
2009. Glumlazi. Durban: Tearoom Books
2013. Shaggy (with Anton Krueger). Pretoria: BK Publishing
2015. 30 Poems. Stockholm: Tearoom Books
2018. Chatsworth. Johannesburg: Dye Hard Press
2020. Chatsworth. Stockholm: Lil’Lit Förlag
2023. Aiyo! Johannesburg: Dye Hard Press