‘All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.’
Leo Tolstoy
Published in 2013, The Lowland is Jhumpa Lahiri’s second novel, a compelling and intense story of an unhappy family. Largely set in Rhode Island, it starts off as a story of two brothers, Subash and Udayan Mitra, who spend their early years in Calcutta. Lahiri uses only a few chapters to detail the lives of the brothers at home, but the vivid description of the ‘wet, marshy land where not much grows’ quickly cements in our mind that this is not the Calcutta of The Namesake, the dreamland of artists, poets and musicians. This is a Calcutta of darkness, rife with political turmoil, where survival is fraught. Subash and Udayan share a deep and loving bond as children, but are starkly different. Udayan is passionate, reckless and daring, while Subash is thoughtful and patient, measured and moderate. Udayan spends his college days by his hand-built radio, listening to the speeches of Mao and studying the Communist Revolution in China. Touched by the struggles of the poor in West Bengal, he is quickly sucked into the newly emerging Naxalbari movements, spending his days plotting militant political maneuvers, hand in glove with politicians. On the other hand, Subash spends his time working diligently on research. Weary of violent political struggles, Subash is quite apolitical and largely untouched by the struggle of the poor around him, an expatriate even before he leaves. While the brothers grew differently, the deep bond between them remains. The characters are well etched, albeit a little frozen into their beliefs and personalities. But through their responses and ways of living, West Bengal of the ’60s comes to life. Udayan and Subash are clearly on two ends: Udayan, who believes that violence against the State is justified and even inevitable, while Subash is ever-moderate. Gauri is perhaps the most dynamic of the two, the mean, who sees the struggle of the poor under a bourgeoisie State but is not disposed to take arms, while fighting for her own space to study and lead an independent life in a patriarchal family. However, when Udayan is killed, things are never the same. Set during the start and zenith of the Naxalbari movement in Calcutta, the story encompasses a history of Post-Independence India that is ignored by the West. As Gauri discovers when she reaches Rhode Island, ‘there was nothing about Calcutta. What had consumed the city, altered the course of her life and shattered it, was not reported here.’
Reading the book is, in some ways, like watching a baby take its first steps. It takes some time for the narrative to steady, but once it does there is really no going back. The writing is very modest, with little to no flashy plot twists or drama. Tragedies are mainly only recounted through the lives and memories of the primary characters. However, the prose is powerful and the death of Udayan lingers like a spectre around the lives of Subash and Gauri. Although Subash really knew himself through his younger brother, he escapes the violence that Udayan is sucked into, reinventing himself in the USA. Back again with Udayan’s wife, he makes slow but steady progress in his research and is devoted to Udayan’s daughter, raising and loving her like his own. It seems like Subash continually escapes the memory of a brother he both knows and doesn’t, never fully being able to understand the revolutionary streak that Udayan developed in his adolescence. On the other hand, Gauri’s characterisation attains its pinnacle in Rhode Island, where she fully uncovers herself. After having struggled with repressive and traditional expectations at home, Gauri first escapes from the expectations of her parents to find stability and acceptance with Udayan. Their romance is short-lived but vividly detailed—fiery and passionate discussions on Udayan’s balcony; days of reading, learning, and a freedom she had never felt in Calcutta before. For a few years, Gauri was whole, marrying the personal with her professional and political life and mind. However, this is abruptly shattered with Udayan’s death. While Gauri takes a liking to the liberal and independent ethos of Rhode Island, she is off-balance. While she makes headway in her career, her personal life is a constant tug of war—between a romance that was passionate and intelligent, to a much calmer, proper love. It seems like she is torn between duty to Udayan’s daughter and complete independence.
Although sharing the closest bond with her father-uncle, Bela is Udayan’s daughter. She is idealistic, rebellious, and inquisitive but with the gentility of an upbringing away from violence. The narrative reaches a full circle through Bela. She lives a simple, meaningful yet peaceful life. Perhaps through Bela, it is Udayan’s own character and life that receives closure. For all the time that the primary characters felt frozen into their personalities, Bela is the thaw in the ice, a breath of fresh air and purpose in the story. It is through her that all the characters remain tied forever, never fully able to let go. For all its understatement, the writing is glorious and tragic in its final moments, taking us back to the lowland in Tollygunge, where it all began. An epic tale, the Lowland is a story of the hold that our childhood and family will have on us forever. Encompassing generations and places seamlessly, C P Cavafy’s poem, ‘The City’, comes to mind. You won’t find a new country, you won’t find another shore, this city will always pursue you.
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