Customer Reviews

The Last Song of Dusk: A Novel

5 star:		(5)
4 star:		(3)
3 star:		(3)
2 star:		(3)
1 star:		(2)

 

 

We are living in rich era of Indian literature and here is another author to embrace. Unlike the professional reviewers who finished this novel at one sitting, I had to take the first part of this book in small doses. It was too strong, too rich, too surprising, and too ominous. Lurking nastily in the house with Anuradha and Vardhmaan is an evil and ruthless mother-in-law who drove me away from the book for days. Next, the very house to which the lovers flee takes over plotting against them. When I finally screwed up my courage, I too finished the book in one evening. At the last page, I turned the book over and started reading it all over again. This time I'll try to figure out the meaning of the magical elements and try to see how the Nandini subplot influences the story of Anuradha. On first reading, I don't understand the end of the story, which may just be too realistically sad.

My first reading of THE LAST SONG OF DUSK was a greatly enjoyable experience. The story has lingered on my mind since, compelling me often to revisit. Now, when I start rereading at whatever page I happen to flip, I immediately get caught up again in its enticing storytelling and the lives of its fascinating characters. Succumbing once more to the tale's magic, melancholy and sensuality, I wonder, shed a tear, chuckle, reflect or heave a sigh. As in eating an Indian curry, I savor the various flavors, the salt of sadness, the sweetness of love and friendship, the piquant spice of sexy passages... all of it steeped in poetry.

I highly recommend readers to partake of this delightful curry that Siddharth Dhanvant Shanghvi so lovingly and ably prepared for us.

The Last Song of Dusk marks the debut of yet another imaginative Indian author who writes in hyperbole and lush, sweeping strokes. Beautiful, impish Arunradha, with a voice to which "even the moon listens" marries the handsome doctor Vardhmaan, whose stories win her heart. The two become best friends and lovers, with such intimacy that it seems as though nothing can come between them. Even Vardhmaan's evil stepmother Divi-bai cannot drive them apart. But when their beloved and charmed son Mohan is sucked from his room into a tree, then dropped, Divi-bai finds their weakness, and all changes between them. Eventually, they move to an malevolent house with Arunradha's wild teenage cousin Nandina, who sets about to make her mark on Bombay society and the world. The three struggle to find the answer to the question, "Is love enough?"

Reminiscent in parts of the work of Chitra Divakaruni, Arundhati Roy, and Isabelle Allende, The Last Song of Dusk explores the meaning of love in an occasionally magical world where houses have intentions and women mate with panthers. The novel falters when it brings in historical figures such as Gandhi since the novel's strength lies in the smaller, more believable moments. The language, although often seductive, can be overblown, but Shanghvi's passion for storytelling and his characters resonates in every sentence. Even when he fails, he picks up the narrative and continues toward the resolution with authority.

Recommended for a general readership, particularly for those who enjoyed The God of Small Things (Roy) and The House of Spirits (Allende.) While The Last Song of Dusk doesn't approach the success of either, it occupies a spot in the same literary tradition.

Reading this book was a sheer waste of my precious time. It is highly unrealistic and lacks substance in ways more than one. I read this book after I read "The lost Flamingoes of Bombay" which I thoroughly enjoyed... and must admit I was disappointed with this book.
Sanghvi has borrowed Arundhati Roys style of writing but has fallen flat on his face! Most of the characters were unrealistic apart from Anuradha and Vardhaman and of course the wicked mother in law Divi Bai...

I have mixed feelings about this book. It kind of reminds me of those kids in school who you knew were absolutely brilliant and capable of straight A's, yet managed only a B average. Shanghvi's prose is lush, his analogies satisfying, yet he almost drowns himself in his own script as the book moves on. The characters are certainly interesting, yet lose their momentum towards the end of the novel. The plot loses it's zest, becoming bogged down in his own philosophical reveries that can exhaust the reader with it's ambiguity (which you could argue, is the point, however, there is only so much ambiguity a reader can take). I look forward to what this writer will produce in the future, and, considering this was his first novel, I'd say he did a good job overall.

This book is odd to me, because it's lushly written-- I can smell the frangipani that Anuradha braids into her hair, hear the peacocks screeching, taste the dust that rises as the rickshaws trundle down the street-- but at the same time the lushness convolutes and confuses. The author, Siddharth Dhanvant Shanghvi, has a true talent for description, but sometimes he loses control of himself and indulges in prose that becomes positively violet (especially in the sex scenes with all the phallic worship):

"...the restless, hungry baton in his trousers..."

"...the adamantine sumptuousness of his manhood: a proud, thick, succulent thing had found its home..."

"...a member between his legs that was lonely and strong willed and utterly gorgeous inside its own confusion..."

