Tags
addiction, historical fiction, India, Indian Independence, multiple time periods, women's experiences
In Sunjeev Sahata’s China Room, Mehar is one of 3 women married to 3 brothers in a single ceremony in 1929 Punjab. She spends her days working on the family’s farmstead and living with her sisters-in-law in the china room, trying to determine which brother she is married to and only spending time with him when he sends for her in the dark night. After weeks of observation, she notices something that seems to confirm her guess, setting into motion a series of events that will put many lives at risk, all against the backdrop of the rising Indian independence movement. In 1999, an unnamed young man arrives from England at his family’s abandoned ancestral farmstead to ride out an addiction that has controlled him for two years. As he pieces his life back together, he learns more about his family history and the mysterious locked china room that won’t give up its secrets willingly.
China Room is a complex story simply told. Sahata alternates between Mehar’s experience in 1929 and the nameless narrator pushing through withdrawal in 1999. Each story is revealed in layers, though it is Mehar’s story that is the most vibrant, the most important. It is as if the narrator’s story is merely the framework from which Sahata hangs the historic narrative. The compound of Mehar’s time is alive, simmering with tensions and intrigue and oppression and hope. The compound of the narrator’s time is a shell, oppressed under the weight of memory, the quiet throbbing all around. The narrator’s story is one of movement, just one moment in his life’s journey, and the feel of his sections is fluid and intangible, lacking permanence. Even the characters the narrator interacts with flow in and out of his days, seemingly untroubled by the whispers of the neighborhood or the eyes of the past. Mehar’s life, though, is all permanent and tangible, the journey done, the descriptions detailed, visceral, and immediate. The ominous hum of the wasps, the sticky heat, the heaviness of fabric, the shock of human touch. This is her life, as much as she dreams of something else. It is here, it is now, it is done.
When I first finished China Room, I was surprised at how light the narrative felt considering the tragedy of its subject. But as I thought about it more, I realized how beautifully Sahata uses prose to convey these differences of experience and time. It is not actually light, despite its physical slimness, but a story told clearly and simply, designed to keep itself alive despite those who wish to erase it. It shows how a story doesn’t have to have fancy trappings to hold power. It also struck me as a powerful contrast to Sujata Massey’s Perveen Mistry series, another experience of Indian womanhood set against the backdrop of Indian independence, though one of relative empowerment, freedom, access, and movement. Not that one is necessarily better than the other, but Perveen’s life is more familiar, and perhaps acceptable, to us as modern readers while Mehar’s cloistered existence can be unsettling in its unfamiliarity. That said, Sahata treats his characters, particularly Mehar and the narrator, with respect and nuance, never judging and never allowing us to judge. Instead, he invites us to observe and experience and explore the familiarity of emotion that ties together diverse experiences.
China Room is a remarkable read, the kind of story that sneaks up on you and stays with you, nestling in your brain and popping back into your consciousness when you least expect. Sahata writes with gorgeous precision, telling his complex story clearly and honestly. Even if it doesn’t immediately seem like your cup of tea, China Room is a book you should sit with and savor.