Some book titles are mysterious, some provocative, some inexplicable. But a few stories are true to their titles; The Private Life of Mrs Sharma is one of them. Ratika Kapur’s fast-paced novel, spanning four months, is what the title says it is, about the secretive life of a certain Mrs. Sharma. The setting is a metropolis where people who beat their sons for drinking alcohol co-exist with those who drink two glasses of whiskey every night before bed; where women clad in capris are stared at by women in Chanderi sarees. The city and Mrs. Sharma’s life are examples of the juxtaposition of the modern with the traditional: those twin words we see frequently in matrimonial ads. Mrs. Sharma is, in fact, that ad, except that she is far from your ideal kind. Most people try to live in both worlds, but no one could possibly oscillate between them the way this woman in her 30s does. Not only do Mrs. Sharma’s thoughts swing at dizzying speed between her traditional duties and modern views, her actions reflect this conundrum.
Kapur’s book stands out for its unique way of storytelling. There is only one voice. The reader steps into Mrs. Sharma’s shoes and is immediately drawn into her world, which is her family and her big secret. The prose is fresh and consistent; it shows Kapur’s keen observation and she does a fine job of “collapsing the distance between the English writer and her Hindi-speaking subjects”, as she sought to do.
Mrs. Sharma is not easy to understand. She seems ordinary, the kind you would find yourself next to in the Metro train. She is a dutiful mother, a responsible daughter-in-law, a loving wife. She makes good kheer , she does her chores unfailingly, she cooks for her in-laws, and she believes that her father is broad-minded (he allows two people of different sub-castes to marry, after all).
But Mrs. Sharma is also all those things that feminists talk about. She is fiercely ambitious. She believes that her husband made the right decision to move to Dubai — he will make enough money to buy them a good life several years later, she says. She brainwashes her son Bobby, who wants to become a chef, to do an MBA. She is feisty: she spits on the man who offers alcohol to her 15-year-old son. She talks about her sex life freely. She befriends a man she meets on the Metro train. Why can’t women be friends with men apart from their husbands, she asks. It’s what “modern women” do.
But Mrs. Sharma’s impetuousness lands her in trouble. When her methodical world collapses into disarray, Mrs. Sharma panics — though she believes she’s calm — and crossing the boundaries obviously come at a heavy price.
The book is an easy read, even as it weaves complex themes together skilfully. The language is brutally honest, the characterisation neat. Kapur evokes the complexities of Mrs. Sharma’s character to a T. The suspense is chilling and builds up well. But what disappoints is the climax, overly dramatic and rather out of character for the protagonist. But given Mrs. Sharma’s unpredictability, perhaps none of us really knows who Mrs. Sharma is.
The Private Life of Mrs. Sharma; Ratika Kapur, Bloomsbury Publishing, £12.99.
