In the memoir, the author goes about piecing together a relationship that gained its strength even as the two major characters continued their separate lives far apart, in distant countries and continents, in a span of more than two decades.[break]
The protagonists here are the author herself and her soul sister Bhimu Rimal. They meet by coincidence in the hostel of Tribhuvan University, and it is as if fate itself wants them to be together, for they are teamed as roommates not long after. This is where it all begins, and the friendship continues through all the changes that occur in their lives – marriage, children, losing loved ones, migrating to other nations. And till the end, Bhimu remains a precious persona of the author’s life, so we can well imagine her shock when Bhimu informs her, almost casually, that she has had to undergo chemotherapy.
In fact, the author has begun her tale from the Teej day when she receives this dreadful news, and also hears of the suicide of her daughter’s best friend. The death makes her fearful for her own child, and it also rings a warning bell about the mortality of her dear friend. So she travels back in time to relive her life from the very first moment that she was introduced to Bhimu.
In doing so, she takes us back to the time when the road connecting Dharan and Dhankuta had not yet been constructed; when a ‘good daughter’ was expected to abide by her parents’ wishes even if it meant foregoing her own happiness; when even educated parents were just beginning to grudgingly let their daughters opt for higher studies. She recreates the Tribhuvan University and its periphery for us as it was decades ago, during her student days, sounding a bit like a college brochure at times. But it is not unpleasant, and beckons history to our mind. She has even added glimpses of the socio-political scenario of that time, particularly the student agitation, though readers will wish she had described a bit more of those timelines.
Apart from the external scenario, the author has also added plenty of personal experiences and emotions to validate the work. She has explored the intimacy she develops with her friend, the consequences leading from it, the way they hold on to each other through their highs and lows. She has not hesitated to give credit to Bhimu when it is due, such as when the latter supports her decision to getting married after a dramatic coincidence. Indeed, the memoir has tried its best to be candid and acquaint readers with certain periods of the author’s life. The presentation of facts and situations as they were has been helped immensely by the author’s acute observatory skills. She is a keen observer, especially of human life, who can recall things right up the patterned print of her gown at one particular time.
But the author needs to realize that while such detailed descriptions help readers to grasp a complete picture of the moment, it is not a technique that is effective everywhere. Particularly towards the ending, when she should have concentrated more on the emotions and thoughts assailing her mind on seeing death hanging above her friend, the author continues her diatribe about how one lady’s hair was pulled back, or the other had purple lipstick on. This irks readers and breaks the flow of sympathy they have towards this pitiful condition in the author’s and her friend’s life.
On the other hand, the writer’s descriptions are perceptive and enjoyable. She makes a simple morning seem special just by describing the people exercising, couples walking hand in hand, others walking their dogs, and listening to ipods. There is that mellifluousness in her language – it is pretty, malleable, often rhythmic. When she uses direct language, it is crisp and lively.
But when the author chooses reported speech, it turns tedious and she ends up imparting information about totally uninteresting matters that had best been left out – whether she went to some place in a taxi or a private car, irrelevant conversations about a completely private topic which have no value for the reader, some domestic gossip. And at times, she repeats some mundane matters so often they cease to have any emphasis upon the readers.
Otherwise, the writer has excellent control of the language while she uses simple sentences. They suit the narrative for they are precise, artistic and reader-friendly. But when she puts into use complex sentences, things get muddled up and lose track midway. For example, while comparing Bhimu and herself, she takes up almost a quarter of a page, with a single sentence stretching to more than a hundred words.
Also, it is not understandable why she insists on using words like ‘sarmindagi’ (shyness) and ‘aadat’ (habit) when we have more beautiful and accurate words like ‘lajja’ and ‘baani.’
Another grating factor is the note of superciliousness that creeps in her tone when she begins talking of Nepal in the present time. Her accounts of this nation during her student days are vibrant, but when she describes it as it is at present, it is as if she wants to vent her anger against its ‘third-worldliness’ but only remembers at the last moment that it is her native place, too, after all.
Barring a few factors like these, there is much in the volume to be praised. The readers can readily sympathize with the painful events that sprinkle the author’s life, the way she has dealt headlong with them, and built a space for herself in a foreign nation.
In the end, through this moving amalgamation of the present and the past, the touching tale of two friends unfolds before our eyes. Even when the heart is miserable at the thought of a young life being snuffed so cruelly, readers will appreciate the perfect tribute a sister has paid to another, and through the only means available – her words!
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