Review: The Weird Women’s Club by Aruna Nambiar

Dealing with social demotions triggered by divorce, widowhood and infertility, all three are struggling to reassemble their lives. Hema is a new widow contemplating suicide, Avanti is divorced and wishes the worst for her ex and his new wife-to-be, and Jeroo is dealing with the humiliation of being childless. Perceived as difficult women in their respective milieus, they reluctantly connect at a school that Avanti and Hema’s children attend, and where Jeroo is a physical instructor.

All that changes when they get acquainted with each other and transform into a band of Powerpuff girls. They take on their “well-meaning” neighbours and gossiping acquaintances and decide to headline their lives, their way, even if it borders on the wild. Together, they navigate power structures, battle social stigma, revisit womanhood, and seek solace in sisterhood.

When Rohit, Hema’s fit-as-a-fiddle husband, dies of heart failure on his daily morning run, Hema goes through the various stages of loss – “denial-anger-guilt-sorrow-acceptance” – for several months as her parents step in to take care of her children. While her daughter Anu copes rather well for her age, Harsh flits between his five-year-old self and the persona of an old woman rattling off long-forgotten archaic recipes in fluent Malayalam, a language with which he is unfamiliar.

Jeroo hops from one gynaecologist’s clinic to another in the hope of mothering a baby. She and her husband Homi have spent their life’s savings trying every treatment, taking the humiliation at clinics, and the intrusive “still no luck” chatter in their stride.

Cardiologist Avanti’s ex-husband is now trying to acquaint their daughter Diya with his new lady love. Pursuing a demanding career, raising Diya single-handedly, and warding off unsolicited suitors are taking a toll on her.

The most heart-wrenching story is of Jeroo and Homi diverting funds they have set aside for their first house and a new car to pay for the expensive fertility treatments, a decision stamped as a “wise choice” by their shrewd and smiling doctor. The lengthy and expensive treatments throw their lives off-track. When they exhaust themselves and their resources, they agree to adopt a child – a decision which turns their world upside down once again.

Nambiar’s portrayal of her protagonists, who are grappling with the lazy good-woman-bad-woman patriarchal construct, is almost flawless. This is particularly true of Jeroo. Her writing is intelligent, energetic, high on empathy, and sparkles with wit. You might find yourself shedding an involuntary tear as you read about Hema keeping the coffee hot for her husband who, sadly, comes home dead; Avanti thinking Sumit is teasing when he casually announces divorce; or the gynaecologist’s receptionist surveying Jeroo as if she were “a geological formation”.

Although the three women are brought together by circumstance, they take a while to befriend each other. While Avanti and Jeroo are headstrong and fiercely independent, Hema comes across as meek. Avanti is impatient and finicky about everything – from her food habits to breaking bad news to her patients, wishing she could just see them as a bunch of anatomical parts. Jeroo cannot keep her temper in check and is borderline neurotic.

However, when Hema does come out of her shell, she becomes the perfect fit for the tiny wicked, wacky club which allows the trio to vent their feelings and discover themselves. Nambiar calls it “a sisterhood on stilts, not for the meek or conventional perhaps, but a notch above the expedient, lacklustre friendships…”

When Jeroo eventually settles in with feline friends, she feels at peace. She tells Hema and Avanti, “…in a country with a population of 1.4 billion, it’s hardly an achievement, right, to be producing a child? And yet, there I was, feeling like a failure, allowing myself to be defined by my childlessness.”

Hema and Avanti, too, feel liberated and empowered when they embrace their true selves, follies and all, and shake off the stereotypical roles to which they are expected to conform. They shake off the burden of ugly memories, of death and desertion, and learn to value the little moments snatched from time. Avanti stops fussing and being hurt about Diya spending time with her ex husband and his new wife. Hema also gets a grip on her life. Both explore the idea of dating men.

Unfortunately, Nambiar’s smart and thoughtful plot slips as the book draws to a close. Avanti, supposedly a busy cardiologist, hardly comes across as that in the second half. She seems to be spending more time with her friends than attending to her patients. Her fantasy about Sumit dying of rabies is rather juvenile. The editing too slips in the second half – the readers may roll their eyes at the many “eye-rolls”.

Then there is the problematic characterisation of Harsh, who “remembers” his past life and metamorphoses into Mariamma. Perhaps connected to the trauma of losing a parent, this psychological issue is left unaddressed, with Harsh being expected to “outgrow it”.

Still, this is an interesting book about the reaffirming power of female friendships.

Lamat R Hasan is an independent journalist. She lives in New Delhi.

