A work infused with the plight of the poor, touched by a hint of mystery
The author’s third novel is an engrossing, layered read, made up of vaguely interconnected stories.
A middle class London-based Indian comes over to visit his parents in Mumbai and feels Western liberal guilt in his dealings with the women paid to cook and clean. A desperately poor villager goes awandering with his performing bear. A girl from a rural village moves to the city, and moves between employers, to better her income and life.
It’s a novel about migration. Not so much to different countries, but within the same vast country. Poor people accept and follow the course that fate sets them, leaving old lives behind and trying their luck somewhere new, a choice born of necessity.
Mukherjee is sympathetic towards his characters’ problems but also unsparing in his gaze. I can’t help thinking that the author is like a doomsaying mechanic who you call up when you’ve made a mistake, like put petrol in your diesel car. Ooooh, you’re gonna have problems there….
I am slightly bemused by the two additional, very short narratives that top and tail the book. The first leads to a shocking, disturbing denouement which left me hanging. I kept thinking we would get answers later in the book. I still hadn’t lost hope when I reached the final few pages, where I thought we would be taken full-circle back to the beginning. But no, we weren’t.
In fact, I would have liked a return to all the narratives. I wished that the stories could be taken up again and perhaps find some sort of resolution. A more satisfying coherence could have been achieved if the stories had shared more connections. As for the closing narrative, which takes the form of a workman’s stream of voice reflections, it seemed a bit underdeveloped. It’s not the best note on which to take our leave of the book.
The novel’s Indian flavour comes as much from its description of food, cooking and associated routines as from its depictions of poverty and allusions to contemporary problems such as corruption and Maoist insurgency. It’s nice to see regional food traditions still firmly embedded in society: the Mumbai parents teach their cook to prepare dishes from their native West Bengal.
The novel itself, although often sad and downbeat, could be thought of as one of those richly complex, carefully composed Indian curries. My tasting notes would declare it very good but not quite perfectly balanced. The opening narrative is the dry-fried spice mix that introduces a subtle but fascinating tone of mystery that never quite goes away, yet there is something missing – the garam masala, if you like – that would have finished the book off perfectly.
