to spend a rainy day

than curled up with a big fat indian novel?

On Sunday I spent hours upon hours curled up in a duvet cradling the enormity of A Suitable Boy in my lap, relishing every intricate detail and description I read. It’s the literary equivalent of a Persian rug, or the embroidery and beading on an expensive silk sari. It’s like reading a raga. I’m finding that time just slips away from me when I start reading, and I only look up when my stomach rumbles or my wrists start to ache.

There’s something about the huge weight of the book itself that makes it delicious to me, all 1474 pages of it. It’s clearly self-indulgent in the expansiveness and lack of restraint shown by the author. But unlike some kinds of artistic self-indulgence, (hello certain genres of soloist ego-stroking jazz) Seth has a mastery over pacing. We alternate between the world of women and the world of men in post-independece India with dancelike grace, moving from business deals to doting grandmothers, and yet the whole elaborate scene holds together. I aspire to be so adept at the craft of words. It’s like there are invisible silken spider threads in the dialogue and description, some there for structure and some to catch your heart.

The characters swirl around each other, one providing the contrast for the next. The government minister and the lazy young man. The dutiful pregnant wife and the young daughter with a crush on a boy from a forbidden faith. The courtesan and the cheat. And through it all the sensuous language of India resonates. I find myself rolling words around in my mouth, letting them drift over my tongue like chocolate or fine wine. Meenakshi. Tonga-wallah. Zenana.

I’m interested to see if the book gets bogged down later on. The potential is there, perhaps too much talk of politics or too little change in the characters and the momentum is lost. But so far it’s got a lively melody all it’s own.

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