It is undoubtedly a matter of cultural differences and expectations, but I have consistently found all the novels I have read by Indian-ancestry writers to be depression-inducing. This one is no exception.
Gustad Noble is a middle-class bank employee, with a wife and three children, in Bombay, India, in the early 1970s. However, this version of "middle--class" bears little resemblance to the American version: They have two small bedrooms for the five people; the water only works for a short time each day, so they have to fill their home tank in the mornings to last for the day; the only milk they can afford is watered down; the wall in front of their apartment is commonly used as a "pissing wall," so that they are tormented by the foul small and by flies and mosquitoes. In addition to these difficulties, which they all take in stride, Gustad's eldest son rebels against his father's plans for him, his youngest son pays court to the daughter of an enemy, his daughter comes down with an illness which defies treatment, and his best friend involves him in a plot against the corrupt government.
Through it all, Gustad struggles to find rational solutions to his problems; meanwhile, his wife, in desperation, resorts to superstitious remedies. The ending, while it is meant to be redemptive, allows Gustad only small victories. He is a good man who has done his best for those closest to him, but he has had to submit himself to the harsh realities of the world around him.
I think the reason novels by Indian writers depress me is that they all seem to depict resignation to things as they are. To this spoiled American, resignation is not a valid option. If the reality is not favorable, I (and, I believe, most Americans) try to make changes. Whether or not we are successful is open to opinion.
This was Rohinton Mistry's first novel. His later novel, A Fine Balance, is outstanding, even though it is actually even more depressing to me than this one.
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