Thin Huvafen and the unrealised promise of Dhivehi fiction

Published almost 30 years ago, the literary debut of young author Mamduh Waheed (Dommu) was a watershed moment in contemporary Dhivehi literature. As a novel, Thin Huvafen is ambitious. It feels informed by the works of 20th century European writers and filmmakers, particularly Milan Kundera and Ingmar Bergman. Though tepid phrasing abounds, there are points of startling beauty scattered throughout, popping out amid humdrum paragraphs.

The novel swings from present to past, from the first person to the third, and the author juggles characters with a young man's bravado. These structural elements are not something Dommu has employed just to be clever. The structure has purpose – at times it creates a dream-like fluidity as you hop from one point of view to the other, and at others it cultivates a sense of deep disorientation.

There are of course three dreams in the novel, the dreams of two of its main characters. The story is revealed (mostly) by the narrator Hassan, who befriends Ainthu with the hopes of eventually becoming more than just a friend.

Ainthu, however, has a lover called Adhan. But it soon becomes clear that she is not fully committed to the relationship, suggesting that Hassan might have a chance. Hassan senses this too, and attempts to find a way in. Hassan's perception of Ainthu is described early. He sees her as beautiful, not just in appearance but also in her way of seeing the world, a unique Weltanschauung.

Women are very sympathetically portrayed. Ainthu's indecisiveness is not necessarily shown as a moral defect – but as part of her playful nature, of her innocently entertaining the idea that there could be a better match for her. Though Adhnan is very good looking, she thinks looks can fade, and though to her, Hassan seems very kind, that kindness may turn to something else in time.

Meanwhile, Ainthu's elder sister Aisthu is trapped in a marriage to a wealthy man, a path she chose out of consideration for the future of her siblings. Where the typical writer might be tempted to present Aisthu as stoical and quietly enduring her lot, Dommu has her falling into moods and taking it out on her siblings, making Aisthu human and relatable.

As the novel is set in 90s Malé, there's a lot on offer for those who wish to reminisce, from ungulhey baazaars to dancing with strangers in hithaanees to the ubiquity of bicycles and the use of landlines as the dominant means of communication.

It's safe to say that Thin Huvafen's purpose is to exist as imagination made concrete of the possibilities of a Dhivehi novel. At its most philosophical, it attempts to say something meaningful about the nature of relationships between friends, lovers, siblings, parents and their children. It does not moralise. There is no message to be found in the novel except perhaps that we're all human and trying to find our way in a world that is by and large indifferent to our attempts.

It is all the more remarkable that it was written by Dommu in his early 20s, displaying precocious talent. If he had a good editor – one whose intellect rivalled or exceeded that of young Dommu – I feel this would have been an even greater work. But even as it is, it deserves to be read, pondered, and celebrated by the younger generation of Dhivehi language enthusiasts.

In the mid-90s, when the novel came out, I doubt people were ready for it, despite praise from the late Madulu Waheed. Yet I feel the Maldives is ready now, maybe beyond ready, to accept Thin Huvafen into its literary fold.