A Critique of Tomb of Sand by Geetanjali Shree
Geetanjali Shree’s Tomb of Sand (translated from Hindi by Daisy Rockwell) is an ambitious, genre-defying novel that earned the 2022 International Booker Prize for its unique blend of playfulness and profundity. At its heart is the story of an 80-year-old widow—referred to simply as Ma—who, after sinking into paralyzing grief over her husband’s death, unexpectedly gains a new lease on life. Ma’s late-life awakening leads her on an extraordinary journey from a small family home in northern India to the Indo-Pakistani border and beyond, confronting buried trauma from the Partition of 1947 and redefining her own identity in the process. What follows is a detailed critique of Shree’s novel, focusing on its literary style and technique, thematic depth, and the psychological richness of its characters.
Literary Style and Technique
Structure and Narrative Technique
Tomb of Sand unfolds in three distinct parts that mirror the widening scope of Ma’s world. In Part 1, Ma is immobilized by depression—lying in bed with her face to the wall, virtually mute and unseen by her family for “nearly a third of this nearly 800-page tome”. For the first hundred pages, only Ma’s hunched back is visible, a striking image of her withdrawal. This slow, confined opening “starts in deceptive confinement but widens to engulf whole lives, histories and sub-continents”, as one reviewer observes. Indeed, when Ma finally rises (with the help of a seemingly magical cane) and wanders off, the narrative space expands. In Part 2, she moves in with her independent daughter, Beti, and the household scenes—though still intimate—grow livelier with visitors, including Ma’s old friend Rosie (a hijra, or transgender, woman). By Part 3, the novel truly breaks open: Ma convinces Beti to accompany her across the border into Pakistan, retracing the path of her youth. What was once a claustrophobic bedroom drama transforms into a transnational odyssey. This narrative architecture is unconventional in its pacing; the plot advances in leisurely spurts rather than straight lines. Shree pointedly “does not want us to expect a straightforward story”, refusing to have all elements neatly converge on a classic climax. Instead, the novel digresses and loops, mirroring Ma’s own winding path. The storyteller itself is playful and self-aware: a “tricksy teller” who pretends to be irrelevant yet constantly breaks into the tale. The narrative voice flits about like a capering jester, “looping and playing and…taking every shape but a linear one”, making the reader feel as if they’re being carried on a breeze that circles above and around everything. These structural idiosyncrasies ask the reader “to be at ease with being puzzled”, demanding patience as the story often drifts into side stories and essays before returning to its core.
Shree’s storytelling technique further defies convention through its use of multiple perspectives and even non-human narrators. The novel operates as a “chorus of voices”, where “even the doors, the walls, the birds and crows join in at different points” to tell the story. One chapter might be a crisp paragraph from an inanimate object’s viewpoint, while another chapter stretches on in a single sinuous sentence as broad and meandering as a river. Such shifts create a rich polyphony and underscore the book’s central motif of breaking boundaries—here, the boundaries of narrative form. The chapter structure itself is noteworthy: many chapters are extremely brief (sometimes only a paragraph or even a single line), which “builds the story bit by bit”, each short burst offering a small “turn” or insight before the next begins. This staccato rhythm paradoxically helps the pacing; the very short chapters give the reader natural pausing points and keep the sprawling novel from feeling static. At the same time, Shree isn’t afraid of length when needed—some sentences unfurl for half a page, and digressions snake outward to embrace history, myth, and philosophy. The result is a narrative tapestry that is as fragmented as it is cohesive: initially bewildering in its detours, but ultimately “she brings you back where you started and things make sense again”. This inventive form, which “makes a defined format redundant”, was lauded for “challeng\[ing] the set structures of storytelling”, especially in the context of Hindi literature. In short, Shree’s structural approach—nonlinear, digressive, and multi-voiced—mirrors the novel’s thematic celebration of fluidity and interconnectedness, deliberately blurring the lines between past and present, self and other, the mundane and the fantastical.
Tone and Mood
One of the most striking qualities of Tomb of Sand is its exuberant tone, which oscillates between irreverent humor and heartfelt gravity. Despite beginning with tragedy and grief, the narrative voice chooses playfulness over solemnity. The Booker Prize committee praised this very aspect, noting that “rather than respond to tragedy with seriousness, Shree’s playful tone and exuberant wordplay” make the novel “engaging, funny, and utterly original”. Indeed, the novel’s mood is often lighthearted and satirical, even as it tackles weighty subjects. Shree uses comedy and irony as a means of critique: she “writes sarcastically about Indian men” and patriarchy, delivering some of her sharpest barbs in scenes that lampoon male egotism. One darkly comic episode, for example, devotes 15 pages to a pompous man’s inability to laugh, while another depicts a husband so superstitious he fears leftover food might kill him. By humorously skewering these attitudes, the tone undercuts patriarchy even as it entertains.
