As Díaz says, “If you really want to know the world beyond our corporate-sponsored dreamscapes, you read writers like Roy. Her skin was blue-black, sleek as a baby seal’s.” To read the book is to hear Hindi, Urdu, Sanskrit, and all kinds of English, and to be flooded with impressions of India right now.
She lay in a pool of light, under a column of swarming neon-lit mosquitoes, naked.
In one poetic passage a baby is found “on the concrete pavement, in a crib of litter: silver cigarette foil, a few plastic bags and empty packets of Uncle Chipps. With her exquisite and dynamic storytelling, Roy balances scenes of suffering and corruption with flashes of humor, giddiness, and even transcendence.
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