Genre Fiction
![Nigar Alam - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B0BXT78Z83.jpg)
Under the Tamarind Tree
A compellingly heartbreaking debut novel about the echoes of Partition and four friends whose dark secrets lead to a life-changing night that comes back to haunt them decades later.
One night. Four friends. Countless secrets.
1964. Karachi, Pakistan.Rozeena is running out of time. She'll lose her home-her parents' safe haven since fleeing India and the terrors of Partition-if her medical career doesn't take off soon. But success may come with an unexpected price. Meanwhile the interwoven lives of her childhood best friends-Haaris, Aalya, and Zohair-seem to be unraveling with each passing day. The once small and inconsequential differences between their families' social standing now threaten to divide them. Then one fateful night someone ends up dead and the life they once took for granted shatters.
2019. Rozeena receives a call from a voice she never thought she'd hear again. What begins as an ask to look after a friend's teenaged granddaughter struggling with her own demons grows into an unconventional friendship-one that unearths buried secrets and just might ruin everything Rozeena has worked so hard to protect.
Captivating and atmospheric, Under the Tamarind Tree shows us the high-stakes ripple effects of generational trauma, and the lengths people will go to protect the ones they love.
One night. Four friends. Countless secrets.
1964. Karachi, Pakistan.Rozeena is running out of time. She'll lose her home-her parents' safe haven since fleeing India and the terrors of Partition-if her medical career doesn't take off soon. But success may come with an unexpected price. Meanwhile the interwoven lives of her childhood best friends-Haaris, Aalya, and Zohair-seem to be unraveling with each passing day. The once small and inconsequential differences between their families' social standing now threaten to divide them. Then one fateful night someone ends up dead and the life they once took for granted shatters.
2019. Rozeena receives a call from a voice she never thought she'd hear again. What begins as an ask to look after a friend's teenaged granddaughter struggling with her own demons grows into an unconventional friendship-one that unearths buried secrets and just might ruin everything Rozeena has worked so hard to protect.
Captivating and atmospheric, Under the Tamarind Tree shows us the high-stakes ripple effects of generational trauma, and the lengths people will go to protect the ones they love.
Editorial Reviews
Longlisted for the Center for Fiction 2023 First Novel Prize
"A lush compelling drama….A reminder of how both sweeping historic events and personal secrets can shape lives and continue to reap consequences across the generations."-Charmaine Wilkerson, author of Black Cake
"Tender and beautifully written….Alam explores class, family and passion in rich cultural detail. A captivating read."-Jean Kwok, author of Girl in Translation and Searching for Sylvie Lee
"[A] sensitive tale of reconstructed lives and reexamined choices….Alam's vivid descriptions of Karachi, nuanced characters, and deft ability to delve into big ideas while keeping the story moving make this an emotionally engaging read."-Booklist
"A suspenseful story of friendship, loyalty, and resilience….Alam deftly explores lives ruptured and reshaped by Partition, how historical and personal traumas shape us for generations…A compelling and immersive debut."-Marjan Kamali, author of The Stationary Shop
"You can practically smell the courtyard's sweet bougainvillea and feel the Arabian Sea's misty breeze…Under the Tamarind Tree is historical fiction at its best, a story rich in fascinating historical details and deeply moving as well-a tale of friendship, family, and the power that new, unexpected relationships can have, even late in life, to heal old wounds." -Adele Myers, author of The Tobacco Wives
"Evocative and rich in detail, Alam's graceful prose transports you to a rarely seen world and time and leaves you reeling as she reveals its heartbreaking secrets. A beautiful, unforgettable novel." -Aamina Ahmad, author of The Return of Faraz Ali
"A gorgeous and poignant novel in which Alam explores the fine lines between choice and chance, between the personal and the political."-Kathleen West, author of Minor Dramas & Other Catastrophes
Recommended in WTMJ-NBC's "Books to Binge" segment
"A lush compelling drama….A reminder of how both sweeping historic events and personal secrets can shape lives and continue to reap consequences across the generations."-Charmaine Wilkerson, author of Black Cake
"Tender and beautifully written….Alam explores class, family and passion in rich cultural detail. A captivating read."-Jean Kwok, author of Girl in Translation and Searching for Sylvie Lee
"[A] sensitive tale of reconstructed lives and reexamined choices….Alam's vivid descriptions of Karachi, nuanced characters, and deft ability to delve into big ideas while keeping the story moving make this an emotionally engaging read."-Booklist