Yet underlying the levity is a current of serious reflection. The novel’s tonal shifts allow it to address trauma and social issues without ever becoming didactic or dreary. Moments of genuine poignancy shine through the whimsy. When dealing with Partition memories or personal loss, the narrative gains a somber, lyrical weight – though often still filtered through Shree’s characteristically inventive lens (for instance, a shocking death is narrated almost matter-of-factly in a one-sentence chapter, a technique recalling Virginia Woolf’s understated handling of tragedy). The overall tone might thus be described as “playful but serious” or “populous and garrulous” yet full of life even when death looms. In one reviewer’s words, Tomb of Sand is “full of life, populous and garrulous, with as many diversions and tributaries as a river winding through the country” – even the darkest themes are delivered with energetic vitality. This tonal duality is crucial: it keeps the reader off-balance (we’re never sure when a pun might give way to profundity) and reinforces the novel’s message that joy and sorrow, laughter and lament, coexist. By the end, the mood deepens to a kind of triumphant bittersweetness. Ma’s climactic crossing of the border and emotional catharsis carry an elegiac tone, but Shree pointedly frames even death not as an ending but as “simply crossing yet another border” – a final graceful pivot that turns tragedy into transcendence. In sum, the tone of Tomb of Sand is a dynamic interplay of exuberance and earnestness: it laughs at the absurdities of life and language, all the while honoring the very real pain and hope at the story’s core.
Imagery and Language
Shree’s prose is a tour de force of imagery, symbolism, and linguistic playfulness. The novel brims with metaphor and allegory, often blurring the line between the literal and the figurative in dreamlike ways. Central to its imagery is the idea of borders – physical, cultural, and personal. Borders in this story are not static lines on a map, but living entities and symbols to be reinterpreted. “A border does not enclose, it opens out,” Ma declares, “It is a bridge between two connected parts… It doesn’t tear apart. A border increases recognition… Where two sides meet and both flourish”. This poetic reimagining of borders exemplifies Shree’s use of symbolism: the Wagah border crossing between India and Pakistan becomes an allegorical stage where divisions turn into connections. In one standout surreal scene, long-dead writers from the Partition era are conjured as “lost souls flitting about in the ether,” gathering at the border’s daily flag-lowering ceremony. Here, history itself is given ghostly embodiment, using magical realism to collapse time and comment on the enduring wounds of Partition. Shree’s narrative is “sprinkled throughout with magical realism”, yet her style is distinct from peers like Salman Rushdie. Rather than grand mythic flourishes, her magic often manifests in homely, quirky images: a plastic cane festooned with glittery butterflies that transforms into a Wishing Tree for a moment, or a parliament of talking crows that perch outside a window to gossip about the humans inside. Even inanimate objects and animals gain voices – doors and walls ponder movement, birds debate the story – lending the novel an allegorical richness and a sense that the entire universe is alive with commentary. These flights of fancy are not mere whimsy; they reinforce the novel’s theme that everything is interconnected and that rigid boundaries (between human and animal, animate and inanimate) are illusory.
The language of Tomb of Sand is equally exuberant. Shree’s writing revels in wordplay: puns, rhymes, songs, and alliterations pack the pages. Simple words morph into strings of playful variations – as when the Hindi word for “no” is spun through English homophones: “no, not. A know knot. A knew knot. A new knot”, until negation itself blossoms into a “new desire”. Such linguistic inventiveness, described by one critic as “linguistic exuberance” full of “puns… alliteration, double entendre, \[and] euphony”, creates a textual experience of constant surprise. The imagery in the language is often tactile and vivid: for example, the sun is described playfully “following Ma in the day” like a benevolent companion, giving the reader a “warm and cozy” feeling. Shree also weaves in multilingual elements – Hindi, Urdu, Punjabi, Sanskrit – and untranslatable words (for food, cultural items, exclamations like “chee chee” for disgust), which add texture and authenticity. These linguistic choices serve a thematic purpose: they assert the “vibrancy of Hindi” and local culture in the face of homogenizing globalization. Translator Daisy Rockwell worked to convey the novel’s Hindi dhwani (resonance) by mirroring its alliterative and rhythmic qualities, yielding English phrases like “fume fume fume,” “love-shove,” or “sputtering stuttering”. The result can be kaleidoscopic and, admittedly, sometimes disorienting – likened to “wading through a sandstorm” of words. Some English readers may find themselves “flailing” amid the abundant tangents and word puzzles. Yet this is intentional: Shree’s imagery and language constantly reinforce the novel’s celebration of ambiguity and multiplicity. As one passage advises, true “understanding” is not about fixing a single meaning but about being shocked into seeing “lightning” – a jolt that “displaces the familiar” and forces us to accept fluid meanings. In essence, the novel’s vibrant imagery and linguistic style create an immersive emotional landscape. They convey the “beauty and bloodied limbs” of the subcontinent’s history in equal measure, embracing both the lush and the grotesque. From the titular “tomb of sand” – a reference to a Buddhist tale of self-burial and transformation – to recurring motifs of sand, soil, and saris, Shree uses concrete images to symbolize rebirth and the shedding of old identities. In the end, the language of Tomb of Sand is almost “poetic”, stitched together from many threads of meaning. It challenges the reader to surrender to its rhythms and images, yielding an emotional richness that perfectly complements the novel’s thematic depth.
