LITERARY FICTION
GHACHAR GHOCHAR by Vivek Shanbhag
(Faber £10) ‘GHACHAR ghochar’ is one of those made-up terms that tie families together, impossible for an outsider to pick up. But it’s the term that the wife of our anonymous narrator uses to refer to a tangle — significant because by the end of this short, espresso-hit of a novel, her husband is up to his ears in an extremely unpleasant one.
The scion of a close-knit, hard-working, but impoverished Bangalore family, he now lives a life of middle-class ease thanks to his uncle’s business savvy.
Their fortune has bought them a twostorey house along with the novelty of a room apiece, and you can’t fail to miss the metaphor as wealth begins to drive a wedge between husband and wife, father and son.
‘When you have no choice, you have no discontent, either,’ reflects Shanbhag’s protagonist at one point.
But though the message of his novel is undisguised, he doesn’t go in for lengthy sermonising and by its end, comparisons with Chekhov do not seem undeserved.
LAST NIGHT AT THE LOBSTER by Stewart O’Nan
(Allen & Unwin £7.99) THE opening scene of this slim novel, first published in the U.S. in 2007, is suggestive of a haiku: snow falling on stalled traffic on a bleak winter morning. But the serenity doesn’t last long.
It’s four days before Christmas and the last day that Manny DeLeon’s restaurant will be opening its doors. Deemed underperforming by HQ, Manny and his staff — including his ex-girlfriend — have been made redundant.
With a massive snowstorm bearing down, Manny knows that only the most loyal will now clock in. And as the day wears on and the pace picks up, ties are duly put to the test.
Manny is a character familiar from American fiction — conscientious, dutiful, always trying to do right (even if he knows he can’t love his current, pregnant girlfriend as he should).
But Last Night At The Lobster, in its three acts, 24-hour timeframe and snappy dialogue, most resembles a play. And while it often manages to be both poignant and funny, it’s ultimately perhaps a little too slight on the page.
WHEN LIGHT IS LIKE WATER by Molly McCloskey
(Penguin £16.99) THE premise of Molly McCloskey’s novel doesn’t strike the cheeriest note: Alice, an American living in Ireland, finds herself reflecting on the affair that ended her marriage while trying to process the death of her mother.
But her painful innocence- toexperience journey is also a thoughtful meditation on connection set against the backdrop of a world on the move.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, a sometime Buddhist plays a supporting role; Alice’s work for refugee organisations further underscores — a tiny bit obviously — the novel’s concern with rootlessness.
But though McCloskey has no shortage of ideas, she also engages the heart: she’s particularly good on the contrariness of our desires and on nostalgia as an irresistible force, even when it has no good basis.
Elegiac and wistful in its backward gaze, it’s a novel nonetheless light in its touch. Fans of Anne Enright will find much to admire and enjoy.