I’ve read about four novels by Brannavan Gnanalingam (and partially read others), and Sodden Downstream is my favourite. 4.5 stars.
Gnanalingam’s body of work has brought Tamil, Sri Lankan, and broader South Asian lives into the fabric of New Zealand’s culture and literature—largely without support from the literary mainstream. In doing so, he stands as a pioneer, carving a path for other fiction writers of South Asian descent.
But the journey hasn’t been easy. In a 2025 Satellites magazine article, Gnanalingam notes that Sodden Downstream sold only around 60 copies in its first few months:
"The book, however, was ‘saved’ by being longlisted and then shortlisted for the Ockham New Zealand Book Awards. It is now probably the book that most people have talked to me about to this present day."
Before diving into the review, I’ll note that Lawrence & Gibson has produced a beautiful book—a sturdy paperback with thick pages and generous-sized print that feels wonderful to hold.
A confession: I do most of my book-buying and reading online, favouring my laptop screen over my Kindle or tablet. I love highlighting and annotating ebooks, saving them to the cloud and offline storage. (A little plug for Amazon Kindle feels fair on Goodreads!).
A printed book can’t offer that. Yet, holding Sodden Downstream, reading real ink on paper, and losing myself in the story without screen distractions was a pleasure I was grateful for.
What do I seek in a novel? Entertainment, aesthetic delight, and emotional resonance. I want to see the familiar and learn something new. Sodden Downstream delivers all of this. It's short (180 pages), and fluidly written, yet manages to tackle big subjects, not least by bringing to light New Zealand’s often invisible people: refugees, marginalised migrants from poorer backgrounds, and the working class.
The story follows three characters—Sita, her husband Thiru, and their son Satish—a trauma-scarred refugee family striving to build a life in Aotearoa, New Zealand. References to their homeland, Jaffna, Sri Lanka, weave through the narrative: the dangers they’ve fled, the traumatic memories they carry, and the people, culture, food, and weather they miss deeply.
Sita and Thiru, newly arrived adults, grapple with New Zealand’s language and customs, while young Satish adapts quickly, embracing Kiwi culture and English as his first language, with Tamil fading—a shift both joyful and bittersweet.
Culture, identity, and history are intimately tied to language. This is why the revival of te reo in New Zealand has been so vital. And still, refugees and immigrants often feel pressured to let their own languages—and the histories they carry—slip away. Languages shouldn’t be pitted against one another. Ideally, we’d all aspire to be multilingual, expanding both our minds and our empathy.
Sita’s struggles with Kiwi English expressions are scattered throughout the book, offering quiet moments of reflection. She puzzles over phrases like “no worries”, meaning “no problem.” These small misunderstandings illuminate the ways language shapes thought, perception, and one’s sense of belonging.
Injustice is another major theme. Sita (a cleaner on contract work) and Thiru (unemployed) are reduced to client numbers by WINZ, and exploited as labour by employers who show little concern for their survival or dignity. Sita’s precarious cleaning job becomes an ongoing existential crisis—a situation that other New Zealanders in the novel recognise all too well.
On a stormy night, she’s ordered to travel from Lower Hutt to Wellington to clean office toilets—a nightshift she can’t refuse without risking her job. Like Odysseus, she embarks on a perilous journey, battling the weather, flood and encountering a vivid cast of Kiwi characters.
At a train station, Sita meets a kind-hearted, older Kiwi lady who strikes up a conversation. The affectionate old woman recounts her struggle to get an appointment for an urgent surgery. Even without realising it, she reproduces the cliched blame-the-immigrant tropes: "They've got too many people, not enough doctors. And the government doesn't care. And they want to bring in more refugees."
You can imagine this dear old lady's rhetoric has been learned from the echo chambers of internet chatter, talk radio and New Zealand's very successful anti-immigrant politicians who depend on thousands of such gullible, loyal voters to grab political power.
One memorable encounter involves a starving girl who begs Sita to join her at an art exhibition—not for the art, but for the free food. She pleads, "They'll kick me out if I'm by myself."
Desperate to reach Wellington’s grimy toilets on time, but too polite to refuse, Sita follows the girl to a dingy little art gallery where a young artist and her mother anxiously await visitors. As Sita’s companion hungrily devours the snacks, Sita quietly listens to the mother-daughter pair.
It soon becomes clear the exhibition is a flop—the artist grows teary-eyed, consoled by her mother, while the other girl continues to scarf down and stash away the free food. It’s a quirky, moving scene. Could it happen in real life? Maybe only in strom-struck Wellington!
The novel paints a vivid sense of place, carefully mapping the Wellington region—its suburbs, landmarks, and streets—unfolding with each step of the odyssey. Brannavan Gnanalingam begins with a unique premise, and draws us into Sita’s journey through cold rain and rough wind, as darkness falls and glimmers of humanity and hope emerge in unexpected places.
Towards the end, traumatic memories of war and violence erupt in Sita’s mind, and we gain insight into the sorrows she bears, even as she seeks to build a new life in New Zealand with an unquiet mind and a weary body.
Without revealing any spoilers, I’ll say the novel’s ending is satisfying and uplifting, and in a way, it reminded me of The Grapes of Wrath's conclusion.
Sodden Downstream is a beautifully crafted story of resilience, identity, and the everyday struggles of striving, faltering, and carrying on.