"A suspenseful story of friendship, loyalty, and resilience….Alam deftly explores lives ruptured and reshaped by Partition, how historical and personal traumas shape us for generations…A compelling and immersive debut."-Marjan Kamali, author of The Stationary Shop
"You can practically smell the courtyard's sweet bougainvillea and feel the Arabian Sea's misty breeze…Under the Tamarind Tree is historical fiction at its best, a story rich in fascinating historical details and deeply moving as well-a tale of friendship, family, and the power that new, unexpected relationships can have, even late in life, to heal old wounds." -Adele Myers, author of The Tobacco Wives
"Evocative and rich in detail, Alam's graceful prose transports you to a rarely seen world and time and leaves you reeling as she reveals its heartbreaking secrets. A beautiful, unforgettable novel." -Aamina Ahmad, author of The Return of Faraz Ali
"A gorgeous and poignant novel in which Alam explores the fine lines between choice and chance, between the personal and the political."-Kathleen West, author of Minor Dramas & Other Catastrophes
Recommended in WTMJ-NBC's "Books to Binge" segment
Readers Top Reviews
chris pedersonCar
A group of friends.. a terrible tragedy.. and the promises made in the aftermath. this was a really good book, that ending is everything, quite a punch.
Mohit Gchris pede
There seems to be a surge in "partition fiction" lately. Having read a few of those the storyline felt a bit predictable at times but I found the overall experience enjoyable.
Sue O.Mohit Gchri
Under the Tamarind Tree is not necessarily the type of fiction I gravitate toward, but it sounded like a good story so I went with it. I have no regrets. I learned a lot about the history of India and Pakistan and particularly The Partition which I knew absolutely nothing about and had never heard of. I found myself looking into it more just to understand the dynamics of that time. I needed have worried though because the author brought way more to the table than a surface story. What would you do to protect your closest friends? To protect your families? Four best friends will have to confront these questions and so much more. This story also brought to light (for me, in any case), the strict limitations heaped on the women of that time and that culture. It's hard for me to fathom having had the freedoms I have had here in the United States. I loved the juxtaposition of having Zara and Rozee interact on such a personal level...and a few surprise twists as well.
Lori PSue O.Mohit
As the summary states, this is a story of Rozeena, her friends, and what transpired during Partition. I was not that familiar with the topic so I was excited to read this. Overall, this is a beautiful and heartbreaking story of 4 friends in Pakistan after the Partition of India and Pakistan. Traveling back and forth in time with Rozeena as she reconnects with her old childhood friends was very well done and such a culturally rich and engaging experience. I agree with some reviewers that the past vs current timelines occasionally caused some confusion in the story and with the characters for me, but not enough for me to stop reading, so I encourage you to dive into this one as its well worth it. Highly recommend.
Sue D.Lori PSue O
Under the Tamarind Tree is a portrait of life in Southern Asia after the partition of India in 1947, a scrambled affair that the British mangled as they exited and left meaningless “instructions” on how the partition was to go into effect. I knew some of the details of this event but not the extent of the rioting, killing, deaths, and destruction as the Muslim population of all areas fled to the new Pakistan while Hindu and Sikh populations all fled to India at the same time. In this work of historical fiction, Rozeena, her parents, and her older brother, Faysal, are among those fleeing from India to Pakistan. Her brother is lost in the rioting; he is killed. In their stunned grief, the family arrives in Karachi. They are able to obtain a house rather than go to a settlement camp because they have relatives already living in the city. Now they begin their new lives. We see this novel through two timeframes, one set in 1964 a time of momentous events in the lives of Rozeena and her close friends , and the second set in 2019, again seen through Rozee’s eyes but bringing some closure as life comes full circle for some characters. The events of 1947 hang over the lives of many of the characters in this story, no matter how many years have passed. There are also many instances of things left unspoken, secrets kept too long, issues of class, poverty vs. money/wealth, and their negative impacts on many people’s lives. Recommended. For a view of an historical event and aftermath, possibly a view of a new culture. Thank you to Putnam’s Sons and NetGalley for the opportunity to read an early copy of this book. The review is my own.
