This novel rests on the themes of womanhood, migration, class and the violence of kindness.
It is driven by the twin conundrums of nationalism and identity.
Set class aside; Nimki’s journey of self-exploration can feel deeply personal and resonant to many women who grew up in South Asia.
A beautiful yet poignant bildungsroman, Antara Mukherjee’s Beyond Our Births (Bloomsbury India), follows Nimki, a girl in search of a home. As she sets off, she realises that home, family and belonging transcend the normative definitions of shelter, blood relations or memory. “The home where she had found the love of a mother refused to shelter her, and the home that had given her shelter denied her love...” The novel rests on the themes of womanhood, migration, class and the violence of kindness. It is driven by the twin conundrums of nationalism and identity. The circumstances of Nimki’s birth define her place in society and people around her refuse to look beyond the labels attached to her name. Though she is reluctant to conform, these ideas are reinforced, and her journey of self-exploration costs her the very thing she had always wished for: love.
Defiant and quick-witted, Nimki is mature beyond her age. Her dreams are bigger than her own world. What sets her apart is her tenacity to learn, grow and understand abstract concepts. Her learned behaviour doesn’t take shape through formal institutions like school, but through her lived experience. Life becomes her school.
The novel confronts readers with an uncomfortable truth: the vagaries of politics that turn innocent children, marginalised groups and an overlooked natural world into collateral damage. It makes you wonder: under the aegis of socio-political giants, how do you prioritise yourself in their repository? Who decides who is fated to end up as what? It forces you to ask: what punishment does a 15-year-old receive if they do not abide by the protocols of those in power? The absurdity of the claims made when boundaries are drawn is stark. Borders are meant to be swathes of territory held in security; yet, ironically, they remain the most concentrated areas of hostility. Then why does one say otherwise?
The novel shows the struggles of the protagonist to navigate her identity, survival and acceptance because of the imaginary lines drawn between India and Bangladesh. The author evokes a restless emotion that opposes the idea of borders and the primacy they claim over human worth.
Nimki’s self evolves across the narrative, shaped by her circumstances, yet, it never dims the innate spirit that she carries. The acceptance she craves from the residents of Godhuli Nibas slowly fades as an incident involving Ira (the daughter at Godhuli Nibas) upends their lives. The turmoil organically stitches the whole family, Nimki included, together. This, however, does not last long, as Nimki is made to return to her earlier life in a village. In moving from an urban society to a rural one, one thing remains consistent: a woman's subordination to a man. She notices a similar docility in her mother as she had already seen in Bina Ma (Ira’s mother).
Nimki feels apprehensive after comparing the lives of the women around her; she can foresee her own future if she concedes to her family’s decision. She not only figures out her place in society as a woman but also advocates for and defends the women in her life. In the truest sense, she is a ‘girl’s girl’.
Class operates just as sharply in the Sengupta household, at Godhuli Niwas—where Nimki served as a maid. She is always set a standard that she cannot meet: the Senguptas’ vocabulary, accent and manners. The cruelty reflected through the Senguptas’ behaviour is not physical but structural: the exploitation of a child’s labour. We see the quiet insistence of her inferiority imposed by the Senguptas, her parents' reluctance to provide shelter, and her running away from them.
The first half builds up Nimki’s life in Kolkata; the second moves to far more grounded rural Bangladesh, a world which is startlingly different but rendered with literary inventiveness. Nimki carries premonitions within her, as the narrative revolves around the death of the dreams of the women she is surrounded by. There is special emphasis on women's agency and their failed attempts to be known beyond their birth. Nimki recognises this and reaffirms her agency through her actions.
Moving from a woman who lives with a semblance of freedom (Bina Ma) to her traditional mother, Nimki is reminded of her revered teacher Swamiji’s words: “the moth no longer enjoys the darkness if it has once seen the light.” His words bring unease into her life, which later materialises into a journey to seek Swamiji’s guidance. The narrative relays a shift in the organising principle of identity, from a narrow human conception to a metaphysical affiliation that transcends all traditions.
This is a moving, brave and meticulously woven story. Set class aside; Nimki’s journey of self-exploration can feel deeply personal and resonant to many women who grew up in South Asia. Beautifully written, it draws us into the eternal truth of the self that we forgot long ago and reminds us of our own journeys of self-exploration and discovery.
(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.)
