Persuasively alive: Review of Black River by Nilanjana S. Roy

This novel, less a “whodunit” than a “whydunit”, is remarkable for the compelling interiority of its characters.

“The inconsiderate bastard, if he’d offed her on the other side of the canal, she wouldn’t be my problem and my headache,” says policeman Ombir Singh, on finding a murdered woman in the water at the boundary of his station’s jurisdiction. His colleague Bhim Sain agrees: “Then, she’d be out of our jurisdiction.”

Black River

By Nilanjana S. Roy

Context

Pages: 330

Price: Rs.799

There is an eerily procedural ring to this exchange, but in Nilanjana S. Roy’s Black River, the administration of justice in Teetarpur village near Delhi is founded on anything but the law. It is moulded by structures of wealth and status, wrapped up in a complex web of social relationships that find varied expression in vigilantism and vengeance on the one hand and the odd touch of compassion and consideration on the other.

The woman in the canal, whom Bhim Sain recognises as the “factory whore”, is one of the bodies in the double murder. It is the other, the figure of eight-year-old Munia, who is found twirling like a painted wooden puppet as she hangs from a rope around her slender neck, that shatters the peace of the ordinary and unremarkable village, significant in some greedy eyes only because of its proximity to Delhi and potential for real estate development.

Munia’s murder forces Teetarpur’s two policemen, Sub-Inspector Ombir Singh and Constable Bhim Sain, to deal with villagers seeking mob justice, conceal a lead which could have cracked open the case, and make all sorts of compromises in the face of money and power. The official investigation proceeds in stumbling fits and halting starts until a mix of pressure and convenience leads the case to be consigned to a deceitful closure. But Ombir, who is likely to get a promotion for having “resolved” the case, cannot be persuaded to let things rest. He is not beyond accepting “mahaprasad”, envelopes stuffed with cash from Jolly Singh, Teetarpur’s most wealthy and flamboyant man. Ombir also succumbs, after some persuasion, to the temptation of using “Jolly-ji’s” new gleaming Harley Davidson that is loaned to the police station.

Nilanjana S. Roy at The Hindu Lit For Life in Chennai in 2013. | Photo Credit: S.S. KUMAR

While he may be corrupt and indolent, the sub-inspector is not wholly unaffected by the odd prickle of conscience or an unexpected appearance of scruple. Good fiction is rarely, if ever, about moral certainties, and Roy adeptly teases out the complexities of his character, as well as that of Bhim Sain, in a manner that forces you to think about the strange vagaries of human nature.

While he cannot prevent official closure, the sub-inspector is moved (as is Bhim Sain) by the fact that it was a child who was killed. The two end up savagely assaulting a paedophile suspect, recognising that they may not have meted out justice but taking comfort in the truth that their blood boils just as much as that of other civilians. But Ombir, who is pragmatic enough to understand that justice cannot always be done, has a dislike of loose ends. He simply needs to know. In his search for a true and meaningful closure, he is convinced that if he pulls patiently at the right thread, “the entire snarled ball of complications will unravel, all on its own”.

If Black River is a murder mystery, as it is blurbed, then the mystery wears a small “m”. Less “whodunit” than “whydunit”, there is no big reveal here, no huge surprise at discovering who did Munia in. The compulsive pull of the novel lies in the slow, methodical burn of a leisurely paced plot, which is greatly enhanced with detail of character and setting, the latter marked by an erosion of social cohesion in the face of growing religious sectarianism.

Roy’s decision to frame the plot against the politics of the times is unexceptionable, the social and political context providing the themes and motifs that make Black River much more than a mere plot-driven murder mystery. Be that as it may, it is difficult to avoid a sense that this could have been woven more tightly and seamlessly into the plot; here and there, they read like digressions. Also, some of the Muslim characters are dealt with in the plot largely as representatives of an identity, as victims shaped by the ugly spread of communal hatred.

This is a pity, as Roy is at her very best in exploring psychological spaces where moral certainties are rare, if existing at all, and investing her characters with a gritty and granular credibility. It is this fine sense of interiority, absent in much of Indian English fiction, that makes her characters come persuasively alive and makes Black River the compelling and emotionally engaging novel that it is. The relationship between Munia and her father, Chand, framed in memory and loss, is exquisitely wrought, as is that between Chand and his friend’s wife Rabia.

In a quiet and self-assured way, Roy extends her murder mystery into a meditative reflection on the search for truth, justice, and closure.

Mukund Padmanabhan teaches philosophy at Krea University and was the Editor of The Hindu.

The Crux

• The compulsive pull of the novel lies in the slow, methodical burn of a leisurely paced plot.
• Roy’s decision to frame the plot against the politics of the times is unexceptionable.
• The social and political context provides the themes and motifs that make Black River much more than a mere plot-driven murder mystery.
• A fine sense of interiority, absent in much of Indian English fiction, makes Roy’s characters come persuasively alive and makes Black River a compelling and emotionally engaging novel.