I have a curious affection for her earlier work Hullaballoo in the Guava Orchard and so hoped that this was really worthy of the booker - Desai certainly has the chops for this.
However, reading this is like eating a sumptuous nine course banquet the morning after...in someone else's house. Certainly enjoyable but tinged with having missed the party itself and guiltily eating that which does not belong to you.
Desai's prose is tinged with sadness, a melancholy heaviness to the structure and composition that leaves the heart sombre and tinged with regret regardless of the characters and narrative. In that it is certainly a triumph.
I suppose part of my less than overwhelmed response to such a finely written piece of storytelling is that I feel I have been here before, seen these sights elsewhere. Maybe not in such a powerful way (although the themes dealt with here have strong echoes with the God of Small Things) but precedence can be as powerful as technique in its impact.
Can I recommend this? Not really. It's completely personal and I almost feel wrong in not recommending it but that's the point I think. I like this book, but anything that leaves the reader feeling guilty from their experience isn't going to be coupled with pleasure.
Guilty? Yes. I have a life that overshadows the characters in this story. I would wager you do too. And that is a challenge the book speaks to loudly.
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