Sameer Gudhate Presents the Book Review of The Daughters of Shantiniketan by Debalina Haldar

Some books announce themselves loudly. They clear their throat, adjust their spectacles, and declare, “I have something important to say.”

The Daughters of Shantiniketan doesn’t do that.

It sits beside you quietly, like someone at a café who doesn’t interrupt your thoughts—until, suddenly, you realise they know exactly what you’ve been thinking all along.

I began this novel expecting a family saga steeped in Bengali tradition and Tagore’s legacy. I did not expect it to feel like a house I’d entered barefoot—cool marble floors, the faint echo of Rabindra Sangeet drifting from somewhere deep inside, and a strange heaviness in the air, as if secrets were stored not just in cupboards but in walls, ceilings, inherited silences.

Debalina Haldar writes with a kind of emotional nakedness that’s rare. There’s nothing ornamental for the sake of impressing the reader. Her prose breathes. Sometimes it sighs. Sometimes it pauses mid-thought, as if unsure whether it’s safe to say the next thing out loud. That hesitation is precisely what makes it powerful.

At the heart of the book is Shantiniketan—not just as a place, but as an idea. A revered aristocratic household in Kolkata that treats Rabindranath Tagore’s philosophy as sacred scripture, frozen in time. Art is worshipped, but only in approved forms. Music is allowed, but only if it obeys rules written long before the women of the house were born. Tradition, here, is less a guiding light and more a locked door with a beautiful nameplate.

The story follows the daughters and daughters-in-law of this household, especially Charu—the “good” granddaughter. The obedient one. The kind who doesn’t question the air she’s been taught to breathe. Her world tilts when she falls in love with a bohemian singer who dares to modernise Tagore’s music. That love doesn’t arrive like a dramatic thunderclap. It creeps in gently. A note held too long. A look exchanged across a room. A question she didn’t know she was allowed to ask.

What unfolds isn’t a loud rebellion, but something far more unsettling: awareness. Charu—and the women around her—begin to see the cost of compliance. Dreams trimmed quietly. Talents praised but never encouraged. Voices softened until silence feels like virtue. Patriarchy in this novel isn’t a villain twirling a moustache; it’s far more dangerous. It’s polite. Cultural. Well-meaning. And deeply suffocating.

The writing style mirrors this emotional landscape. The pace is unhurried—sometimes almost stubbornly so. Scenes linger. Conversations stretch. Reflections loop back on themselves. At first, I found myself wanting things to move. Then I realised: this slowness is the point. This is how lives shaped by tradition actually change—not in leaps, but in pauses. In moments when someone almost speaks up. Almost leaves. Almost dares.

Tagore’s songs weave through the narrative like a second heartbeat. Even in translation, they carry longing, melancholy, resistance. They don’t just decorate the story; they comment on it, argue with it, mourn with it. At times, I found myself stopping mid-page, imagining the music playing softly in the background, letting the emotion settle before moving on.

There are moments that linger. A woman staring at her reflection, unsure when she last made a choice for herself. A family gathering where everything looks perfect, yet feels unbearably tense. A song sung differently for the first time—and the shock that follows. These aren’t dramatic set-pieces; they’re emotional fault lines.

That said, this book won’t be for everyone. Readers who prefer tight plotting and fast turns may find the pacing indulgent. The narrative spends more time inside thoughts than events, and occasionally, the introspection does feel repetitive. But for me, those repetitions echoed real life—the way we circle the same fears before daring to step out of them.

By the time I closed the book, I wasn’t exhilarated. I was quieter. Thoughtful. A little heavier, but also strangely lighter. It made me think about the traditions we inherit without questioning, the rules dressed up as love, the freedoms we delay claiming because “this is how it’s always been.” In today’s world—where women still negotiate space, voice, and autonomy in subtle, exhausting ways—this story feels painfully relevant.

The Daughters of Shantiniketan doesn’t try to fix you. It doesn’t hand out solutions. What it does is far braver: it mirrors you. It asks uncomfortable questions and then trusts you to sit with them.

If you enjoy literary fiction that values mood over momentum, stories about women, legacy, identity, Bengali culture, Rabindranath Tagore, and the quiet courage it takes to choose oneself—this book deserves a place on your shelf.

Read it slowly. Maybe with music playing softly in the background.

Some stories aren’t meant to be devoured.

They’re meant to be felt.

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