Thematic Interpretation
Gender and Patriarchy
Gender is a central preoccupation of Tomb of Sand, explored through both the experiences of its female protagonist and the broader social commentary woven into the narrative. Shree examines how women’s identities are often subsumed or made invisible within patriarchal structures. In fact, “the invisibility of women” is a recurring subject in Shree’s work. At the novel’s outset, Ma epitomizes this invisibility: after a lifetime of being a dutiful wife and mother, she literally turns her face to the wall and disappears from the view of her family. This image of Ma’s back turned to the world for days on end is a potent metaphor for the way elderly women, especially widows, can become socially unseen. Shree explicitly connects this to Indian society, where “despite modernity, men continue to take social and psychological precedence” and a woman’s visibility is often “returned…conditionally – on having kids \[or] proving to be indispensable to men”. Ma’s initial depression can be read as the common plight of many traditional women: “raised to be just wives and mothers,” they feel “lost” once those roles are exhausted. Patriarchal norms have so defined Ma’s existence that, in widowhood, she no longer knows how to live for herself.
The genius of Tomb of Sand is how it flips this situation on its head. Instead of fading away, Ma stages a quiet rebellion against gender roles. Her reawakening is marked by symbolic acts of liberation from patriarchy: she discards her widow’s plain saris (and the whole notion of being an “unshakeable self-sacrificing Bharat Mata” figure) in favor of colorful abaya gowns that “swish with freedom”. She steps out of the confines of her son’s household—defying the expectation that an aging mother should docilely remain under her eldest son’s care—and chooses to live with Beti, her unmarried, independent daughter. This decision rattles the family’s traditional gender dynamics. The elder son, Bade, considers himself the “Man of the House” and is prideful about taking responsibility for his mother. Ma’s relocation to Beti’s home undermines that patriarchal pride. It also forces Beti to reevaluate her own feminist self-image: Beti has long seen herself as the modern, free spirit of the family, so when her mother suddenly becomes more adventurous—befriending a trans woman and planning international travel—Beti is at once “pleased and surprised” but also a bit uneasy, as if her role is being usurped. This dynamic cleverly portrays intergenerational feminism: the daughter who thought she was enlightened must confront the reality that her mother can break even bigger taboos.
Through characters like Rosie, the hijra, Shree broadens the theme of gender beyond the binary. Rosie is a transgender woman who occasionally presents as a man (a tailor) for safety or convenience. Her very presence questions India’s gender norms and highlights the marginalization of the third gender. By making Rosie integral to Ma’s journey, Shree links the liberation of one elderly cisgender woman with the struggles of a transgender woman. Their friendship is portrayed with warmth and dignity, emphasizing commonalities in their experiences of othering. In one sense, Rosie’s fluid gender performance (switching between identities) is an external mirror of Ma’s own internal transformation—both are engaged in redefining who they are outside society’s expectations. Patriarchy and gender roles are also critiqued through satire: as noted, Shree skewers male characters who embody entitlement or hypocrisy. These humorous vignettes (the pompous men who cannot laugh or cook, etc.) serve to underscore the absurdity of the rules men make for women. Shree’s tone here is biting but also hopeful: we see women like Ma and Beti refusing to comply with indirect orders and carving out autonomy. By the end, gender is presented not as a fixed destiny but as another border to be crossed. Ma’s personal emancipation—culminating in reclaiming her own name and desires—symbolizes the breaking of the “tomb” in which patriarchal society had encased her. In Tomb of Sand, Shree ultimately champions a vision of gender equality and freedom: women’s “inner lives” are given full visibility and validation, and even a once-submissive grandmother can become an iconoclast, “taboo-destroying” protagonist in her eighties.
Partition and Borders
The legacy of the 1947 Partition of India and Pakistan looms large in Tomb of Sand. Shree tackles this historical trauma not just as background, but as a living theme that the novel actively interrogates and reimagines. Ma’s late-life journey is, in fact, a literal crossing back into the past: she travels to Pakistan to confront “the lingering scars of her teenage survival during the Partition riots”. As a young girl, Ma (then known by her own name, which we learn is Chanda) had loved a man named Anwar, but the violence of Partition tore them apart along religious lines. Decades later, as an 80-year-old, she undertakes a poignant pilgrimage to find Anwar again and “reclaim her true identity in the arms of her first love”. This personal quest embodies the novel’s take on Partition: it is both an intimate wound (lost love, lost home) and a national wound that still demands healing.
