In this novel by Vinod Kumar Shukla there is no grand event, no epic struggle, no epochal truth, no declared purpose or message—because it presents life itself, that life in this country which, for want of a better term, is called lower-middle-class life, in such a pure and distilled form that it needs no prefabricated moral or thesis. There are no villains here; instead, there is the simplicity of the main characters’ existence, their helplessness, and the rare, precise details of their living, moving about, and earning a livelihood. Through these details one comes to sense, almost instinctively, that cruel counter-world which makes the lives of the majority in this country what they are.

By penetrating very deeply into this life, Vinod Kumar Shukla establishes—through marriage, family, neighbourhood, the workplace, and relationships with affectionate non-kin—such an indomitable faith in humanity that, before it, all the absent, anti-human forces appear not only ugly but hollow. One of the most delightful surprises of this novel is the presence of nature: water, rocks, mountains, forests, trees, animals, birds, sunrise and sunset, the moon, air, colours, scents, and sounds are so vividly alive here as they have rarely been since the fiction of Phanishwar Nath Renu.

And for those who believed that however deep Vinod Kumar Shukla’s human warmth may be, he avoids love between man and woman—or that it lies beyond his capacity—this novel will come as a shock. Avoiding exhibitionism, he offers images of sensuality, corporeality, desire, and erotic beauty that, without being provocative, enrich the soul with the beauty of this primal relationship. These elements are not artificially inserted; they are entirely natural. Without them, the novel would feel incomplete, implausible, barren. What is truly surprising, in fact, is that this physicality is absent from his poetry.