In place of exploring identity and belonging, or the transformation of tradition, or class privilege, or a human voice, The Namesake is bogged with unremitting descriptions of everything in a room. Across generations the characterisation is flat and, like in Amy Tan's novels, the American generation is the dullest, and here, aspirationally white-adjacent.

I would have preferred reading a novel entirely about Moushumi, including her later ditching the teenager-grooming Dimitri.