Underworld Lit

Simultaneously funny and frightful, Srikanth Reddy's Underworld Lit is a multiverse quest through various cultures' realms of the dead. Couched in a literature professor's daily mishaps with family life and his sudden reckoning with mortality, this adventurous serial prose poem moves from the college classroom to the oncologist's office to the mythic underworlds of Mayan civilization, the ancient Egyptian place of judgment and rebirth, the infernal court of Qing dynasty China, and beyond—testing readers along with the way with diabolically demanding quizzes. It unsettles our sense of home as it ferries us back and forth across cultures, languages, epochs, and the shifting border between the living and the dead.

I

In the inky, dismal, and unprofitable research of a recent leave ofabsence from my life, I happened upon a historical prism ofAssurbanipal that I found to be somewhat disquieting. Of anenemy whose remains he had abused in a manner that does notbear repeating here, this most scholarly of Mesopotamian kingsprofesses:         I made him more dead than he was before.         (Prism A Beiträge zum Inschriftenwerk         Assurbanipals ed. Borger [Harrassowitz 1996] 241)Prisms of this sort were often buried in the foundations ofgovernment buildings, to be read by gods but not men. Somewherein the shifting labyrinth of movable stacks I could hear a low dialtone humming without end. In Assurbanipal’s library there is apoem, written on clay, that corrects various commonly held errorsregarding the venerable realm of the dead. Contrary to the accountsof Mu Lian, Madame Blavatsky, and Kwasi Benefo, et al., it is notcustomarily permitted to visit the underworld. No, the underworldvisits you.

II

I lost in dark would“Good effort, Aom,” I scribble in red. “Please visit ESL Lab ASAP.”Yesterday’s learning diagnostics balanced on my knee, I await the#33 in a sunlit plexiglass shelter. At the far end of the bench, a girlin a deconstructed peasant blouse frowns into her phone as if itwere an ancient hand mirror.Once upon a time something something?“For heaven’s sake, LaDonté,” I pencil in the margin.My students are all over the map these days. I rub my temples for aspell, the bench beneath me thrumming with traffic. The pagesflutter and settle like a stunned wren rearranging itself on my lap.In the middle of life, I found myself lost in a forest of shadows.Out of nowhere, my bus splashes past, out of service. Mybenchmate stuffs her belongings into a bursting purse and stormsoff with a curse. It looks like I’ll have to reschedule with Song yetagain.Translate the opening of the Inferno into Standard AmericanEnglish. You may refer to your notes. Stay calm. Good luck.

III

For the past several years, I have taught an introductory course onworld literature at the university where I am presently employed.The offering has frequently proven to be a disappointment, both tomyself and to the students—some in headscarves, someoccasionally dressed in fatigues—who register for this seminar inorder to satisfy their Humanities requirement:       As far as classes go, it was an almost painless       experience.       The instructor is fairly intelligent and enthusiastic       about the material but is unreceptive, even       intolerant, of anything that is not a poem or a poem       in prose form.       Made me question things, including the value of       higher learning.       (https://classes.xxxxxxxx.edu/loggedin/evaluation.p       hp?id=16882)Looking over the feedback last summer, I began to consider a

different approach. There would be new assignments, self-assessments, and regularly scheduled office hours this time around,

followed by a transitional withdrawal of black gowns through thespring morning mist. And because I know comparatively little ofthis world, I’ve decided to work my way up from below.

IV

HUM 101. Introduction to the Underworld. [Cross-listed withDivinity and Comp Lit]. In this course, students will be ferriedacross the river of sorrow, subsist on a diet of clay, weigh theirhearts against a feather on the infernal balance, and ascend aviewing pagoda in order to gaze upon their homelands untilemptied of all emotion. Texts will include the Egyptian Book ofthe Dead, the Tibetan Book of the Dead, the Mayan Book of theDead, the Ethiopian Book of the Dead, and Muriel Rukeyser’sBook of the Dead. The goals of the seminar are to introducestudents to the posthumous disciplinary regimes of variouscultures, and to help them develop the communication skills thatare crucial for success in today’s global marketplace.All readings in English. Requirements include the death of thestudent, an oral report, and a final paper.

V

I promised my wife that I would call Dr. Song today. After puttingMira down for her nap and slipping outside for a smoke, I lifted thereceiver. The sound it emitted, which I have heard without pausecountless times before, seemed to me otherworldly now, likesomebody’s finger playing on the wet rim of a crystal bowl in aderelict theater before the wars.It’s hard to say how long I stood there listening. It may have beenseconds or seasons. The rings of Saturn kept turning in theirgroove. For reasons beyond me—our seminar had already movedon from late medieval Europe to developing world underworlds—Idialed 1-800-INFERNO, and before the first ring, a woman’s voiceanswered in heavily accented English.“Is it you?”“I think so,” I replied. Outside, the honey locusts sprinkled theirpale spinning leaves in real time. Focusing on one as it fell seemedto slow the general descent.“Oh creature, gracious and good,” the faraway lady recited, as ifreading, against her will, from a prepared text, “traversing thedusky element to visit us / who stained the world with blood.” Icould hear rain trickling in a gutter spout on the other end of theline.“Please,” I said into the receiver, “remove my name from yourlist.”

VI

While outlining the requirements for our first critical essay of theterm, I notice a hand rising in world-historical time at the back ofthe classroom.

“What if I’m ideologically opposed to revision?” asks the red-headed boy in a “New Slaves” t-shirt.

A city bus unloads its pageantry outside the window. A handful ofsparrows erupts from the equestrian statue on the quad. I rememberSun Tzu’s advice to humanities instructors, which I review onindex cards at the outset of each academic quarter.Hold out baits to entice the enemy. Feign disorder, and crush him.“What exactly is your ideology?” I ask, stroking my beard.“I’m a Zen Naxalite crypto-Objectivist,” replies my interlocutor.“How about you?”I have no choice but to improvise. “Pro-recycling, anti-genocide?”A voice from beyond my peripheral vision says, “You’re nothingbut a pseudo-Kantian neoliberal mirage with meta-narcissistictendencies.”“No, I’m not.”“Yes, you are.”“No, I'm not.”“Yes. You are.”