The Moth-Eaten Howdah of the Tusker

What happens to a life when its purpose is dictated not by choice, but by the absence of it? In Indira Goswami’s The Moth-Eaten Howdah of the Tusker, the decaying walls of an Assamese satra do more than house widows—they echo the unspoken grief, muted rage, and stifled hopes of women like Giribala, whose lives are moth-eaten long before their time. This is not just a story; it is a haunting lament of a society at war with its own humanity.

Reading this novel feels like sitting in a dimly lit courtyard of an old Assamese satra (monastery), hearing whispers of pain, muted cries of injustice, and the occasional spark of hope. It begins with a stark portrayal of the protagonist, Giribala , a young widow whose life is stripped of color, joy, and even basic autonomy because of societal norms. What struck me most was the depth of her sorrow—a sorrow not born out of personal tragedy alone but magnified by the crushing weight of collective oppression.

The title is a haunting metaphor that stays with you throughout the book. The moth-eaten howdah, once a proud symbol of dignity and authority, is now decayed and useless—just like the oppressive traditions that bind these women. Goswami doesn’t shy away from showing the rot within this system, whether through the hypocrisy of the men who enforce these customs or the crushing loneliness experienced by the widows.

What I found deeply moving was Goswami’s ability to weave tenderness into such a bleak narrative. Giribala’s memories of her younger days, her moments of quiet longing, and her complicated relationships with other widows provide a stark contrast to the harshness of her reality. These glimpses of humanity amidst despair made me feel like I wasn’t just reading about Giribala—I was living alongside her, sharing in her struggles and fleeting joys.

Goswami’s prose is poetic yet piercing, filled with vivid imagery that transports you to the world of the satra. The decaying buildings, the monotonous rituals, the oppressive silences—they’re all so vividly described that they feel almost tangible. Yet, beneath this vividness lies a quiet anger, a refusal to accept these injustices as inevitable.

The ending, much like the rest of the novel, doesn’t offer easy resolutions. It leaves you with a sense of unease, forcing you to reflect on the larger implications of Giribala’s story.

The Moth-Eaten Howdah of the Tusker isn’t an easy read, but it’s an important one. It’s a book that doesn’t just tell a story—it holds up a mirror to the hypocrisies and cruelties of societal norms. Goswami’s empathy for her characters, combined with her sharp critique of tradition, makes this novel a powerful and unforgettable experience. It’s a story of decay, but also of the quiet, persistent strength that can emerge even in the bleakest of circumstances.