Sea of Poppies (2008)

I put this book on my to-read list after hearing an interview with Ghosh on the radio show To the Best of Our Knowledge (which is tied with Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me as my favorite radio show). The part of the interview I found most intriguing was the discussion about the language in the book, and that's a large part of what I enjoyed about the book itself. The amalgamation of Bengali, French, English, various other Indian and Chinese dialects, and 19th-century maritime patois made the reading somewhat slow-going at times, but I was surprised at just how much meaning I could glean from a sentence composed of words I couldn't necessarily define individually.

Ghosh's characters show their caste and breeding---or the caste and breeding they hope to project---through their choice of language. I enjoyed reading about the misunderstandings that happened because of the wide variety of languages the characters used, and how the characters choose to resolve these misunderstandings, if they choose to resolve them at all.

The ending was abrupt but fitting, and I find myself wanting to go back and read the book again to look for more clues about the direction the book will take. I did take some time to skim back through, but I've got too many other books to read to immediately re-read this one. It will be on my re-read list, though.

For the complete book review, please visit my blog, Imperfect Happiness. ( )

I didn't really get into this book as much as I expected. For one thing, much of it is written in the vernacular, which I found difficult to read and therefore harder to engage with. After finished it, it did not feel especially memorable. However, it did end with the sense that there is more story to come - I believe a sequel is on the way and I may well read it. ( )

Abandoned.

I started to read this three years ago and it has loitered on my unfinished books pile ever since. I managed about half, as the readable chapters were quite enjoyable, but then I'd hit the chapters full of local jargon and have absolutely no idea what was being said. Having lived in Dubai for many years I'd assumed I'd be able to untangle a lot of the Indian colloquialisms, but I was wrong - whole chapters were completely indecipherable. Hitting these chapters was like trying to drive into sand and eventually I admitted defeat.
Regretfully, I have given away the rest of the trilogy. ( )

Deeti, Kalua, Zachary, Serang Ali, Paulette, Neel and Baboo Kissin, I am afraid I have to abruptly dismiss our modest tea party. The biscuits are soggy, sandwiches are musty and the Darjeeling brew is insipid. So slip me some "black tar" and I’m off to the land of nocturnal rainbows bedecked with copulating gremlins.

Sea of Poppies irrespective to the fact of it being the preamble to Ghosh’s Ibis trilogy and the onset ambience of the epic Anglo-Chinese Opium War,falls short in capturing my nomadic temperament through its plain narrative and wobbly interpretation of its characters. Ghosh enthusiasts would decidedly contradict this retort labeling my Machiavellian analysis as act of lunacy or vernacularism (as this book was highly recommended by several 'neighborhood bookworms'). With the prospects of burning torches likely to be flung, SCREW YOU FUCKERS!!!! Comprehending this manuscript was a dreary stupor compelling me to seek solace in Pynchon’s The Crying of Lot 49.
( )

Deeti, Kalua, Zachary, Serang Ali, Paulette, Neel and Baboo Kissin, I am afraid I have to abruptly dismiss our modest tea party. The biscuits are soggy, sandwiches are musty and the Darjeeling brew is insipid. So slip me some "black tar" and I’m off to the land of nocturnal rainbows bedecked with copulating gremlins.

Sea of Poppies irrespective to the fact of it being the preamble to Ghosh’s Ibis trilogy and the onset ambience of the epic Anglo-Chinese Opium War,falls short in capturing my nomadic temperament through its plain narrative and wobbly interpretation of its characters. Ghosh enthusiasts would decidedly contradict this retort labeling my Machiavellian analysis as act of lunacy or vernacularism (as this book was highly recommended by several 'neighborhood bookworms'). With the prospects of burning torches likely to be flung, SCREW YOU FUCKERS!!!! Comprehending this manuscript was a dreary stupor compelling me to seek solace in Pynchon’s The Crying of Lot 49.
( )