It seems almost blasphemous to admit I didn’t like Arundhati Roy’s The Ministry of Utmost Happiness. I absolutely adored her earlier novel The God of Small Things when I read it for university years ago, and I was looking forward to reading the story that compelled her return to fiction after twenty years.

In many ways, Ministry of Utmost Happiness feels like an important novel — it spans multiple generations and touches on some significant points of India’s past. There are parts where freedom fighters are imprisoned by a corrupt government and must negotiate their way back to freedom, and I found these chapters particularly strong. These chapters reminded me a bit of Martial Law novels from the Philippines, and I can only imagine how much more impactful they would have been on me if I were more familiar with India’s history. This also happens to be one of several subplots in the novel, all of which depict individual lives within the context of a broader socio-cultural milieu.

Roy is a tremendously talented writer and her language throughout the novel is simply beautiful. Even at sections where my attention flagged, I had to appreciate the cadence of her prose.

Despite all that, I found the book a struggle to read. The review on the blog Sukasa Reads notes that “the onus is on the reader to care but it’s akin to wading through the flora and fauna of a wild jungle without a machete,” and I think that encapsulates much of the problem I had in reading this book. It just felt heavy throughout, likely deliberately so given the significance of the subjects Roy covers, and to Roy’s credit, the novel feels important without feeling self-important. But it is a slog to get through.

There’s a quote on the back cover of the book:

How to tell a shattered story?

By slowly becoming everybody.

No.

By slowly becoming everything.

That’s what the story feels like. The interactions and scenes with the characters all feel momentous, and likely other readers may care enough to pick through the threads and find a wealth of insight beyond the surface. I tried, but there was just so much going on and so many disparate pieces of plot that didn’t quite seem to connect that it just ended up not feeling worth the effort.

There are some lovely moments throughout. I love the character of Saddam, how he was blinded by the glare of the sun’s reflection all because his boss made him work long hours and wouldn’t allow him to wear sunglasses at work nor look away. I love that he chose his name because he admired and was inspired by Saddam Hussein’s dignified pride at his own execution without knowing, or really caring much about, the broader circumstances that led to this execution. I love the activism of Tilo and how her romantic history influenced her political life. I liked the scene of groups of protestors convening at a single plaza, and the idea of someone being hired to ensure people pay the fee to use the single toilet.

I don’t quite understand the story of the two babies nor the story of Anjum, and there were parts I ended up just skimming over, so there are likely large chunks of the story I don’t understand. I also don’t quite know how everything intersects.

I’m glad I finished the book because my favourite parts involving Tilo’s story are near the end, but it was a struggle to get through. There may be readers who’ll find themselves caught up in the language, and able to parse through the various threads to find the brilliance of what Roy is trying to say. Then there are readers like me for whom it just ends up not worth the effort.

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Thank you to Penguin Random House Canada for a copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.

The least Agatha Christie-ish of Ruth Ware’s books, The Lying Game is an entertaining psychological thriller about the secrets from the past coming back to haunt us. The Lying Game isn’t quite as tense as In A Dark, Dark Wood, nor as gripping as The Woman in Cabin 10; rather it touches on a more subtle emotional tension.  It all begins with a text message, stating simply “I need you,” that brings together old friends Isa, Kate, Thea and Fatima back to the town of Salten, where they all attended boarding school almost 20 years ago.

I’m a sucker for boarding school stories, and I love the strong bond between the characters even after so many years apart, which reminds me a lot of the friendships I formed back in high school. The title comes from a game the girls played in school, where they gave each other points for making people outside their circle believe the most outrageous lies. It’s a silly game that backfires, and when the girls are expelled in their final year of school, the reputation they’ve built through the game comes back to haunt them.

The reason behind the expulsion is teased throughout the story, as are the circumstances behind the mysterious death of Kate’s father, who also happens to be the school’s art teacher. Something the women did while they were in school is now under threat of being exposed, and puts the lives they’ve since built at risk. There are a lot of Ware’s signature twists and turns. I found that the big reveal wasn’t as hard to figure out as in her previous novels, but it was still a fun ride.

I also liked a lot of the characters, and seeing how whatever happened in school impacted all of them. Group leader Thea turned to alcohol for comfort, and her vibrancy as a teen turned into an almost bitter desperation in adulthood. Fatima became a doctor and started a family, but as Thea rightly points out, there’s a rigidity to Fatima’s perspective now, a loss of the innocent fun she had as a girl. Kate was the only one in the group to remain in Salten after the expulsion, and her decision to stay in a town where everyone knew and gossiped about her history reveals the depth of her story far beyond what even her friends know.

My big frustration was with the main character Isa. First, she has a super sweet and supportive husband in Owen. He is curious and interested without being pushy and I often wanted to give Isa a stern talking-to and demand she just tell him the truth already. Even if she can’t reveal her friends’ secret, she could at least give him some innocuous details about her visit to Salten without being super defensive every time he brings up the subject. At one point, she receives flowers from Kate’s brother, and when Owen asks who they were from, Isa clams up and gets angry, when it would have been so simple to just say the truth: that Kate’s brother was apologizing for something he did over the weekend.

Worse, Isa constantly puts herself and her baby in danger, and not just because she is forced by circumstances, but because she makes illogical decisions. For example, in one scene, she is with her baby about to take a train out of Salten when she learns something major and potentially dangerous. Instead of taking the train back to safety and regrouping from there, she decides to go stay in Salten and confront the very source of the potential danger. It’s like those characters in horror movies who see a scary house and decide to enter and everyone watching is screaming at them to leave, except in this case, the character has already escaped the house and left the neighbourhood and is deciding to go back. It makes sense for the story, because it eventually led to the big climax, but it was a seriously stupid decision, especially since she had her baby with her.

Overall, it was a fun read, and I look forward to Ware’s next book.

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Thank you to Simon Schuster Canada for an advance reading copy in exchange for an honest review.

When the bones of a small child are found at a demolition site in London, journalist Kate Waters latches on to the opportunity for an exciting scoop. As she begins asking questions around the neighbourhood, long-buried secrets and family scandals are brought to light.

The Child is told from the perspectives of four women — Kate, who wants to protect her job at the newspaper from the increasing demand for immediate but shallow online content; Angela, whose baby was kidnapped in the 1970s and never found; Emma, a recluse with mental health conditions who becomes invested in Kate’s story; and Emma’s mother Jude who is trying to mend her strained relationship with her daughter.

It’s a much more traditional thriller than The Widow, but shares the earlier book’s fascination with women’s motivations for seemingly inexplicable and at times horrifying actions. I thought The Child had a faster clip and a much tighter feel.

I really enjoyed reading this book. Barton’s writing is strong and the characters are well-crafted. I especially connected with Angela’s story, and wish she had played a bigger role throughout the story. The big reveal isn’t too difficult to figure out; it seemed fairly clear where the story was heading by about the 3/4 mark, but that didn’t detract from the reading experience. As with The Widow, it’s not so much the initial mystery of the baby’s skeleton that drives the narrative as it is seeing how the various characters interact and why they make the choices they do.

The Child is a solid character-driven thriller that’ll keep you entertained on a summer weekend.

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Thank you to Penguin Random House Canada for an advance reading copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.