Sarmistha Pritam’s novel, translated by Ranjita Biswas, is the story of the struggles of life; it weaves in themes of poverty, political turmoil, broken marriages, alcoholism, shame and trauma
How often in life — in a day, rather — do we find ourselves lost in reverie, thinking about the time that has gone by, where it has brought us or where it leads us to, and the people who enter our lives and leave? Musing is second to human nature and Paridhi, the young protagonist of the Assamese award-winning writer Sarmistha Pritam’s novel, Beneath the Simolu Tree (Simon & Schuster India), epitomises this human trait.
The girl on the cusp of womanhood is laden with questions; bent on finding life’s meaning and troubled by its quest. She asks ‘why’ as much as she asks ‘why not’. Why do people drink? Why is love not easy? Why does a leaving train cause her grief? Why can’t people see others beyond their caste or gender? Why do good people suffer? This is the litany of questions that burst out of her mind.
Do not mistake her inquisitiveness for a quintessential juvenile curiosity. There is something deeper at work here. Her philosophy is not mundane and yet it finds its source from the ordinary life — hers and of those around her. Paridhi lives with her aging mother and bordeuta (father’s elder brother) in her almost empty ancestral home — hollowed by termites — in rural Assam. Her time is spent caring for them, in painting pebbles, writing stories for local magazines (much like Pritam herself) and in nostalgia of her childhood and those who shaped it.
Experiencing the world through colours
Her heritage is far from golden: a drunk, angry and abusive father; a timid, fearful and helpless mother; a defiant but caring, cinema-loving brother; a supportive uncle and his unsupportive son, her elder cousin. Her community, the neighbourhood, isn’t ideal either. She grows up surrounded by failing marriages and abusive relationships, owing to alcohol and adultery. And yet, she finds respite in the company of her God-fearing and hardworking friend, Juroni, and her beau, Bondeep, who unfortunately belongs to an upper caste and hence, their relationship is constantly at the receiving end of disapproval from anyone and everyone, including his mother and her own.
To a careless reader, Paridhi may seem grim; or at least is expected to be. She, however, learns to console and redeem herself through art and literature. Even as she loses a brother, a friend and possibly soon, her boyfriend, the railway station at the heart of her village and the majestic Simolu tree that inspires awe and fear at the same time, offer her the space to rethink life. Where the railway station embodies the temptation of going away forever, to a faraway place; the Simolu tree stands — for as long as it did — for the rootedness and durability of life, despite its struggles; both revive her faith in life, no matter how testing it is.
As a creative, Paridhi translates this faith in the pebbles — “beautiful children of nature” — she paints, bringing out the character and life in them that remains hidden, and the stories she writes — of the ordinary women around her or the ordinariness of the woman in fables, like the water princess, the mermaid who lived in water and was still thirsty (perhaps for love and affection). She holds the folktales from her childhood dearly, even though any connection with the Gods and angels they speak of, eludes her. Considering how Paridhi observes and experiences the world through its many hues, as the colours reflect on her stones and in her stories, the original Assamese title rightfully translates to Rang (2016).
Map: an extension of a reader’s identity
What is worth noting is how Paridhi arrives at her love for nature, for colours, and for words. Here, Sarmistha Pritam’s skill as a writer is proven. Instead of treating it as a given, she traces Paridhi’s interests back to her childhood, as organically as possible. Mentors like Station khura and Anuja khuri play an important role, not only in Paridhi’s life but in a larger, literary sense: reinstating the importance of role-models in troubled, insecure and uncertain childhoods.
In Beneath the Simolu Tree, Pritam writes a story of the inevitable struggles of life. Between themes of poverty, political upheaval, broken marriages, discrimination, alcoholism, etc., one finds self-doubt, shame and trauma; they all exist in her novel. However, it draws its uniqueness from the fact that hope, resilience and wisdom co-exist right beside them. As if in an attempt to metamorphosize her physical battle, Pritam — who suffers from spinal muscular atrophy — creates a character like Paridhi, with a troubled mind and others, beaten by time and their circumstances.
Just as efficiently, translator Ranjita Biswas facilitates English readers to access the depths of Pritam’s literary landscape; putting them both on the map with the (female) voices from North-East India, right next to writers like Jahnavi Barua and Rita Chowdhury from Assam, and others like Janice Pariat and Mamang Dai. The proverbial map is but an extension of a reader’s identity; converging into a collective human conscience. Or as Paridhi imagines: “Maybe that’s how one’s birthplace extends its own border — from the district to the state…then to the country and then to other continents…”