Shree approaches Partition with originality, often through allegory and irony. The Wagah border – the iconic crossing between India and Pakistan – is depicted not as a scar, but as a place of potential unity. Ma views the very concept of borders through a subversive lens: as noted earlier, she muses that a border “has no religion” and “is meant to illuminate both sides”, suggesting that borders could be sites of meeting rather than separation. This idealistic vision contrasts starkly with the “angry, bloodied lines” that borders became during Partition, when divisive ideology caused immense bloodshed. The novel doesn’t shy away from that brutality – one quoted line searingly imagines how “blood will burst their borders and seep away, and all the limbs will dry up” while partisans on each side continue chanting religious slogans. Such graphic imagery captures the senseless violence of Partition, where human commonality was severed by artificial lines. However, Shree’s use of magical realism allows her to address this history in a fresh way. The scene where Partition-era literary figures (including a homage to Hindi novelist Krishna Sobti) gather at the border ceremony is one example: it turns a patriotic display into a ghostly tableau of reflection and critique, implicitly asking what stories still haunt these borderlands? By literally bringing voices of the past to the present, Shree shows how Partition’s memory refuses to stay buried.
The theme of borders in the novel goes beyond the India-Pakistan divide. Shree questions all sorts of boundaries – between nations, yes, but also between languages, cultures, and even between people in the same family. For instance, the novel depicts how family members (Ma, Beti, Bade, Bahu) are separated by unspoken walls of expectation and misunderstanding. When Beti and Ma travel together, it is not only a crossing of an international border but also a crossing of the generational gap that lay between them. The story suggests that healing comes from transcending borders: Ma finds closure and freedom only by literally crossing into Pakistan and figuratively crossing the boundaries of time and identity that had constrained her. The partition theme is thus tightly interwoven with the personal narrative – Ma’s metamorphosis is inextricable from her coming to terms with Partition. Notably, Shree acknowledges that Partition is a heavily trodden subject in Indian literature (Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children being a famous English example). Her approach, however, is to blend timeless folklore and fantastical elements with historical reality, thereby offering a commentary on Partition that is at once whimsical and profound. The question posed by the novel, as summed up by one critic, is essentially “who does India belong to?”. Is it the preserve of those like Bade who cling to old sectarian divisions and patriarchal norms, or can it belong to those like Ma who have been “relegated because of their sex or social status” yet dare to imagine a world “unbounded” by such lines? In answering this, Tomb of Sand leans decisively towards a vision of inclusivity and humanity beyond borders. The Wagah border, in the end, becomes a symbol of reconciliation in the novel – a place where Ma can straddle two identities (Indian and Pakistani, Hindu and Muslim in a sense) and assert that both sides are part of her story. Shree’s message is clear: the true freedom lies in rejecting the divisive logic of borders, whether they partition countries or hearts.
Memory and Grief
Memory—especially traumatic memory—and grief are powerful undercurrents in Tomb of Sand, driving both the plot and the characters’ development. At the narrative’s outset, Ma is submerged in grief for her deceased husband. Her depression is so acute that it effectively entombs her in her room (hence the metaphor of a “tomb of sand,” suggesting burial in grief and time). This personal grief is portrayed with empathy: Shree shows how Ma’s sorrow initially isolates her from life, an experience many readers may recognize as emblematic of long-partnered love ending in loss. Through Ma’s eventual re-engagement with the world, the novel explores grief’s transformation into something else—into memory, into purpose, even into liberation. As one reviewer puts it, the story contrasts Ma’s “descent into profound depression after her husband’s passing…with her eventual resurgence and fervent embrace of a newfound vitality”. In other words, Ma’s journey is one of healing from grief: not by forgetting her past, but by actively revisiting it.
This is where memory plays a crucial role. For Ma, the process of overcoming her present grief involves unearthing older sorrows that were buried in her memory—most notably, the unresolved trauma of Partition and the loss of her teenage love. The novel suggests that sometimes griefs are layered; the fresh wound of widowhood reopens the old wound of 1947. Ma’s odyssey to Pakistan is as much a journey into memory as it is a physical trip. She is “motivated…to confront and reconcile the lingering scars” of her youth, implying that true peace requires acknowledging and integrating those painful memories rather than suppressing them. Shree handles these flashbacks and remembrances in a non-linear fashion, often blurring past and present in the narrative (for example, when Ma reaches Lahore, her childhood home, the text at times slips into a nostalgic, younger voice as if the past is speaking through her). This technique underscores the novel’s view of time and memory: the past is never truly past; it lives on in the present and must be faced.
There is also an element of collective memory at work. Partition is not just Ma’s personal trauma; it is a national/cultural trauma. By invoking historical events and even real historical figures, Tomb of Sand engages with how societies remember (or forget) the tragedies of the past. The presence of Krishna Sobti and others at the border ceremony is a reminder that literature and art carry the memory of Partition forward, acting as witnesses. Shree weaves these references almost casually into the text (the narrator mentions real incidents and political issues as if they’re mere asides), which mimics how, in life, the backdrop of history is always present even in personal stories. The effect is that the reader constantly feels the weight of memory behind the characters’ immediate experiences.
