Staking all on gamble of his art, using all the strength of his enormous talent, his natural empathy, Pinto chases the elusive portrait of a mother who simply said of herself that she was mad.
As I read this novel, that also portrays a very tender marriage and the life of a Goan family in Bombay, it drowned me. I mean that in the best way. It plunged me into a world so vivid and capricious, that when I finished, I found something had shifted and changed within myself. This is a world of magnified and dark emotion. The anger is a primal force, the sadness wild and raw. Against this, the jokes are hilarious, reckless, free falling. The language is supple and alert to a private vocabulary.
My opinion is that this is a rare, brilliant book, one that is wonderfully different from any other that I have read coming out of India. I hope it gets all the attention and praise it deserves.