How I witnessed Shenaz Patel: Funambuler

This is not a book review; it's a letter about how I felt and how I witnessed Shenaz Patel. 

I haven’t read a book from a Mauritian author for what feels like an eternity. 

What a shame! 

So, to embrace the richness of our culture, I bought a few books, including Funambuler. 

My days have been punctuated with living life, reading, taking notes, thinking, and writing.  

These past two weeks were a slap in the face. 

Why was I sleeping on this wealth of talent?

It’s no surprise that I have a special relationship with art. 

Watching paintings and the world feels like a communion: we experience each other as one. 

This urge to share a testimony of my experience through essays is freeing, but it never came naturally for books. 

What is this mystery of writing? 

Is it to build a home for our imagination, to shelter our cascade of emotions? 

Through her book, Funambuler, she walks us through this tightrope exercise: writing.

Along the way, I took time to reflect and confess my own ties with words on paper. 

At eight years old, I was writing love songs before I knew what love truly was. Words always came to me in strange ways. I don’t remember exactly why I chose writing as my shelter, but I think it chose me as one of its guardians. 

Shenaz Patel murmurs to us through her pages that the more you love writing, the more it loves you. She couldn’t be more right. 

Literature saved her life. During hardships, writing and reading helped her keep her sanity. I love when she said: « Peut-être parce que raconter, c’est prendre un instant à la mort. » Her words collided with my fears. 

P:9 She describes how fascinated she is with symphonic writing. I relate to her so much. When I write, it’s like a tailored song to my own rhythm. It goes at the beat of my heart, feelings, and memories. 

I love the imagery she uses in her texts. She doesn't only narrate; she lets us imagine how things are. 

Love Story

The story One Thousand and One Nights (Les Mille et Une Nuits) triggered her love for stories. It was a romance. As I turned each page, she would bring us into various corners of her memories. It held fragments of moments that brought her closer to her passion. 

It all started when she saw her parents devouring books. I love how she braids stories with quiet intentions, precision, and emotion. I was there with her as she opened the boxes filled to the brim with books. A story can repeat itself; one day, the books she wrote can be stacked in a box and discovered by another little Shenaz. 

She is a beautiful vessel for stories. I was eating each word. I’m not a fan of French books, but she just converted my allegiance to French. 

Shenaz and her boxes

P:28 Until death do us part. 

Her long-term lover? 

The books, piled in boxes her dad brought home after roaming the island. 

If boxes don’t reach the kids in need, Shenaz will bring them closer. She will open these books and let stories overflow their imagination. She is carving a stream of knowledge that was easily gifted to her. 

A parallel

P:33 Shenaz Patel asks us why we write?

I write to articulate my thoughts, to share memories, feelings, and a perspective I know will change tomorrow. 

But I write anyway.

I write to freeze this snowball of consciousness.

To portray the world that is inside my awareness. 

It’s how I see the world, witness life, and relate to art around me. 

Words chant, sometimes murmur, or turn inaudible.

I just lend my ear and let my pen and hand dance on paper. 

She says she writes because she doesn't know how to speak.

I felt it, and it resonated with me. 

Quiet Bullets

You can hear shots being fired, but you can’t feel the pain unless you’ve experienced it. 

That’s how it felt reading her lines that are now quotes glued in my mind. 

P:41 “Écrire pour se déblesser”

I’ve been stitching my wounds with words.

They were glittering band-aids. 

Now the scars are fading over time. 

Writing is truly a healing journey. 

Self Mythology

These words were ghosts until I stumbled on Doris Lessing’s teachings. 

We draw our worlds and craft stories about our lives based on our memories and fragments.

But what if we wake up with no clue it was real?

Will we be able to paint our worlds in color? 

“Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life, and you will call it fate” - C.G Jung

In her book, she navigates her childhood, life as a journalist, and everything in between.

Her words feel authentic in a world that is tainting us with its own version of reality.

Fiction to find meaning 

Speaking of reality, we have her sister from another mother: Fiction. 

P:52 “Parce que paradoxalement, la fiction rend vrai, la fiction rend réel”

“...ce que je voulais, c’était ressortir l’aspect humain, l’histoire des « gens ordinaires » livrés à l’Histoire avec une grande hache. Je voulais donner à ressentir avec. Et cela, c’est le roman, l'écriture littéraire qui peuvent le faire. ”

These lines echo why she wrote the book Le Silence des Chagos.

To find meaning, we expose our constellation or void wrapped in fiction.

I’m glad I stumbled upon her words on 7 February 2026. 

Now, I see fiction as a descendant of our memories and fragments.

A breeze shifting

As from P:71, I felt a shift, like a breeze in summer.

I felt we were diving into another sphere where I became more observant. 

Page after page I was suffocating in my own silence. 

Why?

There were so many layers to her writing. 

I was trying to keep up the pace.

But I finally gave up and I just sat still: on my bed, at my desk. 

Somewhat, that felt beautiful.

Lips sealed 

As I read the ending chapters, I felt caught off guard. 

Why can’t I utter a few words?

Why are my lips sealed? 

Even my hands can’t hold the pen on paper.

I don’t feel legitimate to speak on our language: Creole. 

I’ve been more of a spectator, which is disappointing in my eyes. 

How can I be so passive when God gave me a voice? 

I’m lacking a lot in terms of the history, culture, and language of my Island. 

How can I even say my? 

It’s my responsibility to learn, share, and give my views. 

The last chapters exposed my void.

An ignorance inherited, perhaps. 

I'm a funambulist

Books reveal our shadow self.

I was in equilibrium half of the time.

I met Shenaz Patel, the explorer of words and ideas, several times on the tight rope.

Until she was out of sight, too far away.

She writes with depth - in thought, perspective, and reality.

I was there with the weight of her words while trying to cross the line.

Writing this letter and how I witnessed her work was revealing.

I already have one of her other books in my hand. Ready to add them in my box.

Thanks for reading.