Jung's problem is she colours each scene with a hoarding-painter's palette. The evils are vile, the virtuous glow...
She thanks the "women themselves, both old and young, who, smiling through their tears, shared with me their stories—of so much pain and such little joy". India’s clearly not a happy place for women. In villages, there’s "nothing worth enjoying. Even to sing or laugh loudly is taboo". And she sees the self-confidence of young urban women as a "veneer layered so consciously with aspiration". There is much rending of blouses and beating of breasts, and precious little cheer, either in the writing or in the scenarios described. The one wonderful thing is the excellent directory of women’s organisations at the back.