What a slog. Pretentious, long-winded, annoying. I found myself wondering how this could be the same author as [b:Victory City|61111246|Victory City|Salman Rushdie|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1670259879l/61111246.SY75.jpg|96232966]. (Likely answer: forty difficult years).

Maybe it would help if I knew more about India’s history and culture. Or if I liked florid ornate excessive circumlocutious language. Or if I were more tolerant of moronic religions and stupid vain shallow self-absorbed people. But that’s not me, and I am clearly not the target audience.

In a delicious coincidence, halfway through my reading I stumbled into a conversation with a remarkable young person who was drawing parallels between this book and [b:The God of Small Things|9777|The God of Small Things|Arundhati Roy|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1590282886l/9777.SY75.jpg|810135] and who urged me to just not bother with this one, and rush to pick up that one. Unfortunately, it turns out I already tried and DNF’ed it... with similar gripes about flowery prose. Sigh.

Unrated, because who am I to argue with a Booker Prize.