I started read Gifted by Nikita Lalwani unsure what to expect beyond immigrant angst abroad - a tale told by many with few redeeming qualities of good literature. Lalwani tells a compelling story, her words land with a sort of blunt force, there is no glossing over ugliness but no self-pity either.
Her characters and not merely brown and conflicted in Britain. While they are a product of their cultural roots and upbringing, their struggles are universal that being brown has little to do with. One passage from the book that I particularly loved was Lalwani's description of the over-zealous father, Mahesh. This man had only ever pushed his mathematically gifted daughter to excel academically. Lalwani talks of his mental state when he realizes what a distance he has unwittingly put between himself and his daughter Rumi. Sherene is his wife.
He had left Sherene sleeping on the right-hand side of the bed and gone to stand outside Rumi’s room, watching her sleep through the crack in the door, feeling the claustrophobic muffle of a love he could not express. He longed to take her in his arms as though she was still at an age to be cradled, hold her against his chest as though that kind of behavior was normal, cry into her hair and say, “I love you, daughter,” utter the words with the unhinged extremity of feeling they deserved. But instead he watched her like a fugitive, turning in to the bathroom as soon as she showed signs of stirring.
I will remember that phrase "the claustrophobic muffle of love" for a long time to come. Indeed comes a point when expressing love is like living through the worst heartbreak.
Her characters and not merely brown and conflicted in Britain. While they are a product of their cultural roots and upbringing, their struggles are universal that being brown has little to do with. One passage from the book that I particularly loved was Lalwani's description of the over-zealous father, Mahesh. This man had only ever pushed his mathematically gifted daughter to excel academically. Lalwani talks of his mental state when he realizes what a distance he has unwittingly put between himself and his daughter Rumi. Sherene is his wife.
He had left Sherene sleeping on the right-hand side of the bed and gone to stand outside Rumi’s room, watching her sleep through the crack in the door, feeling the claustrophobic muffle of a love he could not express. He longed to take her in his arms as though she was still at an age to be cradled, hold her against his chest as though that kind of behavior was normal, cry into her hair and say, “I love you, daughter,” utter the words with the unhinged extremity of feeling they deserved. But instead he watched her like a fugitive, turning in to the bathroom as soon as she showed signs of stirring.
I will remember that phrase "the claustrophobic muffle of love" for a long time to come. Indeed comes a point when expressing love is like living through the worst heartbreak.
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