JOIN USThe silence of women
Literature and our literary preferences mirror us as a society: basically racist, communal, caste and class-conscious, patriarchal and horribly ageist. In most mainstream books, women characters work at making the male protagonist’s life easier just as real-life women are ‘supposed’ to, or are token women whose actions and thoughts are carbon copies of everything that make up a man’s world. Women writers everywhere master that balancing act of being true to their gendered experiences while writing a book that will sit within the publishing schedule of a world geared to men.
Full marks to author Meera Rajagopalan for this gripping tale told through the diary of an older woman, 63, advised by her counsellor to write down the details of her day; though the similarity of the premise and shades of the text hark back to the brilliant Mrs C Remembers by Himanjali Sankar.
A fragmented world
The overarching story is that of ageing. And no, this isn’t a sweet old lady strolling into the sunset following preapproved modes of feminine fade-outs. The protagonist here is a woman falling into the abyss of Alzheimer’s, determined to hold her own and hold on to what life has deprived her of. The writing sketches a persona at once feisty, funny and so utterly believable that she could well be a neighbour or a distant relative. The diary format works for an immediate intimate tone of a matriarch worried about her husband’s bypass surgery and even more worried for her two daughters, one married while the other isn’t. And we are sucked into Mrs Pankajam’s world which though fragmented and waffled about in parts, is also bold and honest.
Three strands interweave her story: a long-dead playmate Ammini, her older daughter Parineeta in the US who divorces a perfectly wonderful Siva to marry an unconventional life-partner and her husband Srini’s brother, Sekar. In fact, Pankajam’s life draws meaning or depth in association with each of these individuals. Credit must be given to the writer for that deft touch and great balance by which many of Pankajam’s obfuscations become yet another layer to be peeled back until a startling hidden narrative emerges.
The choice of a format is never uncomplicated. Language flow of a non-literary journal is not the most palatable and there are moments when the diction begins to pall with mentions of “leg pain” or with that annoying talk-down mode attributed to maamis of a certain age. And at moments when Pankajam forgets this or gets a little too clever in her puns, the author stands exposed. Since the book is committed to this voice alone, it does stretch the nerves somewhat. These are dilemmas all writers face. For a debutante to wrestle with the machinations of form and emerge mostly victorious is commendable.
Subtle reality
A good bit of Tamil intrudes into this story. While there are always cultural elements that do not translate well, most of what is here could have as easily been written in English. The totally erroneous interpretation of vathakuzhambu persists as an acrid taste after.
There is still plenty to delight for this chronicles in simple subtle ways the reality of our lives. The husband Srini is forever swiping at his phone screen. Vishwa, the unmarried daughter, seeks to interview prospective mothers-in-law and has long questionnaires ready for all candidates. There are barbecues by the swimming pool and bhajan groups on WhatsApp...
This little gem of a book is eminently readable but demands a high level of engagement from the reader, thus becoming the kind of work readers would want to recommend to a friend. Perhaps the greater recommendation is that despite an entire book length of Mrs Pankajam’s words, this book is ultimately about the silence of women. There are various textures in our silences: opted for or forced. Some turn tragic or sinister. A life in retrospect is essentially about inner darkness amid patches of light.