I read this book on a recommendation from a friend who knows how much I love Asian literature. But, even though I'm not an Indian fiction novice, I still found myself on the outskirts of this very private Brahmin lifestyle described by the author.
I'm not sure if it's because of the affinity towards poetry by the main character's caste, but I found details - even urgent, important, plot-essential details - a little fuzzy around the edges, like a cloud you're trying to make the shape of before it evaporates, or a wave you see approaching the shore that's definitely going to be substantial (this one is going to really get us soaked)... and then it barely covers your feet. I found her circuitous routes of narration a little difficult to focus on. But I think all of this is a confirmation of the author's idea that the only way to truly understand Indian culture is to be a true Indian. And perhaps, it's all intended to mirror Indian culture - just when you think you've mastered it, it changes just a little bit so that you have to go back to the drawing board.
A pleasant diversion, though, and each time I opened the book I found it a sufficient escape from reality. Like. Not love, but not dislike, either.
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