Anita Nair is a remarkable writer and a compelling
storyteller. In her latest novel, ‘Eating Wasps’ she charts the tale of
Sreelakshmi, a thirty – five year old writer who takes her own life and the
women who touch her restless spirit, half a century after her demise, when her
trapped soul is given release to wander in search of the stories that sustained
her in life. It is a juicy premise, and in Nair’s hands it becomes something
extraordinary, grabbing readers by the throat, plunging them into the depths of
the feminine psyche with its myriad hues that run the gamut from the sublimely
beautiful and inspiring to the sordid and shocking.
Flitting like a butterfly from one story to the
other, Sreelakshmi and the reader get to know an array of memorable women.
There is Urvashi who is a writer too and trapped within the confines of
convention, struggling to find release for her nameless yearning, which prompts
her to navigate the perils of a dating app that far from nourishing her with
the fulfilment she seeks leaves her floundering in disappointment and worse.
Little Megha is a precious ‘bommakutty’, doomed to discover that the monsters
are real. When her tormentor after pulling her into the back of a truck “pulled
down the tarpaulin flap rolled up to the roof of the truck” it is hard to choke
down the scream building at the back of the throat. Najma’s tale is a harrowing
one as a stalker dashes her dreams with a horrifying acid attack, leaving her
with little more than her embattled spirit and the steely will not to give in
to her fears.
There are others who face the conundrum Sreelakshmi
herself did that of being damaged goods and the girl who ate a wasp, especially
when life serves up unhappy experiences to compound an already miserable
existence – “Would you spit or swallow? Would you crumple or fight?” The
characters deal with the many headed hydra that is the internet which can label
and shame one as ‘Pussy – Mouth’ for a
moment’s silly indiscretion, online stalking, body shaming, terrorism and the
constant, grinding pressure to conform to societal norms be they ever so
suffocating.
Nair has a gift for telling stories that boast of
the robust prose, muscle and sinew favoured by the author in this tale as well.
Her characters are delicately sketched out and pulse with life as they leap off
the pages into the consciousness of those who have gotten to know them so
intimately. Whether it is a hate – filled, nightmare of a blind sister who
feeds on her younger sister like a parasite or even, the long suffering mother
of a disabled child, who is dangerously close to following through on her
intention to take his life, these are folks who leave indelible imprints.
Ultimately though is it Sreelakshmi, who burrows
into the head and heart with her tragic tale of discovery that “Ghosts and
writers are more alike than you think.”
This review was originally published by The New Indian Express. 
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