Short Excerpt Teaser
Chapter 1
Now, 2019
Rozeena tightens her fingers around the mobile phone, but it slips down her damp palm. Her other hand flies up to meet it, pushing the phone back to her ear.
"Your voice," she says, a bit breathless. "It's the same." She leans forward in her veranda chair, as if it'll bring her closer to him.
Haaris laughs softly. "Well, I suppose it's the one thing that remains the same, Rozee."
Her throat constricts at the nickname. Only elders or close friends call her Rozee. At eighty-one, she doesn't have many left.
"Is everything all right? Are you all right?" She frowns at the black-and-white tiles under her slippered feet.
"Yes, yes. I'm well," he says. "Just finished breakfast. Around nine o'clock in the morning here."
In Minnesota. She's gotten a little news of him from friends of friends over the years and now detects the slight change in his accent, from the British English Rozeena still speaks, to the harder "r" of the Americans in morning here.
Her shoulders relax somewhat at hearing he's not calling from his deathbed, and she sits back in her polished rosewood chair. She hadn't recognized the number flashing on her screen when she'd answered the phone. A call with a US country code could've been any one of her old colleagues or distant relatives.
But it'd been Haaris.
She realizes the extent of her surprise as she wipes her hands one by one on her kameez. The soft cotton of her long, blue tunic absorbs the moisture of her palms, but her heart still races, heating her from within. Reaching down, she plucks away the fabric of her shalwar from the backs of her knees. Her face feels damp as well, though Karachi's evening breeze is cool as always, even in July.
She hasn't heard from Haaris in fifty-four years.
Gusts from the Arabian Sea rush toward her, setting the giant palm branches into a powerful spin in the far corner of her garden. She lifts her face to the evening, calming herself to regain control. Silver strands of hair whip in the breeze and she tries to shove them back into her low bun with one hand, but they resist. Let it go, she tells herself, and leaves them to dance on her cheeks.
"I can hear the wind," Haaris says, incredulous. "I can actually hear the Karachi wind."
She smiles. "Yes, it's as loud as ever, but only here closer to the sea. The old neighborhood is congested now, tall buildings and complexes of flats all built up where there were spacious houses." Our houses, she wants to say, but instead says, "I'll be going inside soon. It's past seven o'clock in the evening here." She hopes her statement hurries him into explaining why he's called.
The sun has already dropped low behind the line of tall, pencil-like ashok trees on the right side of her garden. Soon, the call to prayer will burst from loudspeakers at mosques near and far. Five times a day, the azaan thankfully drowns out the continuous buzzing of her neighbors' air conditioners. Beyond her boundary walls all the new houses are giant two-story, sand-colored concrete boxes made wider and noisier by air-conditioning units clinging to every side. Rozeena's single-story home, one of the older ones in this newer neighborhood, is well-balanced. The house that lies behind the veranda is equal in size to the garden that lies in front.
"It's raining here today," Haaris says finally and quietly. "It's not a rainy state, Minnesota. But these days it's raining inside and out."
"Inside and out?"
He exhales audibly. "Three months ago, my grandson died."
A soft gasp escapes her lips. "Oh, Haaris, how...I can't...I'm so sorry," she flounders. The death of a child-but not death in general-still shocks her. She remembers that dreadful saying, The smallest coffins are the heaviest.
After a few moments of silence Haaris speaks, his voice conversational again even though Rozeena heard it catch a second ago. Men of his time are masters at bottling up their emotions.
"Has it rained there yet?" he says. "Or is it waiting for the fifteenth?"
She smiles. He remembers the unpredictable arrival of the monsoon season, unpredictable in its intensity too, sometimes flooding the streets and other times only muddying the dust clinging to leaves. Up north they get the majority of the rains-in the fertile valleys of the Indus River and even further north over the massive Himalayas. But when Karachi does get showers, it somehow rarely happens before July 15. Families can confidently plan all sorts of outdoor events before then, including elaborate weddin...