In terms of themes, memory and grief intersect with identity and freedom in the novel. Ma’s act of remembrance (seeking Anwar) is simultaneously an act of asserting her identity (Chanda, the self she left behind). By grieving openly and pursuing what was lost, she frees herself from the confines of the past’s silence. The narrative affirms that processing grief can be regenerative: Ma’s memories ultimately don’t drown her; they revitalize her by giving her a mission. Other characters also reflect on memory and loss – for instance, the family recalls Ma’s earlier life in fragments, and even Rosie has her own past sorrows hinted at. The key is that Tomb of Sand treats memory as an active, living force. It can be painful and heavy (like the literal dead weight of a tomb), but when confronted, it can also teach and transform. By the end of the novel, grief has been transmuted into wisdom and compassion. Ma’s final acts suggest a release—she has made peace with her life’s tragedies (from losing Anwar long ago to losing her husband recently). In a poignant twist, Ma’s story concludes with her death, but even that is framed not as tragedy but as transcendence: “her death…was no ending…she’d simply crossed yet another border”. This beautiful line ties together memory, grief, and Partition imagery—implying that even mortality is just another threshold, and perhaps hinting that Ma’s memories and spirit will live on. Tomb of Sand thus offers a deeply humanistic take on memory and grief: remember the past, mourn what is lost, but do not be imprisoned by it. Through remembrance, one can find the strength to move forward and even challenge the very boundaries (in society or within oneself) that past traumas have erected.
Identity and Freedom
Throughout Tomb of Sand, the intertwined themes of identity and freedom emerge repeatedly, as characters seek to define themselves on their own terms and break free from various confines. Ma’s journey is fundamentally one of self-reclamation. For most of the novel she is known only as Ma—a generic name defining her by her role as mother. It is only in the final pages, in a moment of profound personal liberation, that she “reclaims her true identity” and the narrative reveals her name, Chanda, reuniting her with a sense of self beyond familial titles. This act of naming is symbolic: Ma sheds the identity that was imposed on her (the selfless matriarch who exists for others) and embraces the identity she chose for herself in her youth (a woman capable of love, desire, and independent will). The fact that she becomes “Anwar-Chanda”—hyphenating her name with her long-lost lover—further underscores how identity in the novel is fluid and relational, not singular or static. It’s as if she is saying that she can be both the person she was and the person she is now, bridging identities across time and culture (Hindu and Muslim, Indian and Pakistani).
Other characters also grapple with identity. Beti, whose very name means “daughter,” has crafted a modern identity as a feminist writer, proudly unmarried and self-sufficient. Yet, as mentioned, she confronts a mini identity crisis when her mother upends expectations. Beti realizes that she has unconsciously been defining herself in opposition to the traditional role her mother represented; when Ma changes, Beti must re-evaluate what being “bohemian” or “progressive” really means. Similarly, Rosie embodies a layered identity: she’s a hijra who occasionally passes as a man in certain contexts. Rosie’s fluid identity challenges those around her (including Beti’s boyfriend, who is uncomfortable with Rosie’s closeness to the family). Through Rosie, the novel explicitly addresses the theme of freedom in identity expression: Rosie must navigate a society that traditionally constrained hijras to the margins, yet with Ma she finds a space of acceptance. The friendship between Ma and Rosie is one of mutual recognition—both have lived lives “outside the lines” in their own ways, and both taste freedom in each other’s company.
The narrative also touches on cultural identity, especially through language. There’s a recurring commentary on the tug-of-war between Hindi and English, tradition and globalization. For example, Ma’s grandson “Serious Son” laments how everyone in India answers in English even when spoken to in an Indian language, seeing it as a loss of cultural identity. He mockingly lists how names like Siddharth become “Sid” and Ma becomes “Mom”, illustrating the erosion (or evolution) of identity in a globalized context. While this is a minor thread, it complements the larger theme: identities—national, linguistic, personal—are in flux, and freedom lies in being able to choose and merge identities rather than have them imposed. Shree, writing in Hindi, subtly asserts the value of indigenous identity by infusing her text with untranslatable Indian cultural elements, which is a statement of linguistic freedom and pride.
Ultimately, Tomb of Sand advocates for an identity that is self-determined and unbounded. The word “freedom” resonates at multiple levels. On the surface, Ma seeks freedom from the stifling expectations of widowhood and old age. But more broadly, her story is about the freedom to cross boundaries: between countries, between past and present selves, between societal roles. In a climactic scene, Ma speaks to confused border guards, waxing poetic about how borders “enhance recognition” rather than divide. Though some of them think her mad, her point is clear—true freedom is not found in isolation or purity, but in the meeting and mingling of identities. The novel’s joyous, chaotic narrative style itself enacts this philosophy, freely mixing genres, tones, and perspectives as if refusing to be boxed into any single category. By the novel’s end, the reader has witnessed an 80-year-old woman reinvent herself and assert her freedom to be. And poignantly, even when Ma’s life ends, Shree frames it as the final act of liberation—“crossing” beyond the ultimate border of life/death. In doing so, Tomb of Sand delivers a powerful message: identity is fluid and freedom is the birthright of every soul, no matter their age, gender, or history. The book invites us to imagine, as Ma does, what it might mean to live “unbounded” by the tombs of convention.
