Back to light reading I guess. Somewhere I had read this was a wonderful book. But it turned out to be a very pedestrian mystery, and I am sorry but like reading Alexander McCall Smith some of the pleasure of being “immersed” in the dialogue and habits of another culture through the vehicle of a mystery/detective novel is lost when you are constantly wondering whether the non-local author is slipping into expat or just plain politically insensitive yucks (especially sharp in the scenes with the “grinning” Adavasis). So the charm of the book quickly faded. Would I have enjoyed it more if the author had been Indian? One of those interesting questions; in the 21st century, the central notion of “authenticity” is all-pervasive in marketing and identity. I’ve never been terribly bothered by that, so if I introspect I’d say it must have been the prose rather than the authenticity.
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