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25 of 27 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
At Home In India, April 24, 2002
The House of Blue Mangoes is a rarity as rare as the blue mangoes in the book. Let me explain. In the last many years most of the Indian novels I've read have been written by Indians living abroad which robs them of a certain authentic feel. This novel felt authentic alright. I could smell, taste, experience the colours, food and vibrancy of India. In brief it tells the story of a South Indian family, the Dorais who are mired in a period of immense change and turbulance. What I found especially admirable about the book was the way in which the author seamlessly (by and large, there were a couple of sections where it could've been done better) melds the family story with the great historical events of the early twentieth century in India; the struggle for independence, caste wars, world wars etc. The characters are well developed...my favourites were Solomon and Aaron Dorai, although I did like Charity and Father Ashworth as well. The book taught me a lot about India while simultaneously keeping me absolutely hooked through a gripping story.
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18 of 19 people found the following review helpful:
3.0 out of 5 stars
(3.5) House of Blues...., June 12, 2002
I wanted this book to be as fascinating as the first hundred pages. Certainly all of the elements are present: the family patriarchy, feuding neighbors, an entrenched caste system in precarious balance. Three generations of Dorais act out this familial drama, male characters predominant, from Solomon Dorai to his sons Aaron and Daniel, and Daniel's son Kammel. In each generation, at least one son is banished to make his way among strangers. In Daniel's case, because he could not fight to preserve the family's honor, and was sent away with the women and children before the battle that cost the lives of many important Dorai men. Much later, Daniel returns to accept his birthright. But later, Daniel's own son willingly leaves, unable to make peace within the family hierarchy. Yet all roads lead to the Dorai compound, where relatives live together in common purpose, keeping the land intact. In a tribute to Solomon, who first had the dream, Daniel names the enclave The House of Blue Mangoes. Years later, as David lies dying, Kamman returns to assume the role of his father's successor, with the same purpose, the continuation of the family name and property. There is plentiful material to fuel the plot, particularly the political unrest prior to the Partition in 1947. There is no question that the British trampled the land and the people, Her Majesty's representatives bloated with their own importance and dreams of Empire. But Davidar's characters are difficult to understand, seeming cutouts before the vast panoply of social change, who only parrot historical facts, often with little interest. I wanted a sense of the people themselves, their passions, dreams and fears, not an explanation like a school primer. For example, Daniel becomes a physician, trained by a charitable benefactor to help the poor and indigent; he passes the clinic on to Daniel. But Daniel makes his fortune on patent medicines and moves back to his home village to establish the family colony, never looking back. Then Kammal, Daniel's son, works on a tea plantation after marrying an inappropriate woman chosen in a romantic stupor, she part Indian, part English. On the English run plantation, Kammal's wife is never accepted, but he toady's to his bosses, believing himself part of their society. In fact, he is their pawn. Kannan deals with his self-concept and particular circumstances in an almost simple-minded fashion. He has no substance, obsequious and self-effacing. I have enjoyed many finely written Indian novels, among them The God of Small Things and A Fine Balance, and Cracking India, and love to immerse myself in this country and its history. Unfortunately, House of Blue Mangoes does not meet this standard. Davidar writes such muddled sentences as: "Michael drove very carefully, but the road was a familiar one, and there was no other vehicle about, so they made good progress." Yet the first chapter begins: "...as the lonely violence of dawn sweeps across the sky", with vivid imagery. Perhaps the story just got away from him, but in the final third of the novel the wooden dialog of the British literally put me into a stupor, bludgeoned by idiotic conversations. Because of Davidar's descriptive and poetic abilities, I believe this author has the talent to write about what he knows so well. All the stories and history are locked within him, perhaps more approachable on a smaller scale or more intimate characterization.
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13 of 14 people found the following review helpful:
2.0 out of 5 stars
Is there an editor somewhere?, May 22, 2005
This book was a gift from a friend whose judgment I respect. I tell myself that he must have recommended it because he only read Part 1. Indeed, this book's first 100 or so pages are terrific stuff, well written, descriptive, exciting, dramatic passages about caste hatred at the end of the 19th century in the south of India. I thought I had a great book on my hands: good characters, good descriptions, good action, and lots of interest. But then I went on to Part 2 and it's as if the world had spun around 180 degrees. The writing became turgid, dull, forced, absurd, uninteresting, and even pointless in many places. I ran out of energy to go on, but forced myself forward, hoping for the fireworks that started the whole thing off, only to be sorely disappointed. At Part 3, I admit I simply skimmed through to the end because I knew the author was taking the "plot" to the next generation of characters and, frankly, I didn't care much about the author's characterless, flat parodies of people anymore. I blame the publisher for not more firmly editing the material and for not giving the author constructive criticism and firm direction. But there are few good editors, just as there are precious few good writers out there. I think Davidar has a gift, but it needs direction. I hope he finds it.
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