What in the world does that last one even mean? The "c0ck yay!" enthusiasm gets a bit old after a while, and the attitude toward it becomes, "Yes, yes, we know c0ck is king. Can we get back to the story now?"

...on the other hand, we have little witticisms that amuse me enough to redeem the above indiscretions about 20%, such as the following:

"Are you a star?" he asked.

"No," she replied, "I'm an entire constellation."

The pacing is languid, as befits a story set in turn-of-the-century India. It unravels at its own pace, with flashbacks that are handled with subtlety and without feeling intrusive or clumsy. Shanghvi doesn't rush through anything, is in no hurry to chivvy the plot along, but somehow it's all so interesting we don't care and are content to go along with him, trusting him to get us where we need to go.

I'm not crazy about the foreshadowing, however, which occurs with all the finesse of a mallet to the skull. And the dialogue is too contemporary far too often-- doesn't sound in the least like something people in post-colonial India would say in the 1920's. There's a clear feminist theme, here, as well as pro-gay overtones, both of which feel forced, like there's an agenda behind them. I've always felt that if you're going for social commentary in your fiction, it shouldn't hit you like an arrow through the neck.

It's irritating when the vicious old bat of the story (you knew there was going to be one, right?) has entire conversations with her equally malicious parrot, and the anthropomorphization of the house in which they live seems a bit batty. There's a weird quasi-magical subtheme that's more puzzling than intriguing-- a red herring that adds questionable merit to the overall story, is never explained or justified-- we're supposed to accept it without questioning.

Well, to hell with that. I question, baby, and I want answers: why do the women of Anuradha's family have the ability to work magic with their songs? Is Mohan a prodigy or some sort of divine creature? Is the house really alive and cranky? How is Nandini able to walk on water? Can it be possible for her to be the descendent of a human/leopard union?

The characterization is over-the-top, much of the time: there are three main characters, and they're all bewitchingly attractive, and their faults are never true faults (i.e. things that risk making the reader dislike them). They are, instead, faults that are supposed to make us like the characters all the more: Vardhmaan can't get over the grief of losing his son, but wouldn't we think him a less-than-devoted sire if he sprang back so quickly and easily? Nandini's wild, fey ways are meant to fascinate more than repel (such as when she tells Gandhi his loincloth is hopelessly sexy-- we're supposed to be delighted by that rampant iconoclasty, and it shows).

And the nasty crone, Devi-bai, is a caricature of the evil stepmother... until they move out of the house, and then her wicked influence over their lives abruptly ends. What sort of antagonist is that? No bad guy worth their salt would just let themselves be written out of the book halfway through and let a possessed house take over the role. Unless she's not the antagonist of the story, in which case it should be made clearer because it's confusing.

The book does succeed in submerging the reader into the world of 1920's India, and the characters and plot are compelling enough to keep one reading instead of putting it aside, but overly lurid phrasing, anachronisms of speech, and whacked-out mystic occurences jolt one's suspension of disbelief and call attention to the ultimate weakness of the prose.

As a first novel, The Last Song of Dusk is excellent, achieving a dreamlike surreality that other, more experienced writers strive (and fail) to accomplish, but in comparison to other authors (masters) of this genre (Isabel Allende, Arundhati Roy) it's clear where he's being imitative, rather than intuitive.

From the moment I started reading this novel I was captivated by the beauty of Shanghvi's words. But as the story moved on it got more and more unrealistic. The characters and what they stood for was all far too ambitious and I lost interest, I just stuck through it to find out what happened. It is beautifully written but thats about it. Shanghvi tried to take the story into a million different directions but it did not work out. I wish it were a lot more simpler and honest

I didn't finish it. A friend recommended the author but I couldn't get into the book. Some may like it better than I.

This is a fantastic book with stories that draw the reader in and make the reader feel a part of the story. In addition, the author writes beautifully so that at times it feels like one is reading poetry. The stories stayed in my head long after I finished the book. My only complaint is that the book ended without satisfying some of my questions. Too bad it wasn't a longer saga like 'A Suitable Boy.'

This book goes on my favorites list. I read it years ago, and still call it one of my favorite books ever. I loved every word of it, and loved the fairy tale of it, and it was a fairy tale indeed. I giggled at the reader's reviews that found this book 'unrealistic' because it is pure fantasy, nothing realistic about it at all, but it's not supposed to be real. And after having traveled to India, I can guarantee that it truly is a fantasy. This book took me far and away and into the land of exotic make believe. You can read the other reviews posted here for details on the story, but I wanted to put my vote in. Everyone I've loaned it to loves it, and I'm here at Amazon today to send it as a gift.