Sara Rai’s memoir, ‘Raw Umber’, is a riveting journey into the vibrant world of Hindi literature’s first family. Rai, a skilled writer, editor, and translator, delves into the nuanced hues of her family’s life, revealing an extraordinary lineage framed by literary giants such as Munshi Premchand and Bharatendu Harishchandra. The narrative unfolds as a collection of essays, each a brushstroke capturing people, places, and experiences that moulded Rai’s formative years. The autobiographical essays in ‘Raw Umber’ are as much about the steady pulse of Sara Rai’s childhood in the 1960s, as they are about the nature of remembering, and the role that memory plays in shaping a writer’s sensibility.

The narrative unfurls through various chapters, each a finely crafted exploration of Rai’s familial landscape. From the imposing figures of her grandmothers, Shivrani Devi and Munawwari Begum, to the enigmatic literary critic and painter Sripat Rai, her incomprehensible father, Rai paints a rich tableau of characters. The complexity of her parents’ relationship, the tragedies that shadowed her upbringing, and the omnipresent legend of Premchand add layers to the family saga. It’s a literary symphony that resonates with readers, breathing life into a bygone era.

A standout chapter, ‘On Not Writing’, provides a candid glimpse into Rai’s struggles with the craft. Her internal conflict, documented in her journals, reflects not just a rebellion or self-expression but a negotiation with family tradition. The memoir becomes proof of the sacrifices demanded by art and creativity across generations.

The homes in Allahabad and Benaras emerge as silent witnesses to Rai’s coming-of-age. These houses, laden with shifting certainties and memories that play tricks on perception, become characters. Rai revisits them after a stint in Australia, discovering that while the rooms remain unchanged, an intangible shift has occurred. The past lingers within the walls, imbued with the essence of those who have departed proof of the inextricable link between memory and fiction that Rai sails across. Sara Rai’s prose, sensitive and evocative, creates a profound connection, drawing readers into her contemplation of place names, the written word, and the irresistible urge to write.

Growing up privileged as the fifth child of Sripat Rai, Sara’s narrative encompasses a dual existence—immersed in celebrated Hindi literature yet familiar with contemporary English writing. The portrayal of her father, a multifaceted figure in the literary realm, is marked by a nuanced blend of admiration, hurt, and a touch of self-consciousness. In this literary memoir, some of the characters in the family gallery are brought to life. In chronicling the life and times of one of India’s most illustrious literary families through the prism of her childhood, Sara Rai always keeps to her own remembering of the ever-changing past.

Sara Rai emerges as a unique voice, straddling the intersections of languages, cultures, and identities. Her immersion in Hindi, English, and Urdu cultures is not portrayed as a burden but as a mixed gift, allowing her to inhabit landscapes awash in the raw umber tones and earth colours that symbolize her father’s artistic legacy.

In the chapter named ‘Old Blood’, Rai navigates the theme of death, narrating the unexpected loss of her mother and aunt. The methodical erasure of their existence through locked-away photographs is a poignant commentary on the rituals surrounding grief. Despite occasional unevenness, Rai’s honesty prevails. She acknowledges the inherent vagueness of memoirs, where the fabric of life flutters in the winds of unreliable recollection. The sensory impressions she received during those times, she asserts, persist as enduring truths. This chapter, among others, provides immediacy and emotional intensity that adds depth to the memoir.

Author Sara Rai’s exploration of her dual cultural heritage, shaped by her Hindu father and Shia Muslim mother, adds layers of complexity to her narrative. She delicately unravels the intricacies of negotiating languages, cultures, and homes. Rai’s candid portrayal of her parents, their gruff exterior concealing personal losses, unveils a tender side to the complex conjugal life that shaped her formative years.

The chapter ‘On Not Writing’ stands out as a poignant exploration of Rai’s internal struggles with the act of writing. Her self-deprecating reflections on her conflicts with herself and her father’s weighty prediction about her becoming a modern-day Katherine Mansfield reveal a nuanced dance between rebellion and conformance with family tradition. Rai’s writing becomes a vessel through which she grapples with her identity, echoing the broader theme of cultural and literary negotiation.

While reading you feel that the book ‘Raw Umber’ is more than a memoir, it’s a lyrical excavation of Rai’s roots and an intimate revelation of a family steeped in literary and artistic pursuits. It’s a celebration of the legacy she inherits and a contemplation of the complex interplay between memory, fiction, and the ever-changing hues of life.

Rai’s engagement with multiple languages English, Hindi, and Urdu mirrors her unique position as a contemporary immigrant navigating linguistic and cultural crossroads. Her contemplation on why she chose to write about writing in English, despite primarily writing fiction in Hindi, opens a window into the complexities of identity formation and language adoption.

The inclusion of translations in the appendix adds a rich layer to ‘Raw Umber’. The choice of stories, ranging from Zohra Rai’s sensuous ‘Mango Blossoms’ to Premchand’s socially conscious ‘Ramlila’, showcases a spectrum of writerly sensibilities. Rai’s translations serve as a bridge connecting different voices, offering readers a glimpse into the diverse literary heritage she embodies.

With the figure of her grandfather Premchand looming over her childhood, and with others in her family grandmother, parents, aunts, uncles and cousins also writers, it is hardly a surprise that Sara ‘fell into’ writing.

It is the unconscious jottings of the mind, and the cadences that enter the ears, the inner life that develops during years of unhurried living in places like Allahabad and Banaras that prepare the ground for the fiction writer. The book ‘Raw Umber’ stands as solid proof of Rai’s ability to navigate the delicate interplay of colours, cultures, and storytelling, leaving an indelible mark on the canvas of literary memoirs.

This literary memoir is not just a family portrait but, like Rai’s fiction, a blend of lush panoramas and acute microscopic observations. Secrets and whispered tales from the homes where Rai was raised unfold elegantly in prose that is both reflective and provocative.

The author is a Bengaluru-based management professional, literary critic, and Curator. He can be reached at [email protected]. Views expressed in the above piece are personal and solely that of the author. They do not necessarily reflect Firstpost’s views.

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