Dealing with social demotions triggered by divorce, widowhood and infertility, all three are struggling to reassemble their lives. Hema is a new widow contemplating suicide, Avanti is divorced and wishes the worst for her ex and his new wife-to-be, and Jeroo is dealing with the humiliation of being childless. Perceived as difficult women in their respective milieus, they reluctantly connect at a school that Avanti and Hema’s children attend, and where Jeroo is a physical instructor.

All that changes when they get acquainted with each other and transform into a band of Powerpuff girls. They take on their “well-meaning” neighbours and gossiping acquaintances and decide to headline their lives, their way, even if it borders on the wild. Together, they navigate power structures, battle social stigma, revisit womanhood, and seek solace in sisterhood.

When Rohit, Hema’s fit-as-a-fiddle husband, dies of heart failure on his daily morning run, Hema goes through the various stages of loss – “denial-anger-guilt-sorrow-acceptance” – for several months as her parents step in to take care of her children. While her daughter Anu copes rather well for her age, Harsh flits between his five-year-old self and the persona of an old woman rattling off long-forgotten archaic recipes in fluent Malayalam, a language with which he is unfamiliar.

Jeroo hops from one gynaecologist’s clinic to another in the hope of mothering a baby. She and her husband Homi have spent their life’s savings trying every treatment, taking the humiliation at clinics, and the intrusive “still no luck” chatter in their stride.

Cardiologist Avanti’s ex-husband is now trying to acquaint their daughter Diya with his new lady love. Pursuing a demanding career, raising Diya single-handedly, and warding off unsolicited suitors are taking a toll on her.

The most heart-wrenching story is of Jeroo and Homi diverting funds they have set aside for their first house and a new car to pay for the expensive fertility treatments, a decision stamped as a “wise choice” by their shrewd and smiling doctor. The lengthy and expensive treatments throw their lives off-track. When they exhaust themselves and their resources, they agree to adopt a child – a decision which turns their world upside down once again.

Nambiar’s portrayal of her protagonists, who are grappling with the lazy good-woman-bad-woman patriarchal construct, is almost flawless. This is particularly true of Jeroo. Her writing is intelligent, energetic, high on empathy, and sparkles with wit. You might find yourself shedding an involuntary tear as you read about Hema keeping the coffee hot for her husband who, sadly, comes home dead; Avanti thinking Sumit is teasing when he casually announces divorce; or the gynaecologist’s receptionist surveying Jeroo as if she were “a geological formation”.

Although the three women are brought together by circumstance, they take a while to befriend each other. While Avanti and Jeroo are headstrong and fiercely independent, Hema comes across as meek. Avanti is impatient and finicky about everything – from her food habits to breaking bad news to her patients, wishing she could just see them as a bunch of anatomical parts. Jeroo cannot keep her temper in check and is borderline neurotic.

However, when Hema does come out of her shell, she becomes the perfect fit for the tiny wicked, wacky club which allows the trio to vent their feelings and discover themselves. Nambiar calls it “a sisterhood on stilts, not for the meek or conventional perhaps, but a notch above the expedient, lacklustre friendships…”

When Jeroo eventually settles in with feline friends, she feels at peace. She tells Hema and Avanti, “…in a country with a population of 1.4 billion, it’s hardly an achievement, right, to be producing a child? And yet, there I was, feeling like a failure, allowing myself to be defined by my childlessness.”

Hema and Avanti, too, feel liberated and empowered when they embrace their true selves, follies and all, and shake off the stereotypical roles to which they are expected to conform. They shake off the burden of ugly memories, of death and desertion, and learn to value the little moments snatched from time. Avanti stops fussing and being hurt about Diya spending time with her ex husband and his new wife. Hema also gets a grip on her life. Both explore the idea of dating men.

Unfortunately, Nambiar’s smart and thoughtful plot slips as the book draws to a close. Avanti, supposedly a busy cardiologist, hardly comes across as that in the second half. She seems to be spending more time with her friends than attending to her patients. Her fantasy about Sumit dying of rabies is rather juvenile. The editing too slips in the second half – the readers may roll their eyes at the many “eye-rolls”.

Then there is the problematic characterisation of Harsh, who “remembers” his past life and metamorphoses into Mariamma. Perhaps connected to the trauma of losing a parent, this psychological issue is left unaddressed, with Harsh being expected to “outgrow it”.

Still, this is an interesting book about the reaffirming power of female friendships.

Lamat R Hasan is an independent journalist. She lives in New Delhi.