The canvas of the narrative in Lakshmi Murdeshwar Puri’s debut novel is vast, while its setting, the first half of the 20th century, makes it a ‘contemporary period novel’.
Impossible is a word only to be found in the dictionary of fools.
Napoleon Bonaparte
Across the gulf of five centuries, the 13th century saint poet Muktabai, whose startling abhang provides the leitmotif for Lakshmi Murdeshwar Puri’s debut novel, “Swallowing the Sun”, and the Emperor Napoleon speak in one voice, asserting that self-belief can conjure up miracles.
The old adage, “Never judge a book by its cover”, is clearly not applicable to “Swallowing the Sun”. The book jacket, and the contents, both glow with an assured radiance. The canvas of the narrative is vast, while its setting, the first half of the 20th century, makes it a “contemporary period novel”. This was when the soul of India, long suppressed, finally began to find utterance.
The author handles it all with aplomb, conjuring up a fascinating narrative, in which each character gets loving detailing that brings even the most fleeting of them alive. By book end, all of them—Baba, Ayee, Govind, Surekha, Malak, Sarala, Maa Saheb, Krishna Rao, Abhimanyu, Veena, Hema Kaki and Mohan Kaka, Chandra, Kashi, down to the lesser ones like Shaila, Mai, Maji, Ram, Shyam, Vivek, Ramabai, and historical characters like Annie Besant—have become familiar spirits that touch one’s heart, challenge one’s understanding of the human condition and, with their faults and their virtues, demand and secure both empathy and acceptance.
First, what “Swallowing the Sun” is not. It is not a work of esoteric magic realism. It is not a fantasy of impossibly strong achievers who know no failure. It is not just a man-woman romance. It is not an expanded feminist tract, though the most resilient, courageous characters are the women. The feisty, brilliant, assertive heroine, Malati, tops this list, but there is a whole galaxy of feminine standouts: the quietly determined Kamala; the eternally nurturing Ayee; Surekha, a gentle duplicate of her mother, whose tragic death broke my heart; the effulgent comet Sarala, blazing across the novel’s firmament to an untimely exit; Veena, Sarala 2.0, brilliant, untamable, but lacking the inner strength to maintain her self-respect and yet prevail; Maa Saheb, with her “divine madness” and eerie, often uncomfortable gift of prophecy; Hema Kaki, a nightingale rising above sordid origins to become a courageous, resourceful, sub rosa freedom fighter; Chandra, a generous, supportive friend to Malati and Kamala; Mai, venomous but also all too human; Kashi from Gen Next, bright, beautiful, cossetted, opinionated; even Shaila, forceful and turbulent in her brief appearance.
The men are no slouches either. The notional “hero”, the caring, supportive, resilient Guru, is a determined achiever, who loves Malati almost to the point of self-abnegation. Almost, but not quite! My top billing would go to Baba, a proud Maratha, a staunch feminist, an idealist whose courage never fails, a tenacious pioneer who creates a whole new, flourishing ecosystem of self-sufficient villages out of empty, hostile terrain in Desaikheda, confronting the ever present dacoits without flinching. His death is tragic, but oddly appropriate, the only possible exit for a martyr in the Gandhian mould.
Baba’s son-in-law Malak is an imperious, patriarchal aristocrat, maintaining his footing amidst the treacherous political undercurrents at the Vaishali court and in the nation at large, a traditional, protective husband and father, but also, somewhat unexpectedly, an unfailing supporter of Malati and Kamala in their determination to break out of the traditional mould for girls. When Malak stumbles and, in his corrosive frustration at Veena’s self-degradation, drives his wife to suicide, I both hated and pitied him.
There is the closet revolutionary Mohan Kaka, who doesn’t wilt even under police torture, but is convincingly flawed, with a jealous masculine ego and a contempt for Gandhian non-violence. The wise, generous Krishna Rao seeks to salve his disappointment in his son and heir, Abhimanyu, by promoting his wilful, dazzling daughter-in-law Sarala, becoming, indirectly, the reason for her tragic, untimely death. Sarala’s husband Abhimanyu is handsome, aristocratic, intelligent and relatively open-minded, a romantic girl’s beau ideal, but trapped and isolated by being gay.
