Hachette, India | Pages: 240 | 2015

After I read Saikat Majumdar’s – The Middle Finger, I was intrigued and wished to read his earlier works- so I picked up The Firebird, a book about theatre and a story told through young Oritro’s (Ori) eyes- while it is the young lad’s story, it is also the story of his actress mother, Garima, and the story of theatre in Kolkata and its untimely demise. I wasn’t disappointed.

Majumdar has his pulse on emotions that seep through the pages into the reader’s heart and mind, as one is taken by the promise of emotional upheaval, the tremblings of Garima’s heart, a woman who cannot but take to the stage, because it is only under the lights, she is wholly able to be an entity in its entirety, minus the roles assigned to her by the world at large. The roles she undertakes on the stage are where she finds succour.

Society (1985) doesn’t spare those with a desire to soar beyond: Ten-year old Ori is as fascinated by his mother’s duality, as he is fearful. Majumdar writes with great sensitivity- delving deep into the young lad’s mind, drawing from both the light and the dark that exist in tandem within. Ori senses the resentment his mother’s stage life provokes in others around him, the family and neighbours. 

“But the neighbours couldn’t stop talking about the lives contained in their house.”

The derision with which she is spoken of hurt him, but also enrage him, sowing the seed of hatred. It is a stinging comment on what affects a child- when others around – knowingly, or unknowingly, foster unfavourable emotions in the youngster, who, a sponge, soaks it all in.

‘His mother acted in plays. He carried that knowledge like a wound. He was afraid to nurse it lest others noticed. But pain swirled around it, and flies buzzed.”

Majumdar has a way of getting under your skin with the stark and oft startling imageries catching you off guard, making you simper. The lines between the depiction on the theatrical stage and real life are often blurred, and you are taken.

There are a few memorable characters in the novel- etched with ardour and precision.

Mummum is the quintessential grandmother, the matriarch with ‘strange rules she enforced with such force that you forgot everything else and the rules smoothly became part of your normal life.’ All strings like a horse’s bit in her mouth, she yanks and loosens at will. The novel has distinctly-drawn women characters- Shruti, the older cousin, who leads Ori hither and thither, her mother Rupa, a widow, and Garima herself, Ori’s mother, a strong woman torn between asserting her identity as an actress, being ostracized for this rooted desire in her, and being a mother who must give of herself to her child too. In a way, she wants it all. Even if it may appear to an outsider’s vision, that one has it all, does one ever, and can one aspire to it? Yes, even if only to fail. 

When Garima’s death is staged, it feels all too real, as it does to her son, who’s tearfully watching, digging fingernails into his thigh. 

Majumdar’s pen is mighty and he draws us in a tight embrace even as he moves the story forward, through Ori’s inner world. 

It was all very nostalgic for me, because as a child, my father took us to ‘Calcutta’ during our winter vacations and we watched many a play at the theatre (Kala Mandir) close to Lower Circular Road, where we had an apartment.

Those memories were sweet, and the novel swept me back deftly.

When one of the boys on the street, part of Shruti’s ‘friendly neighbourhood gang’ says, “Stay away from your aunt, that woman is bad news!”, Shruti flares up and defends Garima,

”She’s a talented group theatre artist. Sometimes you have to do different things to put a career together.” She bears admiration for her aunt, it is clear.

Reading the novel was like watching a play with many acts- each Act dedicated to Ori’s growth as a person, into an adolescent, whose acute awareness, envy, fear and love of his mother, take on various shades, much like within me, as I watched transfixed.

The Firebird is about death and betrayal, about growth in spite of despair and resistance; about relationships, about society and about womankind at a time of life – this is 1985.

What has changed in the meantime, in 2023, one might ask oneself.

Not much has transformed, and this is an indictment on what one must continue to strive for. Majumdar has a pulse on the Calcutta society of the era, well researched and represented with sharply-etched characters, and of course young Ori’s shaded world is captivating and believable.

At moments, the book felt like a thriller, despite its languorous pace, as I awaited yet another moment that would steal my breath. The writing is magical, with words that fall just rightly so.

©KamaliniNatesan June-2023