Book Review: The Lost Flamingoes of Bombay

I once had a professor who said every book could be distilled into a sentence. My sentence for Siddharth Dhanvant Shanghvi’s The Lost Flamingoes of Bombay is: “Despite its sexy, modern plumage, Bombay remains a traditional old bird.”

Lost Flamingoes tells the story of Karan Seth, a small-town photographer who arrives in Mumbai with a big dream: to capture the “real” Bombay in photos. Along the way he finds himself befriended by a glittering and rarefied social circle, including Bollywood actress Zaira, and Samar, her best friend, an openly gay concert pianist who simply stopped performing one day – and has apparently never looked back. He also encounters Bombay-native Rhea, a former artist who becomes his muse.

I have to admit to some very mixed feelings about this book. On the one hand, the narrative is strangely compelling, apparently based in part on an actual Indian crime story. Once I got into it, I did want to see what happened next. On the other hand, I found the greater part of the book really frustrating. The ending, in particular, left me totally cold, probably because I'd stopped feeling sympathy for the main characters by then.

One of the things that made this book an interesting read was its straightforward discussion of the rampant corruption in the Indian judicial system, as well as its explanation of the conservative Hindu movement. It made me wonder how the book was received in India. Do Indians distrust their government as much as this book indicates? I have no idea, but the book really made me want to know more. Since most Indian novels I’ve read tend to be multi-generational family epics, I enjoyed the “macro-level” perspective on India that Shanghvi provides in this book.

Unfortunately, other things didn’t work well for me. In particular, I thought Shanghvi was really lazy in his character development of Samar’s lover, Leo, and Karan’s lover, Claire. Both characters supposedly played significant roles in the lives of the book’s protagonists, but Shanghvi reduces them both to cultural tropes: “American” equals “selfish,” “English” equals “self-indulgent.” They deserved better treatment, if only so the reader could understand the main characters more completely. I also found the author’s writing a bit too flowery for my tastes – the metaphors run thick and furious throughout this book, sometimes elucidating, but many times just plain mystifying. For the sake of being mystifying, as far as I can see. Like the author was trying hard to be "deep."

The book does have a lot of the elements I tend to like in a novel – focus on culture, international setting, complex characters – but it just wasn’t a good fit for me. I know other people really enjoyed this book, though. In fact, Swapna at S. Krishna’s Books named it one of her top books of 2010 – her review is here. And Audra at Unabridged Chick had this take. You might want to read another point of view before you make a decision.

This book completes the South Asian Challenge 2011, and counts toward the GLBT Reading Challenge. So thanks to Swapna, Christina and Natazz for hosting.

Book Review: The Mistress of Spices

Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni’s The Mistress of Spices has been on my TBR list for some time, so when Jess over at Desperado Penguin and I were looking for our next foodie simul-blog, I suggested it. It seemed to have at least three elements I love in a novel: a strong, female protagonist, a focus on food and a clash of cultures. And I was right. Divakaruni has written a very modern novel steeped in magic realism with interesting, likeable characters and a real multi-cultural vibe. I should have loved it. But somehow, the balance was just a bit wrong for me, like a curry that has too much cumin and not enough ginger to smooth it out. It was good, it was punchy, but it wasn’t totally satisfying.

I think one problem might have been the balance of the story arc. We meet Tilo, our mystical Mistress of Spices, in Oakland, California, a seemingly ancient spice vendor with an Indian grocery in a rough part of town. Tilo’s first person narration dispatches two former “selves” – her childhood as a sorceress and her young adulthood as a pirate queen – in just a few unflattering pages. So when she arrives at the Island of Spices to begin her long apprenticeship to learn the magic arts of healing through spices and become an immortal mistress charged with helping the people of the subcontinent wherever they are in the world, I wasn’t convinced that the selfless, diligent life of a Spice Mistress represented her real destiny.

The other problem was the spices themselves. Who knew condiments could be such demanding characters? Divakaruni emphasizes their individual properties by naming each of her chapters after different spices. But rather than giving them unique personalities or voices within the book, they function together as a kind of harping Greek chorus. First they love Tilo. Then they’re angry at Tilo. They do her bidding. Then they don’t. But Tilo is still Tilo. At the end of the novel, Tilo is still a fabulously gifted but restless woman who doesn’t listen. She didn’t listen to her parents. She wasn’t content on the pirate ship. Why would we think she could follow the rules of a collection of seeds and leaves somewhere on the Pacific Coast?

Tilo how little you have understood. From the deep the voice is a hiss, like water on a hot iron. Or is it a sigh? Like the waterfall the avalanche the forest fire, we do not hate. We only do what we must. p. 304

What saved the book for me was the very quirky, forbidden love story that winds through the novel. Raven, Tilo’s “American,” is the only one who can see through her ancient body to the beautiful, immortal woman underneath. His story is one of the most interesting aspects of the novel. I loved Divakaruni’s musings on the expectations that people bring to multi-cultural relationships. And the story brought a great deal of tension to the end of the book, as I wondered whether or not Tilo could ever find a way out of the mess she’d made by interfering with the work of the spices.

Magic realism lovers and lovers of South Asian fiction will definitely find something to like in this title. It has a trippy, romantic feel that would probably be very appealing to chic lit readers – and indeed, my 16-year-old, chic lit-loving daughter adored this book. For me, it was a good but not great read. But it was a fun simul-blog, as it provoked some fun twitter chatter as we were reading. Why don’t you head over to the Desperado Penguin and her review?

This book also counts for two challenges, the South Asian Challenge and the Immigrant Stories Challenge. Thanks to Swapna and Colleen for hosting!