This book is filled with absolutely beautiful writing about some pretty horrible things. What I’ll always remember about this book is that it contains so much pain and heartbreak, misery, misplaced pride, denigration and racism/classism, right up to the end where we finally see people experiencing joy.
For me it was exhausting to read through all that hardship. If the author hadn’t had such an extraordinarily beautiful writing style I probably would have given up. Upon reaching the end of the book I wasn’t sure that end was worth all that the I had gone through reading it.
I’d like to see the author telling a happier story – even one that was just a bit more balanced. The story here focuses firmly on the negative, and paints a dark picture of growing up in India. I’m not asking for artificial sunshine here, but I’d like to see the author use their gifts to inspire rather than depress.
This is the second recent book I’ve read set in India. The first, Midnight’s Children by Salaman Rushdie also tells a sad story, but it is also filled with self-deprecating humor and felt more balanced for it. His book takes a broader view of Indian history, while The God of Small Things is on a smaller scale, but tells a similar story. The contrast between these two works was interesting for me.
I’m not sure that I could recommend this book, except maybe as an example to beginning writers of a distinctive and beautiful writing style.
Next I am reading something quite a bit more upbeat – Iona Iverson’s Rules for Commuting by Clare Pooley.
