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"She should be getting on with the evening meal. The lamb
curry was prepared. She had made it last night with tomatoes and
new potatoes. There was chicken saved in the freezer from the
last time. Dr. Azad had been invited but had cancelled at the
last minute. There was still the dal to make, and the
vegetable dishes, the spices to grind, the rice to wash and the
sauce to prepare for the fish that Chanu would bring this
evening. She would rinse the glasses and rub them with newspaper
to make them shine. The tablecloth had some spots to be scrubbed
out. What if it went wrong? The rice might stick. She might
over-salt the dal. Chanu might forget the fish."
Hers is a life steeped in domesticity in stark contrast to the
life outside her window, where cars race at breakneck speeds and
a British lady in the neighbourhood guzzles beer incessantly.
The author’s
portrayal of the plight of girls who are catapulted from
villages to foreign shores, from such peopled lives to lives
lived in the cocoons of English flats replete with gizmos but
absolutely bereft of people, is amazing. After the initial
fascination wears off, most girls are struck by loneliness as
men earn pounds, as when babies arrive their domestic situation
aggravates.
Their tryst with
the West has compelled early immigrants to educate their
children who have now moved up in the echelons of British
society. This generation has given writers par excellence apart
from lawyers, doctors and engineers.
Though the saga of
Nazneen appears to be swamped with tiresome minutiae, a woman’s
dormant spirit emerges gradually. At the core of this elegantly
rendered story is a deeply moving assertion of self-identity.
"Her mind
would not be still. It tried to pull her off here and there.
Whenever she got a letter from Hasina, for the next couple of
days, she imagined herself an independent woman too. The letters
were long and detailed. Nazneen composed and recomposed her
replies until the grammar was satisfactory, all errors expunged
along with any vital signs. But Hasina kicked aside all such
constraints: her letters were full of mistakes and bursting with
life. Nazneen threaded herself between the words, allowed them
to spool her across seven seas to Dhaka, where she worked
alongside her sister. Raqib came as well. Sometimes, at the end
of the day, she was surprised when Chanu arrived home. Then she
made vows to herself. Regular prayer, regular housework, no more
dreaming. She sent brisk, efficient letters to Hasina. Look, she
said to Amma (who was always watching), look how good I am
now".
At the core of the
novel is Nazneen’s journey from her life of a village girl to
that of an expatriate wife confined to domesticity. A romantic
interlude triggers off her quest for identity and causes her to
transfer her aspirations to her young daughters. She is caught
between her conservative husband and her daughters’ quest for
identity and release from cultural mores.
I do hope the
author will bring out a Bengali version of this fictional yet
allegorical piece of work for scores of British Bengali
immigrants.
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HERE
comes one more curative dose for the occidentals afflicted with
orientalism. The sun-baked fields, the shimmering tropical seas
lined with palm fronds or the teeming masses jostling with chaotic
traffic are a marvellous diversion for the inhabitants of colder
climes, a dull and grey yet streamlined and sanitised landscape. It
is in this genre of exotica from the orient that Brick Lane fits
in.
