It was absolutely fascinating, engrossing, interesting and any number of 'ings I might dig out of the theasaurus for synonyms to "way cool." My beef is with the plot, or lack thereof. It was a novel that read like a biography, starting at Sivakami's marriage and ending when she was an old lady. There was never any of that suspense that drives a good story. There are questions, but not burning ones. "Will she ever regain closeness with her son?" "Will her love allow the kids of her daughter to survive their deadbeat dad and apathetic mother?" "Will anyone ever really how badly their faith in horoscopes screwed up peoples' lives?" Will she--Sivakami--survive progress without losing her pride?"
The questions were all answered--sort of--but not convincingly, resoundingly, like they should have been in a novel. The answers were real life answers--ambiguous and only vaguely satisfying.
Sivakami was a Brahmin and the years of her fictional lifespan would have been roughly 1886-1940, the time of my great-grandparents. There was nothing like that culture in America. We were heathens, hooligans worshiping a primitive, punitive god. Where were our daily devotions? The making of a puja on a new undertaking? The ceremonies and blessings? Such a rich, ancient culture!
And one thing blew my mind--there were as many different subcultures within the culture as there were religions in America. Two people could grow up side by side and live a different life, by different rules. Wow.
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