Truly a splendid cast of characters, each credible, complex, and compelling in a different way. Together, they weave a rich tapestry in “Swallowing the Sun”, bringing out the myriad shades of human nature—good, bad, and that in between. The reader can love one, rage at another, but it is impossible to be indifferent to any of the writer’s creations—some inspired by real life personalities, others completely products of her imagination to whom she has given “a local habitation and a name”.
Now to what this novel is. To my mind, besides chronicling the awakening of an ancient civilization from the long night of foreign domination, through the realization its own innate strength, this book is a tribute to the power of different kinds of love—parental love, fraternal love, romantic love, friendship and camaraderie—of unwavering faith, of devotion to a leader and a cause, of discipline, courage, and the capacity for self-sacrifice. In the crucible of this crusade to unshackle Mother India, radically different ideologies, modus operandi and convictions, though with a common goal, clash and are reshaped, eventually creating a surge of nationalism that carries all before it, and culminates, on 15 August 1947, in the independence of India. The author explores this intellectual and emotional churning with both empathy and a degree of detachment, plus a sharp eye for telling detail.
Her characters move through settings and situations of bewildering variety, but each rings true. The earthy village ambience of the opening. The opulence of the traditional aristocratic wadas. The schoolgirl games of one-up(wo)manship at the Ahilya Ashram. The gossipy, idle, bejewelled women of the Vaishali elite. Spy games and revolutionaries planning armed insurrection against the British Raj. Baba besting dangerous dacoits with tenacious courage, though in a Sisyphean struggle. Elphinstone College, a new frontier for our girls. The tightrope walking between nationalism and a simulacrum of loyalty to the Raj. Stoking the patriotic spirit by cunningly camouflaging it as a college play. Fascinating vignettes featuring the legendary Annie Besant and even Gandhiji. The iconic setting of the Banaras Hindu University, with rebellion seething under its decorous façade. As Malati spreads her wings as a lawyer, there is even the cut and thrust of her triumph in a court scene worthy of Perry Mason.
Through it all, the gentle blossoming of love between our leads, like a flower unfurling its petals, unhurried and yet deep and touching in both its strength and the insecurities on both sides.
The leads have no pretentious haloes. Malati, grounded to a fault, is nonetheless flattered by Shyam’s romantic overtures, and at one point almost wavers between her two suitors.
She is generous, loyal to those she loves, but her dominant, even jealous streak is amplified by Guru’s worshipful adoration, and towards the end, she verges on a Shakespearian shrew, though eventually regaining her balance. Early on, Guru’s insecurities need her incessant reassurance, but once he gains position and prestige, he seems unable to understand his wife’s insecurities. Thankfully, both pull back from the edge, to what could be seen as “happily ever after”.
Acute psychological perceptiveness abounds. Ayee is wise, but driven by a desperate, self-destructive obsession with giving Baba a son to carry on his lineage. Baba’s failure to put a stop to her Russian roulette with endless pregnancies is infuriating. Sarala’s craving to be her father’s favourite is almost fulfilled through the affection of her father-in-law, but his encouragement of her flamboyance invites the inevitable disaster. Here, it is the sun that swallows her Icarus for wanting to fly too high.
Mai is a stereotypical wicked stepmother to Guru and his brother, and unfaithful to her husband, but she is also understandably bitter at having been forced to abandon her love for Surya, and condemned to marriage to a much older widower. The pettiness and malice of both Maa Saheb and Sarala towards Surekha, despite her unfailing kindness, and the gut-wrenching tragedy of Surekha’s suicide15with Malak failing her (and us) and literally hounding her to her death—are a bitter commentary on human nature and a malignant fate.
Tantalising mysteries dot the narrative. Samples: did Abhimanyu deliberately shoot Sarala, faking an accident? If so, was it on impulse or premeditated? Is he disinterested in his son Divyabh because the baby is not really his own?
A special treat: a rich trove of medieval Marathi devotional poetry, from the opening abhang of Muktabai onwards, the key to a world of soulful beauty unfamiliar to many readers.
“Swallowing the Sun” is an absorbing, addictive narrative, that calls for repeat readings. Its total immersion technique pulls one into unfamiliar territory, but peoples it with credible inhabitants. Such is the author’s power of world building that I have only one real regret: unlike the director’s cuts for films, there are no author’s cuts for books.
Shyamala B. Cowsik is a retired Indian ambassador.