Rosarita, Anita Desai
Mothers and daughters have always been a dominating theme in literature. At times, a mother sees herself in her daughter and the freedom she couldn't have, whilst the daughter wonders what else remains of this personality of my mother that I know of. Some duos bridge this gap through conversations, time, and stories. For others, the void expands through the river of time. There could be a third kind, where this void is neither realised nor addressed. In Anita Desai’s latest, Rosarita, this third category finds root: a mother-daughter companionship which centres around the question— do we know our mothers?
Bonita is a language student in San Miguel, Mexico, where she meets a woman who mistakes her for her artist friend Rosarita due to their striking resemblance. Upon questioning, she understands that this Mexican woman is talking about her mother. It seems bizarre to her because her mother never visited Mexico and was not an artist. And so, Bonita begins a journey backtracking her memory as she tries to trace the crumbs that could lead her to this otherworldly life her mother lived. This unknown past appears to her like a half-made painting, an incomplete puzzle, or a broken sentence that she cannot fully decode.
Desai imbibes various themes in her sparse and tight narrative prose: the Mexican revolution and its similarities to the partition of India, the emerging art and artists during this period, and a complex mother-daughter relationship. However, without a distinct story timeline, the prose appears weak despite the atmospheric writing that Desai excels in. In its attempt to talk about all the themes in a lean narration, the biggest amiss is the relationship, seemingly understood as the novel's focal point. The reader might find the crumbs entailing the bond shared by the two women, but amidst the lengthy descriptions about the stranger woman, the trickster, and Bonita's sauntering in Mexico, it is lost. Desai’s intricate sentences, while they amplify the beautiful backdrop of Mexico, prove inadequate to satisfy the reader after luring them with a promising start. The reader is therefore forced to ponder what matters most - a slim book with barely present themes or good storytelling that might spread over a few more pages but make it worthwhile.
As for the question posed at the start, Desai twitches the nerve that many daughters may mull over, but falls short of completely exploring it.
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