It takes only one incident to change the destinies of
many. Pulitzer Prize winning author Jhumpa Lahiri’s second novel since The Namesake, The Lowland, is a striking reflection
of this sad reality. It is sad because
the novel at its core disturbs our own peace, makes us want to reach out to a
relevant past, help change an action, set fresh wheels in motion and reclaim
what is lost in not one, but many lives.
Set in post-colonial India in a middle-class Bengali
household in Tollygunge in then Calcutta, the novel sheds light on the Naxalite
movement — a peasant revolution — that emerged in the Naxalbari district of
West Bengal in the mid 60s, and spread like wildfire among the urban youth. In
the process, it also becomes a revelation on how the revolution dismantled a
family and dissolved many a hope.
Subhash and Udayan Mitra, brothers born only 15
months apart, were inseparable as children. As kids, Udayan’s daring and fearlessness
drew Subhash in; despite being the older of the two siblings, he not only
became a participant in Udayan’s daredevilry, trespassing into Tolly Club and
stealing golf balls, but also often acquiesced to his ways, joining school a
year later to assuage a stubborn Udayan, who “protested at the notion of
Subhash going without him”.
Having done exceptionally well in high school, the
two brothers for the first time, part ways joining different colleges on either
side of the city. In their separation, though brief, they unknowingly etch out
different paths for themselves. Udayan, who by then is gravely affected by the
government’s apathy toward the peasant cause, hopes like always, to excite
Subhash’s interest. And like always, Subhash, who is both amused and fascinated
by Udayan’s passion, also tries to reach out, only this time unsuccessfully.
Their distance grows wider when Subhash secures a
fellowship to pursue a PhD in oceanography at a university in Rhode Island.
Continents apart, it appears that their separation is sealed, with only letters
written sparingly by Udayan, initially glorifying the movement and Mao
Tse-tung’s ideals, and later about his elopement with a young, voracious reader
Gauri and life back with their parents, who are unaccommodating to his new
bride.
Nothing draws him to Tollygunge for a while. Nothing, but a telegram
from home: “Udayan killed. Come back if you can.”
He returns to find his family ruined. His grieving
parents won’t talk; Udayan’s wife Gauri, a ghost, carrying her past in her
womb, is now an object his parents are willing to wash their hands off. Upset
by the developments, and at the same time, seemingly attracted to Gauri,
Subhash makes her a proposition of marriage and offers to take her to Rhode
Island, to save her the ignominy of his parents and rid her off her haunting
past. Gauri, who finds it hard to distinguish Subhash’s voice from her now-dead
husband, hesitantly accepts his offer.
From here, the narrative takes a turn, which one
wished could have been dreamy, and just like Subhash believed, a hope for a
better future for his brother’s wife, the child she carries, and for him too.
But Lahiri, who at her best is the master of the unpredictable, weaves a
poignant tale, in which her characters’ melancholy-driven impulsiveness
continues to drive her story.
Gauri gives birth to Bela, but in her she sees
Udayan, her own failure at preventing him from being involved in the movement,
the blood that is still fresh on her hands and the reason for all her sadness.
Subhash, who in Bela, sees the cause of all his joy, hopes to one day secure her mother's love. His only fear is that his daughter will someday know that she is
not his. Back home his parents rot; their grief compounded by their second son
marrying the same woman they could never accept. In doing so, they are denied
happiness, twice.
The story moves, but moves with so much sadness that it makes
you feel heavy from within. The characters alter between living in the past and
dealing with the present. In the end, happiness is retrieved, but
grudgingly.
Lahiri’s work took me back to another powerful writer
Mahashweta Devi’s play Mother of 1084. While it may appear to be a socio-political commentary, at its heart it is very emotional; there
are no judgments being made about the movement, there is just gloom; it is a
reflection of lives altered with an action, for some considered ennobling, for
some unpardonable, but for a few, a tragedy that unveils itself differently
with every passing day.
As a diasporic Indian writer, Lahiri’s work becomes an
important critique on grief that can never be escaped, even continents away.
You take it along with you, weave a life around it, in the quest of happiness.
What is most interesting is that Lahiri gives
everyone a chance to tell you their story, not with the intention to justify their
actions, but to convey what needs to be heard. Her narrative once linear,
slowly and craftily shifts, between the past and present. Her intelligent
craftsmanship does not disappoint, when in the end, she transmits to her reader the voice
that you have most waited and wanted to hear. The
Lowland, like most of Lahiri’s works, is
worth many reads, mostly for the strong-hearted and the politically-charged.