Now, 2019
Rozeena tightens her fingers around the mobile phone, but it slips down her damp palm. Her other hand flies up to meet it, pushing the phone back to her ear.
"Your voice," she says, a bit breathless. "It's the same." She leans forward in her veranda chair, as if it'll bring her closer to him.
Haaris laughs softly. "Well, I suppose it's the one thing that remains the same, Rozee."
Her throat constricts at the nickname. Only elders or close friends call her Rozee. At eighty-one, she doesn't have many left.
"Is everything all right? Are you all right?" She frowns at the black-and-white tiles under her slippered feet.
"Yes, yes. I'm well," he says. "Just finished breakfast. Around nine o'clock in the morning here."
In Minnesota. She's gotten a little news of him from friends of friends over the years and now detects the slight change in his accent, from the British English Rozeena still speaks, to the harder "r" of the Americans in morning here.
Her shoulders relax somewhat at hearing he's not calling from his deathbed, and she sits back in her polished rosewood chair. She hadn't recognized the number flashing on her screen when she'd answered the phone. A call with a US country code could've been any one of her old colleagues or distant relatives.
But it'd been Haaris.
She realizes the extent of her surprise as she wipes her hands one by one on her kameez. The soft cotton of her long, blue tunic absorbs the moisture of her palms, but her heart still races, heating her from within. Reaching down, she plucks away the fabric of her shalwar from the backs of her knees. Her face feels damp as well, though Karachi's evening breeze is cool as always, even in July.
She hasn't heard from Haaris in fifty-four years.
Gusts from the Arabian Sea rush toward her, setting the giant palm branches into a powerful spin in the far corner of her garden. She lifts her face to the evening, calming herself to regain control. Silver strands of hair whip in the breeze and she tries to shove them back into her low bun with one hand, but they resist. Let it go, she tells herself, and leaves them to dance on her cheeks.
"I can hear the wind," Haaris says, incredulous. "I can actually hear the Karachi wind."
She smiles. "Yes, it's as loud as ever, but only here closer to the sea. The old neighborhood is congested now, tall buildings and complexes of flats all built up where there were spacious houses." Our houses, she wants to say, but instead says, "I'll be going inside soon. It's past seven o'clock in the evening here." She hopes her statement hurries him into explaining why he's called.
The sun has already dropped low behind the line of tall, pencil-like ashok trees on the right side of her garden. Soon, the call to prayer will burst from loudspeakers at mosques near and far. Five times a day, the azaan thankfully drowns out the continuous buzzing of her neighbors' air conditioners. Beyond her boundary walls all the new houses are giant two-story, sand-colored concrete boxes made wider and noisier by air-conditioning units clinging to every side. Rozeena's single-story home, one of the older ones in this newer neighborhood, is well-balanced. The house that lies behind the veranda is equal in size to the garden that lies in front.
"It's raining here today," Haaris says finally and quietly. "It's not a rainy state, Minnesota. But these days it's raining inside and out."
"Inside and out?"
He exhales audibly. "Three months ago, my grandson died."
A soft gasp escapes her lips. "Oh, Haaris, how...I can't...I'm so sorry," she flounders. The death of a child-but not death in general-still shocks her. She remembers that dreadful saying, The smallest coffins are the heaviest.
After a few moments of silence Haaris speaks, his voice conversational again even though Rozeena heard it catch a second ago. Men of his time are masters at bottling up their emotions.
"Has it rained there yet?" he says. "Or is it waiting for the fifteenth?"
She smiles. He remembers the unpredictable arrival of the monsoon season, unpredictable in its intensity too, sometimes flooding the streets and other times only muddying the dust clinging to leaves. Up north they get the majority of the rains-in the fertile valleys of the Indus River and even further north over the massive Himalayas. But when Karachi does get showers, it somehow rarely happens before July 15. Families can confidently plan all sorts of outdoor events before then, including elaborate weddin...
