Book review: The Woman Who Climbed Trees

Express News Service

In tracing the lineage of kings and heroes—their lines of succession, patriarchs to grandsons—history maps out the world of the male. It is left to women novelists to tell the stories of their mothers, aunts, and daughters. And the unique chronicles of family bloodstreams are so intricate and real, each reader finds the hidden worlds of their own family secrets within.

Homelands, borders, and exile are political in a man’s world. For women, they are often social and family-sanctioned. So, The Woman Who Climbed Trees by Smriti Ravindra traces the forever homelessness of Meena Rani of Darbhanga. At 14, she is married off to Manmohan Chaudhury of Sabaila, near Janakpur in Nepal, in a time-honored tradition that compels women to reinvent their nationality. The saga of marriages between India and Nepal has its own mythologies. The author writes, “Even Lord Rama travelled to Nepal to find a suitable consort for himself in Goddess Sita. And what a consort she turned out to be. One look at her in the gardens of Janakpur and Rama was smitten. What a love story!”

Marriages of all sorts flit through the pages. Meena’s Nepali mother, who was married to her Indian father and cannot speak the language or cook Nepali food, rediscovers her freer childhood after her husband passes away. Her brother, on the other hand, goes berserk after the death of his wife, to the extent that his children remain unlettered and neglected. 

Despite an educated and rather successful husband, Meena flounders in her oppressive and debilitating marriage. Never finding common ground, she concedes until she loses herself. Early on in the book, a character tells her, “Marriage is a scorpion’s bite. It will leave you hot and breathless, your throat burning for a glass of water. Marriage is an inverted game of chess, if you win, you lose.” And her niece, Ruby, remains unmarried after several attempts to run away with a neighbour.

A good bit of the novel also traces the contours of female sexuality: how it blooms, how it is curbed, love between women, the business of childbirth, and the genetic inheritance of sexual unfulfillment. Without raising banners or slogans, the casual portrayal of lesbian love within homes and within restrictive strata of society makes this fascinating and all too telling. It underlines the tragedy that is Meena’s life, marred by her overpowering love for a woman, who would have nothing to do with her.

The story is also about homes: the ones you must leave and the ones you must build. The former is full of laughter, rest, the comfortable shapes of siblings and must slowly eject those it has nurtured. The other is always incomplete. It is home only in form, not in emotion. It defines exile, especially when it is situated in a country where racial features are the passports. The reality of living in Nepal––geopolitics of the nation-state vis-a-vis India, economic downturn, power cuts in the flailing days of the monarchy––all add to the concentric circles around alienation and unrest.

The author stays true to memory and experience in creating a fresh prism. Her language is sure-footed, often lyrical and loaded. Her meandering style is her biggest asset. The volume borrows from folktales, myths, songs, nature, and ghosts to elaborate on the utter loneliness of a woman. It is left to Meena’s anguished daughter to find her mother’s voice and piece her scattered mind together. 

All in all, this is a book that enriches both Indian and Nepali literature in a unique cultural fusion that crisscrosses the border like a bus and its passengers. The persona, dialects, movies, and mayhem all shared.

<br /> In tracing the lineage of kings and heroes—their lines of succession, patriarchs to grandsons—history maps out the world of the male. It is left to women novelists to tell the stories of their mothers, aunts, and daughters. And the unique chronicles of family bloodstreams are so intricate and real, each reader finds the hidden worlds of their own family secrets within.</p> <p>Homelands, borders, and exile are political in a man’s world. For women, they are often social and family-sanctioned. So, The Woman Who Climbed Trees by Smriti Ravindra traces the forever homelessness of Meena Rani of Darbhanga. At 14, she is married off to Manmohan Chaudhury of Sabaila, near Janakpur in Nepal, in a time-honored tradition that compels women to reinvent their nationality. The saga of marriages between India and Nepal has its own mythologies. The author writes, “Even Lord Rama travelled to Nepal to find a suitable consort for himself in Goddess Sita. And what a consort she turned out to be. One look at her in the gardens of Janakpur and Rama was smitten. What a love story!”</p> <!-- WP QUADS Content Ad Plugin v. 2.0.85 --> <div class="quads-location quads-ad200503 " id="quads-ad200503" style="float:none;margin:0px 3px 3px 3px;padding:0px 0px 0px 0px;" data-lazydelay="0"> <!-- WP QUADS - Quick AdSense Reloaded v.2.0.85 Content AdSense async --> <ins class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block;" data-ad-format="auto" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7550963679842137" data-ad-slot="1823845571"></ins> <script> (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || []).push({});</script> <!-- end WP QUADS --> </div> <p>Marriages of all sorts flit through the pages. Meena’s Nepali mother, who was married to her Indian father and cannot speak the language or cook Nepali food, rediscovers her freer childhood after her husband passes away. Her brother, on the other hand, goes berserk after the death of his wife, to the extent that his children remain unlettered and neglected. googletag.cmd.push(function() {googletag.display(‘div-gpt-ad-8052921-2’); });</p> <p>Despite an educated and rather successful husband, Meena flounders in her oppressive and debilitating marriage. Never finding common ground, she concedes until she loses herself. Early on in the book, a character tells her, “Marriage is a scorpion’s bite. It will leave you hot and breathless, your throat burning for a glass of water. Marriage is an inverted game of chess, if you win, you lose.” And her niece, Ruby, remains unmarried after several attempts to run away with a neighbour.</p> <p>A good bit of the novel also traces the contours of female sexuality: how it blooms, how it is curbed, love between women, the business of childbirth, and the genetic inheritance of sexual unfulfillment. Without raising banners or slogans, the casual portrayal of lesbian love within homes and within restrictive strata of society makes this fascinating and all too telling. It underlines the tragedy that is Meena’s life, marred by her overpowering love for a woman, who would have nothing to do with her.</p> <!-- WP QUADS Content Ad Plugin v. 2.0.85 --> <div class="quads-location quads-ad200503 " id="quads-ad200503" style="float:none;margin:0px 3px 3px 3px;padding:0px 0px 0px 0px;" data-lazydelay="0"> <!-- WP QUADS - Quick AdSense Reloaded v.2.0.85 Content AdSense async --> <ins class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block;" data-ad-format="auto" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7550963679842137" data-ad-slot="1823845571"></ins> <script> (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || []).push({});</script> <!-- end WP QUADS --> </div> <p>The story is also about homes: the ones you must leave and the ones you must build. The former is full of laughter, rest, the comfortable shapes of siblings and must slowly eject those it has nurtured. The other is always incomplete. It is home only in form, not in emotion. It defines exile, especially when it is situated in a country where racial features are the passports. The reality of living in Nepal––geopolitics of the nation-state vis-a-vis India, economic downturn, power cuts in the flailing days of the monarchy––all add to the concentric circles around alienation and unrest.</p> <p>The author stays true to memory and experience in creating a fresh prism. Her language is sure-footed, often lyrical and loaded. Her meandering style is her biggest asset. The volume borrows from folktales, myths, songs, nature, and ghosts to elaborate on the utter loneliness of a woman. It is left to Meena’s anguished daughter to find her mother’s voice and piece her scattered mind together. </p> <p>All in all, this is a book that enriches both Indian and Nepali literature in a unique cultural fusion that crisscrosses the border like a bus and its passengers. The persona, dialects, movies, and mayhem all shared.<br />