Character Psychology
Ma (the Protagonist)
Ma is the beating heart of Tomb of Sand, and Shree gives her a remarkable psychological depth and evolution over the course of the novel. When we first meet Ma, she is a figure of near-total withdrawal: a woman “clouded by grief” who refuses to turn away from the wall after her husband’s death. This initial portrayal is one of severe depression, even despair. Psychologically, Ma at this stage seems to have relinquished the will to participate in life – a not uncommon reaction for someone who has lost their lifelong partner and, with him, the social identity of “wife” that defined her. Her family’s attempts to cajole her out of bed yield nothing; it’s as if she has become a shadow, present in body but absent in spirit. Shree slowly unpacks the inner conflict fueling Ma’s catatonia: beyond her immediate grief lies a deeper, almost existential discontent. Ma has lived “most of her life on the terms dictated by others” – as a dutiful daughter, wife, mother in a conservative milieu – and now, at the end of those duties, she faces a void of purpose. The brilliance of Shree’s character work is shown when Ma finally stirs. Rather than resuming her old self, Ma embarks on what can only be called a late-life metamorphosis. Psychologically, this is both believable and inspiring: having hit rock bottom, Ma finds an inner resolve (perhaps sparked by long-suppressed desires and the invocation of old memories) to redefine herself.
As Ma reengages with life, her personality reveals hues that no one – perhaps not even Ma herself – knew she had. She becomes playful, enigmatic, and even a bit mischievous. For instance, when she slips out of the house and is found by police claiming a man named Anwar is her husband, it baffles her family – a hint that Ma’s inner world harbors secrets and yearnings untouched by her familial role. Living with Beti, Ma exhibits a zest for new experiences: she befriends Rosie warmly, communes with birds, and even develops a habit of watching foreign films and reacting with a childlike “chee chee” at on-screen kisses. These behaviors paint Ma as someone awakening to the wider world with almost youthful curiosity. There’s a sense of rebirth – reviewers noted that “Ma seems to get younger every day”, as if shedding the skin of old age and conservatism. Indeed, Ma’s psychological trajectory often feels like an inversion of the typical aging narrative: instead of narrowing her world, she widens it; instead of becoming more rigid, she becomes more fluid.
Internally, Ma wrestles with the ghosts of her past. We learn that her depression wasn’t solely due to her husband’s passing; it was also the weight of unresolved trauma (Partition and Anwar) bearing down on her subconscious. Once she decides to confront that past, we see a new determination in her. Psychologically, this is portrayed with great sensitivity: Ma is not extraordinarily brave in a loud way – if anything, she remains soft-spoken and whimsical – but there is a steely core to her once she has a purpose. Her family, observing this, are bewildered: “Bade and Beti are bewildered by their mother’s new-found enthusiasm for life”. They have to adjust their own understanding of who Ma is. As readers, we too continually revise our perception of Ma. Initially pitiable, she becomes admirable and even heroic by the end. Shree allows us glimpses into Ma’s inner thoughts through stream-of-consciousness passages and narrated musings. We see that Ma possesses a rich inner life – full of memories, riddles, and a philosophy forged from decades of quiet observation. She often thinks in metaphors (e.g. viewing herself as a tree that had been knotted by circumstances, now loosening) and in witty aphorisms. One of Ma’s internal refrains is the word “no” – her initial refusal to engage – which she eventually transforms into a “new” affirmation of life. This subtle psychological detail (turning no into new) encapsulates her mental journey from negation to acceptance.
By the novel’s climax, Ma has achieved a kind of integrated self. Embracing Chanda, the girl who loved and lost during Partition, and Ma, the woman who dutifully lived her family life, she merges her identities and finds peace. In psychological terms, it’s a self-actualization that comes very late, but powerfully. It’s also infectious: Ma’s transformation profoundly affects those around her. There is a poignant symmetry in how, at the start, Ma’s depression was a black hole draining the family, but by the end, her vibrancy is giving them light. Even in her final act – stepping into death – Ma exudes tranquility and freedom, showing no fear. Her psychology at that point seems to transcend the ordinary: she has made sense of her life’s journey and thus crosses the ultimate threshold without regret. Shree crafts Ma as a character of extraordinary inner strength, one who exemplifies the idea that it is never too late to change one’s story. In literary lineage, Ma might be seen as a cousin to other wise, rebellious grandmothers or matriarchs in fiction, but her particular cultural and personal history make her singular. She is, as one review called her, an “iconoclastic, taboo-destroying eighty-year-old protagonist”, and Shree delves deeply into the psychological toll and triumph such an upheaval entails.
