[First published in YouthKiAwaaz]
We have we have this pre-conceived notion that the women in pre-independence India were meek and docile. That they were largely confined to the house and that they did not have any opinions of their own. Yet, if we look at history, we see that there were very many women who participated in a very meaningful way both in the freedom struggle and in various battles to achieve social and economic equality. These were not just privileged women from westernised families, but women from the working class and the oppressed class; women who you would not expect to be out there protesting or even having (much less expressing) an opinion of their own.
In this lyrical work of fiction set in the first half of the 20th century, Lakshmi Murdeshwar Puri has chosen to debunk the myths of the silent Indian women by writing about a family that defies the norms set by a patriarchal society.
At a time when child marriage was rampant, one man fought society to give both his younger daughters an education and forced them to pursue careers. In the society of his day, on the demise of his wife at childbirth, the Maratha farmer would have married a second wife who would have taken care of the girls and the newborn son, but he defied society to put the girls in an Ashram school, where they lived and learnt with other orphan girls. He encouraged them to go to college and trusted them enough to live on their own in Bombay and study in a co-educational institution. What makes the story even more powerful is the fact that it is clearly inspired by the author’s own mother, who was herself a postgraduate in the same pre-Independence period.
The story spans one generation- roughly 50 years of Malati’s life- the time span may not be enough to call it an intergenerational saga, but the story does follow people from multiple generations of the family long enough to see how perceptions and prevailing attitudes change, and how certain things which were not even considered early on in the story become normalised towards the end. Malati herself evolves from an intelligent and headstrong young girl to an empathetic and accomplished woman forged by love, loss and life.
The book’s greatest strength is the powerful characters, especially the women characters. Yes, the pioneering women students, Malati and her sister Kamala, are the protagonists, but the subsidiary characters are equally strong. Their Aiyee, for instance, seems like a silent housewife, but she put her foot down whenever needed, taught her daughters to carry themselves with pride and dignity, and supported her husband when he dreamt crazy dreams for the girls. Their older sister Surekha was allowed to decide whether or not she wanted to be the second wife of an extremely rich and powerful man and did so on condition that he would never emotionally or physically abuse her. Maa Saheba, the first wife of the man whom Surekha married, was called crazy by society, but was she really crazy- she was one in the long tradition of bhakti saints who only wanted union with a Lord Krishna and asserted her agency whenever she could. Sarla and Veena, the two daughters of Surekha’s husband, were both high-spirited young women who craved romantic and sexual gratification. As you encounter each of these characters, you start to realise how much you stereotype a particular time, but that even in those days, women did assert themselves within their limitations.
There are many layers to each of the main characters. For instance, we feel quite indignant when a particular character shows his misogynistic nature by trying to clip the wings of his wife. But soon we realise that the couple hide a secret which both are determined to protect, and his controlling nature is just to ensure that his wife is protected.
Of particular importance throughout the book is, of course, the battle for independence- the different ways in which people participated in the freedom struggle, the different choices available to them, and how some people chose to become lawyers or teachers, thereby providing a continuation of intellectual leadership, of how some people joined the nonviolence struggle, and others joined the revolutionary struggle. People were very different from each other, but each was driven by a love for the motherland and a desire to do whatever it takes to free India from the clutches of the British.
The most stunning part of the book, however, is the lyrical language. Sometimes, it seems a little over the top, but it never ceases to be beautiful. The author quotes abhangs from Marathi bhakti saints, Marathi and English poetry from the period, and verses from Kalidassa’s Meghadoota. The same kind of lyrical beauty permeates the book, and her gorgeous prose ensures you can almost visualise what is happening in front of your eyes. This is clearly a book that will make it many shortlists when literary awards are announced, and rightly so. Few debut novels tackle social themes in as enchanting a way as this one does.
Time takes on very different meanings in this book- sometimes, short periods of time are described in vivid detail over many chapters, and at other times, years flip by in a sentence or two. In the last quarter of the book, timelines get a little confusing when, in an attempt to close certain subplots, the author jumps forward several years before returning to pick up the main narrative where she left off.
Swallowing the Sun, a title taken from an abhang of Muktabai– “the ant flies into the sky and swallows the sun”, is a book about individuals. Still, through their story, we also get a deeper understanding of the socio-economic and political world of the first half of the previous century. A word about the exquisitely beautiful cover- flowers, birds and fruits are painted against a muted gold sky, with the ghats of Banaras in the background, creating a scene as evocative as the book itself.
I received a review copy of the book, but the views are my own. The book has been published by Aleph Book Company
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