Somewhere Between Death And Grief: Review Of ‘And I Am The Arrow’

Breaking from life’s conventional rhythm carries its own dangers; yet one thing remains certain: a fleeting moment when suppressed desires are fulfilled.  Pia Ghosh-Roy’s novel’s title ‘And I Am the Arrow’ gestures toward this by alluding to a poem by Sylvia Plath. Sylvia draws strength from natural force embodying the role of a fierce and fervent “arrow”, but the force that empowers her also threatens her own sense of self. Her arrow flies free of human restraint, answering to her own drive. In Ghosh-Roy's novel, And I Am the Arrow (Pan MacMillan India), no one flies alone. This is a layered, immersive, eccentric tale of three generations of women and a ghost of a man speaking from the afterlife, spanning New York, London, and returning to Calcutta. It follows a family burdened with grief, longing, and mystery. It also explores the question of what happens to a human connection when empathy and love give way to apathy and hostility. And how conformity under difficult circumstances can linger as a curse across generations.

The book opens with a bold statement from Mishu’s grandma Niyoti, aka Thima (the eldest narrator), to Mishu (the youngest narrator):  “Men are bastards, Mishu-moni”. Thima comes across as unapologetically herself. At first, she seems entitled and arrogant, her voice thick with reminiscences of colonial hangover and bhadralok glory. Yet, the image shatters as the mysteries of the Chatterjee Mansion begin to unfold. Mishu finds her identity through undaunted principles, growing into a nonconformist, rebellious, and audacious young girl who lives on her own terms, much like her grandma. However, this audacity never reaches Mishu’s mother, Ira, who lives in the shadow of Thima’s imposing presence. Although a talented singer and a devoted Bengali litterateur, she shuns her passion to please her assertive mother-in-law by remaining submissive.

The story begins over a decade before India attained independence from the British. The political atmosphere at the time and the decades that followed shaped the lives of the members of the Chatterjee Mansion. The book’s social and political undertones are impactful, as it adds a layer of historicity, necessary for understanding the becoming of the characters. The saying, ‘the personal is political,’ feels closer to reality as a forbidden love story starts blooming amidst the crimson wave of Chairman Mao; the Bengal famine decides Bani’s (the househelp in the Chatterjee Mansion) life trajectory; Gandhi’s omnipresence at the time sets the stage for young Niyoti to rewrite her fate.

The story is told unconventionally; each narrator takes control of the narrative smoothly, leaving no scope for confusion or overlap. The segment that stands out is that of the meta-fictional character, Opor/Neech, who remains consistently existential in his approach to addressing the reader. This character’s wordplay and wit leave will one scratching one’s head. However, as the story develops, his voice shifts more towards despair and despondency.

I found the book riveting with all the twists and complexities. It rests on the themes of grief, memory and existentialism. In the story, memory becomes a battlefield; the narrators are consumed by what’s lost and they grapple with the questions of existentialism. Grief triggers existential inquiry, and memory is the only posthumous existence. The interplay of these elements charts each character’s internal struggle, which oscillates between letting go and claiming agency over their own existence. Thima’s inner monologue conveys her agony; Bani, however, is not allowed to voice her dejection. The absence is felt, deafeningly. “But the grief should not be compared,” says Ira, yet, what is one to do if their grief isn’t even recognised?

A class-power dynamic shapes the structure of the narrative, deciding which griefs are told and favouring the emotions that are easier for the audience to engage with. The author has skillfully woven the narrations together, keeping the narrative cohesive. Most of the characters are sharply written, with each of them committed to their distinct attribute: Thima through her domineering, Ira because of her composure, and Mishu through her defiance.

Bani is the only character who deserves a stronger arc. Her narration came at the end of the book, weighty for the plot but thin in development. Unlike Thima, her character doesn’t have a standalone arc, yet, her presence shaped the lives of the Chatterjee women and reached far beyond her own. Thus, worthy of having an inner voice as lucid as Thima’s.

As Opor/Neech asks, “Notes will gather and fall into place like starlings in a murmuration, for what is a murmuration if not something that asks you to trust in magic?”

And I Am the Arrow provides exactly that chance, once you’ve vouched for the magic!

The book pushes readers beyond the liberal humanist approach, which treats a novel as a study of individual character so that a close reading of the characters alone is not enough. It also uses the ghost of Opor/Neech to do something rare: he provides a philosophical commentary that runs alongside the family's story and deepens it. This is a marvellous read for anyone drawn to the inner lives of ordinary Bengali women, their history, their marriages, and their grief, with the pull of a family mystery.

(Aleezah Qadir is a Delhi-based social sciences graduate from Jamia Millia Islamia. She writes on South Asian politics, history and society, and has a keen interest in world cinema.)