Indian Novel Review: 1. An Eerie Tale of Black Magic and Tribal Culture

The book that will flash before your eyes during your nocturnal pee

Image from Google Images

I have a confession. I’ve been averse to Indian fiction for a decade.

My first encounter with Indian writing was The Artist of Disappearance by Anita Desai. I was in college and boy did I struggle to understand the writing or the context. After that, I picked up Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri. Same. Then I picked up the celebrated God of Small Things.

Same.

Now, I grew up reading the likes of Stephen King, Sidney Sheldon, Lee Child and Ken Follet. American towns, European settings, straight-forward plots, and sizzling suspense felt more at home.

I bit my own toe off when I picked up One Night At The Call Centre by Chetan Bhagat (do not get me started on that one!). Immediately, my young-adult-brain swore off Indian fiction for good.

In hindsight, I realise that my tryst with Indian fiction was dangerously akin to the trajectory of my dating life. The ones I attracted were basic boys while the ones I was attracted to were too cerebral to handle.

Sigh.