Fortunately,
or unfortunately, the period around which I completed reading this book is when
there was, and still is, a lot of talk about mental health and emotional
well-being, be it in the media or on our social feeds. This has given me a new
perspective to the story and much respect to the author for writing on a topic very
few are brave enough to divulge in.
Eleanor
Oliphant is Completely Fine!
You know when
someone announces unasked, that they are fine, that you are definitely going to
question the statement’s authenticity. And the more emphatic their
assertion, the more you doubt that person.
Eleanor Oliphant
is like that drop of nectar buried deep inside a flower bud, and one of the
first striking quality I liked about the book is how the author gently peals one
petal at a time, revealing a little more of our protagonist. Very subtly,
almost inconspicuously, we learn about Eleanor. Her scars, her fear of her mother’s
voice, her haunting memories, her love for crossword puzzles, her workplace, her
complete lack of knowledge on an array of things from modern technology to food
delivery service, and her routine weekend rendezvous with one bottle of Vodka.
A zillion
questions pop in your mind and linger around throughout the book. Why does
she fear sirens? How is she familiar with hospital wards when she works
as a finance clerk? How does she, a 30-year old woman living in Glasgow,
not know the difference between a laptop and desktop? You are impatient to know
the answers so you can form a complete picture of Eleanor, however, Gail Honeyman’s
smooth and poetic writing counters that urge, calms you down and ensures you
that she will reveal the answers when the time is right.
Eleanor’s
behaviour seems strange and unconventional to others, and in her mind, it is
the vice versa. When you do think about it, you realize she’s not wrong. In our
current culture, we have become so accustomed to eating out of a can or a box,
that someone having home-cooked meals all-round the clock sounds abnormal; we have
trapped ourselves into complex, absurd social norms, that we look down on people
who don’t follow them. Yes, Eleanor is different, and yes, her social skills aren’t
up to ‘our’ mark, but then, aren’t we all not up to someone else’s mark?
We have
all known that it is the little things in life that matter. However, it was only
while I was reading this book during the lockdown, that I realized that those little
things could be as meagre as visiting a saloon or shopping for a dress or even
surfing the net. The value of these mundane activities is only realized when
you are ‘locked up’ in your house for 30 days, or in Eleanor’s case 30 years! For
her, these activities are not merely a point on the to-do list, they are a
source of joy and excitement, an anomaly in her lonely life.
It is
surprising how the human mind dismisses and normalizes abuse and trauma. We so
readily accept our past, blaming ourselves for being abused, and move on,
without really acknowledging its impact on our present.
As Eleanor’s
self-realization sets in, numerous questions plague her mind. Questions we have
all asked ourselves at different stages in our lives. Questions that can suck
us into a never-ending whirlpool. Only some of us are lucky to find a hand to
pull us out of the shrinking black hole. This part of the book is where the
story truly comes alive and you finally begin to see the actual Eleanor
Oliphant. The intensity of Eleanor’s emotions reflects her mental health. And while
the strong ones in our circle might feel that there is nothing new in what
Eleanor feels or thinks that each one of us hasn’t felt or thought at some point
in our lives, we must remember that that exactly is the key difference –
feeling it at some point is vastly different from living in it every single
moment. As a reader your only hope is that our dear Eleanor is lucky enough to find
the light at the end of the tunnel.
To be
honest, there were times in the story where I couldn’t connect with Eleanor
completely. There were times I was rather annoyed by her and felt her actions were
not entirely justifiable despite her circumstances. Looking back at those parts,
I realise I was looking at Eleanor from my privileged point to view and had let
my ego of being on the moral high ground take over. Re-reading those parts with
the light of mental health shining, I empathize with Eleanor, even though I cannot
understand her.
