What miracle is this? Three lovely novellas, each perfect in its way. Not flawless, merely perfect. Like a human being, loved not only for their grace, but for their awkwardness; not only their sparkling eyes, but the funny place behind the elbow, the lovely wrinkles that tell us they've lived.
Be warned, however: love takes unaccustomed forms, here in turn-of-the-century Bengal, family novel shapes. Time, too, moves differently, in tune with the play of light and emotion—but that is only literary effect. Marriage, romance, these are more solid things (until they're not). These stories bring to mind Stefan Zweig’s, of the same era and another world—in their passion and heat, and the ways their characters seem to strangle themselves (although Tagore is by far the greater writer).
And oh, Arunava Sinha’s translation! Exquisite. The kind of translation Tagore deserves. Had Tagore been translated like this in the early 20th century, when he won the Nobel and toured Europe—all world literature would be otherwise! (I feel obliged to note that the alternative translation by Sukhendu Ray, published by Oxford University Press, stands up poorly in a side-by-side comparison.)
There is so much happening in each of these stories. Political subtext—characters run newspapers and literary magazines, debate cultural and economic questions, even go to prison for protesting British rule. Bankruptcy, moral and financial, rears its head. Love—passionate and familiar, poisoned and pure. Jealousy. Fecundity. Gardens tangled and lovely. A brilliant, heartbreaking, uncanny, unforgettable book.