Beti (the Daughter)
Beti provides a fascinating counterpoint to Ma, both in life choices and psychological makeup. In her fifties, Beti is a writer and intellectual who prides herself on her independence and modern values. Early on, we learn Beti lives alone, has eschewed marriage, and often speaks publicly about progressive issues (“women’s consciousness, sexuality, the female orgasm, what gibberish, good God,” her relatives mock). Psychologically, Beti comes across as confident, perhaps a touch self-satisfied about being the liberated daughter in a conventional family. When Ma first collapses into depression, Beti is concerned and dutiful—she frequently visits and eventually takes Ma into her own home. Yet there’s an undercurrent that Beti has long felt somewhat alienated from the family (“an outcast in the family for being unmarried,” as the Washington Post noted). This outsider-within status is part of Beti’s identity, and her relationship with Ma initially seems like a role reversal: the daughter becomes the caretaker of the mother.
As Ma revives and begins to act in surprising ways, Beti’s psychology goes through subtle shifts. She is surprised and pleased to see her mother’s depression lifting, especially since it happens under her roof (one can sense Beti’s pride that perhaps her influence is healing Ma). However, Beti also experiences ambivalence. When Ma becomes increasingly spirited – striking up an intense camaraderie with Rosie, suggesting spontaneous outings – Beti feels a bit “stifled” by the responsibility and by the realization that her once-dependable mother is now a free agent of chaos and change. There’s a great moment (implied in reviews) where Beti must confront her own assumptions: she “always imagined herself as the free-spirited, bohemian member of the family… A feminist”, and suddenly Ma is challenging that self-image by outdoing Beti in boldness. Beti’s internal conflict here is both comedic and poignant. She has to share the spotlight of rebellion with her mother, and in doing so, she deepens her understanding of what feminism and freedom really mean. Instead of being the teacher, Beti becomes a bit of a student – learning from Ma’s late flowering. This humbles Beti somewhat and ultimately brings her closer to Ma.
The mother-daughter relationship evolves beautifully on the psychological level. Initially, Beti doesn’t quite know how to handle this fragile, despondent version of her strong mother; she approaches with care, a mix of love and awkwardness. As Ma becomes more herself (or a new self), their relationship equalizes and even inverts. By the time they travel to Pakistan together, they resemble two companions or sisters on an adventure more than a parent and child. Beti’s willingness to accompany Ma into potentially dangerous territory (crossing borders without proper papers) speaks to the deep trust and love she has, and also perhaps to a longing in Beti for her own form of closure or growth. Psychologically, Beti might also be chasing her mother’s past in order to better understand her own origins – going to the place her mother grew up, meeting the specter of the man her mother loved, etc. Though Beti’s interior monologue is not as foregrounded as Ma’s, we get enough dialogue and reaction from her to sense her emotional arc. By the novel’s end, Beti appears transformed by the journey. Having witnessed her mother’s ultimate act of crossing (and losing her to it), Beti is likely changed – perhaps more at peace with her own choices and more understanding of her mother’s life. In one touching scene, when Beti cares for Ma in Pakistan after a fall, the narration describes it as “a love so full it envelopes from all sides”, capturing how Beti pours her heart into nurturing her mother. That line reveals Beti’s core: beneath the intellectual and iconoclast is a person of immense capacity for love. Beti’s psychology is thus defined by a blend of strength and sensitivity. She’s fiercely independent yet deeply attached to her mother; proud yet capable of introspection and change. In sum, Beti emerges as a fully realized character in her own right, one whose internal conflicts – between duty and freedom, pride and empathy – enrich the novel’s exploration of generational difference and connection.
Rosie and Other Characters
While Ma and Beti dominate the narrative, Shree gives careful attention to the psychological nuances of supporting characters as well, using them to amplify the novel’s themes. Rosie, or Rosie Bua, is particularly significant. A hijra (transgender woman) of around Ma’s age, Rosie has a gentle, wise presence laced with quiet resilience. Psychologically, Rosie stands as someone who has long lived on society’s margins – experiencing both extreme prejudice and the solidarity of the hijra community. She and Ma share an old friendship (formed years ago, hinting that Ma always had a rebellious accepting streak to befriend a hijra when it was socially frowned upon). Rosie’s psychology is not explored through inner monologue but through her actions and the regard others have for her. She is described by one reader as “the nicest, most loyal and graceful character in the whole novel”, which speaks to her steady kindness. Rosie often acts as a sort of spiritual guide or confidante for Ma. For instance, when Ma begins adopting more unconventional behavior, it’s Rosie she spends most of her time with, suggesting Rosie provides an emotional safe space. Rosie’s dual identity – living sometimes as Rosie, sometimes as “Roshan Ali” the tailor (implied by the mention of transforming into a male tailor) – points to a survival strategy that has psychological ramifications. It suggests that Rosie has had to compartmentalize herself to navigate a world that doesn’t fully accept her. Nonetheless, around Ma and Beti, Rosie seems fully herself, offering empathy and humor. The respect Ma’s family eventually shows Rosie (even if grudgingly from some, like Beti’s boyfriend) indicates Rosie’s integrity and the positive influence she has. Her character subtly underscores the theme of identity freedom – she shape-shifts not out of deceit but as a means to live authentically in hostile environments.
