Indian Novel Review: 2. A Story of the Shifting Consequences of Success
An decaying explosion watched in slow motion
I’ve only just begun reading books by Indian authors. And it’s turning out to be quite a ride. My first review was of a tale of tribals and black magic. Read it here.
There’s something so discomforting about reading the intimate details of your culture, as if you’re laying the bottom of your underwear flat on a dinner table flocked by guests.
Families can be defensive of their personal history. In India, we take it up a few notches. We may abhor our older brothers. An uncle’s assault might drive us to suicide. But we’ll still tolerate them all our lives. We never abandon family and sometimes, that includes more than parents and siblings. Private clans could include dad’s brother’s family who we’ve lived next door to all out lives, or a cousin sister who we shared a bedroom with.
These years of growing up together binds people in insoluble ways. Once you’ve heard your sister cry into her pillow for three months straight, or met your mother’s eyes as she scoops sugar from the floor back into the container, you don’t see them as individuals anymore.
You’ve witnessed each other’s pukka selves. You’ve partnered all your scenes and acts with each other…
