What tedious writing. Chock full of shockingly sudden insights:
“Life is so fragile, so precious.”
Wow, i sigh, woulda’ thunk?
Complete with about 200 pages of excess detailed description. Every time our Meena gets dressed we, of course, hang on the color, feel, smell, and of course, look, of each item as it is donned. We then hear, for the billionth time, how lovely and put together and natural she looks. Yeah, got it.
SO much undulating silk. Every sari Undulates; some also Flow. I’m pretty sure saris undulate whether or not we see them. Wait. I need to run upstairs and peak into a box of old clothing to see if the two dollar sari I bought in (what was then) Madras is secretly undulating without my permission.
If only life decisions were as easy as in this vapid book. After 28 years of Sad Longing, she returns to India. Within about 40 hours she “knows” she couldn’t live there - even though we’ve had to laboriously hear how every meaningful life experience brings back, or elicits, lovely memories of belonging. Having done that trip myself, multiple times (California to India) - i have amassed the special knowledge that it takes about 40 hours to wake up, drink enough tea, and slap myself into consciousness. For our dear Meena though, it was simply:
“A smile, a tear, a chapter closed.”
Darling, no? As is done innumerable times in this book, I gently touch the corner of my moist eye, with the edge of my (likely undulating) sari.
Should i feel guilt for giving these 327 pages away, knowing that they may torture others? Nah. A friend who moved back to the USA from Uruguay and couldn’t send her library home found that all the books she’d left outside were taken immediately. Initially she was thrilled that her Uruguayo neighbors were so interested in her (English language) literary theory texts. Then one told her, “No, thick books make great toilet paper.”