The novel also sketches the psychologies of Bade (the elder son) and Bahu (his wife), among others, to create a full portrait of an Indian family. Bade is a study in patriarchal conditioning. Nearing retirement from a career as a civil servant, Bade has a somewhat pompous air; he believes in traditional hierarchies (himself as provider and decision-maker). When Ma first withdraws, Bade is perplexed and worried, but also concerned with propriety – he likely fears the social embarrassment of an “unstable” mother. His pride is evident when he feels it’s his duty to care for Ma as the eldest son. Psychologically, Bade is not depicted as cruel, but as limited by his conventional mindset. Shree injects comedic pathos into Bade’s character: he is the type to bluster about being in charge yet is helpless to actually change Ma’s behavior. As Ma steps out of his household (literally and figuratively), Bade must come to terms with loss of control. There is a hint of vulnerability – he cares for his mother, but cannot understand her newfound independence, which perhaps leaves him feeling a bit obsolete. Bahu, the daughter-in-law, is sketched with lighter strokes – often seen fretting or trying to maintain normalcy. One imagines Bahu’s psychology as that of a traditional woman who has always played by the rules, and thus Ma’s rebellion might both scandalize and secretly inspire her. Though not delved into deeply, Bahu likely represents the average person’s response to Ma’s changes: a mix of confusion, gossip, and eventual acceptance.
Other minor characters, like Sid (the carefree grandson), Overseas Son (the serious, Westernized grandson), or Beti’s boyfriend KK, each have brief psychological portraits. Sid is easygoing and provides comic relief; he seems psychologically unburdened, maybe symbolizing a younger generation less tied down by old norms. Overseas Son embodies the diaspora consciousness – critical of India’s quirks even as he engages in them (like complaining about Hinglish while himself living abroad). KK, Beti’s boyfriend, feels insecure around the formidable women (Ma and Rosie) and at one point is described as not entirely pleased with how things are unfolding – a clue to his conservative streak, which in turn illuminates Beti’s choices in partners and what she navigates romantically.
In summary, Shree populates her novel with a cast whose psychological interplay enriches the story. Each character, no matter how briefly appearing, has distinct desires, anxieties, and worldviews that either challenge or corroborate Ma’s new ethos. The family dynamics – pride, jealousy, protectiveness, misunderstanding – are finely observed. As one reviewer noted, the novel “delves into the complexities of human relationships”, showing how each person’s experience of the same events can differ. We come to understand Ma, Beti, Rosie, and the rest not just through their own minds but also through “each other’s eyes”. This narrative technique provides a 360-degree psychological perspective, making the family’s emotional world feel authentic. By the end of the book, the psychological evolution of the characters collectively paints a picture of reconciliation and growth. Ma finds herself; Beti broadens her empathy; even characters like Bade must evolve in their viewpoints. The internal transformations mirror the external journey across the border, reinforcing the idea that crossing into new psychological territory is both challenging and liberating.
In conclusion, Tomb of Sand is a rich tapestry of style, theme, and character. Geetanjali Shree employs an innovative literary style—nonlinear structure, shifting tones, and exuberant language—to mirror her story’s celebration of fluid boundaries and enduring hope. The novel’s themes of gender, identity, partition, memory, grief, and freedom are not just discussed but felt, interwoven in a narrative that dances between realism and fantasy. Its characters, especially the unforgettable Ma, are drawn with profound psychological insight, showing us that transformation is possible at any stage of life. Tomb of Sand is at once a joyous, “rambling, chugging adventure” of prose and a deeply affecting meditation on what it means to seek and find oneself amidst the sands of time. Shree’s novel ultimately earns its place as a modern classic of South Asian literature by proving that a story about “a woman and a border” can indeed write itself into something universal—an ode to resilience, connection, and the timeless search to be seen.
Sources:
Chakraborty, Ankita. The Guardian / The Observer – “Tomb of Sand” review*
Whitmore, James. The Library Is Open – Review of Tomb of Sand*
Venkataramanan, Meena. The Washington Post – “‘Tomb of Sand’ meditates on the cultural diffusion that permeates India”*
Singh, Priya. poco.lit (Postcolonial Literatures) – Review of Tomb of Sand*
Love, Life, & Beyond* blog – “Book Review: Tomb of Sand”
Deedi Brown – Deedi Reads review of Tomb of Sand*
Complete Review* – Collected critiques (Financial Times, LRB, etc.)
