Your sympathy goes out to Aravind Adiga. Your first novel is a success, selling over a million copies and landing the 2008 Booker. Second novels are hard; bad examples lie thickly on the ground. This novel would have to follow on from The White Tiger, attempt a larger picture of Mumbai society, high and low, and present a greedy developer vs. downtrodden people story, and do it all without becoming a mere 'message novel'. The stakes couldn't seem higher.
Lucky for us, Adiga's talents survive expectation, and deliver more of what he excels at: realistic fables. Unlike many authors who write about India, Adiga shuns the ornamental and the overblown for precision and grit. The milieu is the same - Mumbai, seen from above the heights of its towering new centres of enterprise and commerce, to the slums where headless animals, 'a smear of pink imprinted with a tyre tread, an exclamation mark of blood' slump next to playing infants. He has sympathy for the downtrodden, but seems them clearly; he can present a ruthless developer's backstory with flashes of humanity; he can command variety of character and mood. If not quite an ensemble piece, the novel boasts a a larger cast, and to its benefit. However seemingly unimportant a person may seem, Adiga reminds us how we each carry a piece of our country's story within us, the imprint it makes:
'In old buildings truth is a communal thing, a consensus of opinion. Vishram society retained mementoes, over forty-eight years, of all those who had lived in it; each resident had left a physical record of himself there, like the kerosense handprint made by Rajeev Ajwani on the front wall on the day of his great tae kwon-do victory. If you knew how to read Vishram's walls, you would find them covered with handprints. These handprints were permanent; but they could move; a person's record was alterable. Now Masterji felt the opinion of him that was engraved into the building- in its peeling paint and 40-year old brickwork - shift. As it moved, so did something within his body.'
Thoughts like these keep the novel grounded firmly on the human level, and prevent drifts into weightless symbolism.
My few gripes are that the novels sags in the usual place - i.e. the middle, and that he might have done a little more with the promising material offered by the female tenants of his doomed tower block. (Perhaps, admittedly, Adiga is trying to avoid emulating
The Women of Brewster Place.) I would prefer it if Adiga would call the city either 'Mumbai' or 'Bombay', and stick with his choice throughout.
Adiga is India's answer to Maxim Gorky, highlighting social injustice with both unsentimental compassion and an eye as clear and restless as a strobe light. He has nowhere to stay but put.