I was sent a copy of the novel Tiger Hills by Sarita Mandanna a few months ago by a friend in London. Lucky me! I was looking forward to reading it. I had first heard of it last year when Penguin India bought it for publication. They reportedly paid the highest amount ever for an Indian novel for Tiger Hills. That kind of thing makes me interested. A new author, a publisher confident about their book...sounds like a good mix, right? Then to heighten the anticipation, after I got the book I let it sit for a while where I could see it, touch it, knowing that I was going to read it soon.
Well, soon came. I read Tiger Hills. A big Indian novel. A big, uneven, predictable, disappointing novel. This is a multi-generational love and catastrophe tale written with prose that would make a turn of the century potboiler seem contemporary. If you can't guess by page 10 what is going to happen in this cliche filled curry stew then you have never read a book or seen a movie in your life.
Oh well.
Happy to be reading something else
P.S. The cover? Seriously? It makes the novel look like a collection of inspiration passages. Snooze.
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