Thanks to Crown Publishing for this ARC in exchange for an honest review.
This is the third title I’ve read by Rao and I will keeping seeking out her books. Her writing here is beautiful and evocative (please see quotes below); and her storycrafting is smart and creative. I think she’s a master at the cliffhanger which occur frequently at the end of chapters.
The structure of this book consists of the main storyline and several vignettes. The latter rounds out elements in the main story. Each of these is tragic or near tragic.
The main story reverently features rivers and tells of the stories of a couple, Javani and Sagar. I especially appreciated that both Janavi’s and Sagar’s perspectives have “equal time.” We come to see each of their lives around rivers and later when they immigrate to Montana where the action picks up.
Rao creates this quiet tension and maintains a solid pacing (and careful plotting. I characterize this book as a mystery. And I’ll reveal is rather obvious as the foreshadowing is plain. But that quiet tension builds and kept me turning the pages.
I enjoyed this book and remain a fan of Rao.
Quotes
Death could do that, make both things true: the knowing and the waiting.
Janavi cried for her dead mother, she cried for her grief-stricken sister, but she also cried for the lost years. As the waters of the holy river surged around her, she thought they were surging with her shame, but really, they were surging with her life.
He smiled at Rajni, and then at Janavi. She would’ve called it a winning smile, but she knew that, despite his adolescence, or maybe because of it, he was so used to winning that the smile was simply a confirmation, not an eagerness.
That stood in the way all beautiful things stood, without knowing it.
He always knew water could be hungry, on the outflow side of dams where it was starved for sediment, but this was the first time, in all the rivers of his life, that he thought, It can also be lonely.
He sat in the dark, staring at the television screen, eating cold fries, listening to his new wife breathing beside him, his new life developing like a negative in the dark, and he thought, with a keening ache, There are so many kinds of walls … and how strange that the ones made of stone and steel are the easiest to take down.
It was only now, thousands of miles away, that he understood why so many of the rivers in India were named for goddesses. For women. Somewhere, in an ancient time, someone who’d named the rivers of the Indus Valley had understood a small thing: that what is embraced and what will embrace in return are rarely the same.
It was only now, thousands of miles away, that he understood why so many of the rivers in India were named for goddesses. For women. Somewhere, in an ancient time, someone who’d named the rivers of the Indus Valley had understood a small thing: that what is embraced and what will embrace in return are rarely the same.
They had in them a strange and brutal reserve. She sensed it most when his younger brother, Sandeep, was in the room. Almost as if his presence were the lens that magnified their strangeness.
They found a patch of sedge grass that overlooked the reservoir. Sagar settled himself against a clump of it. The prairie was behind him, but he could feel it. He could feel it like a presence, not a ghostly presence, but a solid one. Like a boulder.
It wasn’t true that America had no official language, was it? It had one: Guns.
But what Beatrice was thinking (watching the way the woman barely regarded Johnny, and completely disregarded his charms) was that the best thing she could do was show him something about being a man, by pointing out (in you, Johnny) the boy.
Perhaps that was the essence of freedom, she thought, to not have to run to feel the wind, but to be able to feel it standing perfectly still.