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BY the time you’ve put the book down, one thing is clear: you know you have fallen in love with renowned Hindi novelist Shivani’s writings. You may or may not be satisfied with the presentation of her character by her daughter Ira Pande but there’s no contesting that the translations of Shivani’s works, which comprise the major part of Diddi, are the unputdownables in this biography-novel. Though Pande puts the record straight in the beginning itself by professing that the book is "not meant to be anything as literary as a biography," she sets out to present what went into the making of her mother — called Diddi by her children and Shivani in the literary world. The novel, threaded with Pande’s memories of her mother, who died in 2003, is largely pieced together with Diddi’s reminiscences of her snotty Kumaoni Brahmin community, her early years at Almora and then at Santiniketan, her ties with her kith and kin and her foray into writing. By the end of it all you find that it is easier to construct the world of Diddi from her own writings. Pande’s presentation only confounds you as it doesn’t give a clear insight either into Diddi, the woman, or Shivani, the writer. In fact you wonder whether Pande knew her mother well enough to be writing about her. And, Pande herself lends credence to this suspicion when she mentions that her mother-in-law "was more of a mother to me than my own" and her "relationship with her mother was always somewhat ambivalent. More than a mother for us she was a difficult sibling, an eccentric, much older sister who belonged to a different generation." It is this ambivalence that is stamped in Pande’s depiction of her mother. And the word "eccentric," which comes up more than once to describe Diddi, leaves a bad taste, especially when the author doesn’t really come up with anything substantial to back the claim. Pande’s recollections bring conflicting images of Diddi. At one place Pande says that "Diddi hid her fears and pain from everyone — even herself" and at another she can’t forget the misery her mother inflicted on them by going "around with a red nose" whenever there was "a thick atmosphere between our parents." Then again at one point Pande attributes Diddi’s withdrawal from the lives of her children as they grew older to her inability to confront adult problems. And, then just 15 pages later, Pande delves into her mother’s close ties with the extended clan of 20-odd people that comprised her helpers and their families. Diddi not only heard their tales of woe day in and out but also gave them advice and fixed their troubles. Such contradictory appraisal makes it difficult for you to shake hands with the real Diddi. Besides stray references to Diddi’s writings and, of course, the inclusion of her translated stories, Shivani’s stature as one of the most popular writers of her times does not come through in Pande’s writings. The interaction of this Padma Shri recipient with her literary community and her emergence as a writer of immeasurable repute doesn’t find adequate mention. More space is given to the writer ridiculing Diddi for becoming "more and more eccentric as she grew older", her need to be "fiercely independent" and her emergence as a "lonely matriarch trapped in a deserted home". That Diddi "chose to live alone (in Lucknow) rather than seek help or a shelter from those she could not live comfortably with" is taken to be a grace that she lacked. As a reader, however, you don’t find anything eccentric in a person refusing "to seek" help from her children. Strangely, even as Pande
at each stage attempts to "unravel the enigma that was her
mother," there’s nothing puzzling or perplexing about Shivani’s
personality or character that emerges from her translated memoirs or
obituaries of those dear to her found in this book. Shivani lucidly and
evocatively brings forth her ties with people who mattered to her, be it
her courageous mother Ama, erudite sister Jayanti, illiterate but
immensely wise maid Ramrati or Hamid Bhai, who was dearer to her than
her own brother. These are the gems in this book, as they adequately
acquaint you with Diddi, a sensitive being and an inimitable writer. A
salute to her. |
