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Renu Sud Sinha
Never judge a book by its cover goes the old adage. So how should a prospective reader decide then? Read the back cover. For The Parrot Green Saree, written by Nabaneeta Dev Sen and translated by Tutun Mukherjee, it proclaims, among other things, ‘it is the story of two women’, one of whom is a ‘fascinating, sexually daring, ‘unmotherly’ mother of grown-up daughter. Well, the hooks are in place.
The last book of Sen’s Naxal trilogy, it is both about closure and acceptance on part of the main protagonist, Bipasha, and her troubled relationship with her alienated daughter, Rohini. In Sen’s own words, “The novel is the story of the relationship between two very strong women of our times, who go through several rebirths in the course of their lifetimes.”
Originally published in Bengali as Phoenix, the novella attempts to answer, though at times a little dubiously, the question whether US-based Bipasha has been able to rise from the ashes of her past. The book finally lays to rest her quest and confusion about her identity and what constitutes it. Is it her beloved Banga bhumi and its culture, and her mother tongue? Or is it the alien soil of US where her roots have taken a comfortable hold? She is more at ease in wrting in English than Bengali. Her proficiency in the language of our former colonial masters have brought her fame and accolades that Bengali couldn’t.
Bipasha is one of the most daring yet relatable characters to be fleshed out by Sen, with, perhaps, many autobiographical strokes. Bipasha is a professor of English and creative writing at a Boston university. At 55, with three marriages and multiple lovers behind her, she comes across fierce and flawed, sometimes unsure, sometimes independent, sometimes full of doubts, at others full of astounding clarity.
Sen has seemingly based the academic persona of Bipasha on her own self. At one time married to Amartya Sen, she is a prominent Bengali litterateur with more than 80 books to her name. She recently retired as professor of comparative literature from Jadavpur University, Kolkata.
In a patriarchal society, where women have been shackled to the halo of motherhood, Bipasha dislikes children; can only have open-ended relationships; finds work more fulfilling than love; values discipline; despises failure, even her own; has no sympathy for unsuccessful people. In short, a complete contrast to how a woman (irrespective of her country or her culture) is supposed to be.
Rohini, her daughter, is an antithesis of her mother. Impulsive, impatient yet loving, Rohini values relationships; cherishes familial bonds both with her father and his new family and her mother’s extended family; loves children (she has adopted one).
Narrative moves back and forth in time frequently to explain Bipasha’s present evolution through the prism of her past — from her Naxal antecedents to her journey as an international academician of repute.
From the Naxal movement of 1970s to Bongo sanskriti, Sen builds up the story with an intimate detail that obviously speaks of an insider’s familiarity. She has also raised some interesting issues that are still relevant and as contentious, as the recent controversies on language show.
Sen’s quiver is full of awards and accolades — Padma Shri, Sahtya Akdemi and Bangla Akademi lifetime achievement awards. Her Radhakrishnan Memorial Lecture series at Oxford University, a pioneering work on women’s Ramayanas, has started a new school of studies on Sita across the world. As founder President of Soi, Women Writers’ Association of West Bengal, Sen’s is a fearless female voice and not just in Bengali literature. So the strong feminist narrative of the novel is not surprising. However, it falters at many places. Rohini’s character comes across as a foil for all of Bipasha’s ‘unwomanly’ and ‘unmotherly’ traits. The fairy tale ending is ironic because in the end the mother in Bipasha finally wins over her all other characteristics that have been presented as her USP. Patriarchy rules over feminism yet again.
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