From Jhelum to Tana
By Neera Kapur-Dromson,
Penguin, Rs 395

It has become fashionable in a globalized world to embark on nostalgic journeys in search of one’s roots. Such a quest can be laden with romantic, philosophical and political significance for the one undertaking it. But the quester would be assuming too much if she believes that her family history is going to interest all. Especially so if the reconstructed past is essentially little more than a sentimental account of numerous births and a few deaths down the generations, accompanied by a detailed report on the rituals that marked these occasions.

Neera Kapur-Dromson is a fourth-generation Kenyan of Indian origin. Fascinated by a painting of her great-grandfather, Lala Kirparam Ramchand, she starts piecing together the lives of her ancestors. In 1898, Kirparam starts off from Miani, a village on the banks of the Jhelum in what was then India, and ends up in Zanzibar in East Africa. He joins thousands of Indians, mostly Punjabis like himself, in laying lines for the Ugandan railways commissioned by the British colonizers. Eventually, he sets up shop in Nairobi and so begins the arduous but steady progress of his family towards prosperity and social recognition.

Dromson’s anxiety to recreate and explain the past is so great that she stuffs more of it than is strictly necessary for the purposes of her book. As a result, her account often seems rambling and disconnected. In order to contextualize the family history, she goes into long detours on the contemporary political and religious scene. As Kirparam joins the Arya Samaj and then gives up institutionalized religion altogether, there is a long aside on the conflict between the Arya Samajis and the Sanatanis, the orthodox Hindu sect. Redundant pieces of information like this keep popping up repeatedly at the unlikeliest of junctures in the tale, greatly disturbing the rhythm of the narrative. Just after announcing the death of Kirparam, Dromson devotes a distracting paragraph on the rituals associated with death as practised by Gurdei, the mother of Kirparam’s son-in-law. And after recording her own birth, Dromson suddenly has to explain the importance of goddess Laxmi. The terms of description are intriguing — “sublimely oblivious to the viewer”, her limbs “twisted in serpentine undulation”, Laxmi is said to exist “in the timelessness of being, at peace with its own fullness”.

Dromson lectures the reader on every conceivable topic, from the geographical position and historical significance of Punjab to the utilities of the charpoy. Presumably, this is for the edification of her non-Indian readers. But Dromson could have spared some thought for the poor Indian who has to learn from her that “these charpoys were simple but wonderful. They served multiple purposes...” and so on. Dromson also takes upon herself the task of enlightening the readers on the characteristics of Hindu deities. We have already been told that Krishna is the blue god. But to drive home the point, Dromson has to provide the morbid detail about the complexion of her father turning blue like that of the god after his death. It is difficult not to be exasperated by Dromson’s presumptions, as evident in these snippets and indeed, in the very concept of this book.

From Jhelum to Tana is ultimately neither fiction nor history because Dromson lacks the objectivity essential for either to succeed. At its best, her gushing reads like excerpts from the personal diary of one who is overawed by her own past.