I
t is difficult to put one’s finger on just what is wrong with Tishani Doshi’s first novel. After all, one can hardly hold the Rushdie blurb—“captivating and delightful”—against her. Further, there is a fluid competence at work—she is well-schooled, so there are no egregious blunders of language, there is a solidity of specification in the writing. Names, places, particularities, even the lives she writes about seem to hover on the edge of significance. (The self-conscious Rushdieisms—Doshi described them as “chutneyfication”—are a gratuitous irritant, not enough to save the novel, but she would be well-advised to steer clear of “shabing shabang” and “jhill mill” in future.)