Opening with a deprecatory sort of line meaning, to effect, a mango is rarely a mango in Indian literary fiction, the review concludes with these rather grudging lines of mitigating prose:
At her finest, Desai is a brilliant anatomist of people like Prema — men and women who seek, gain, but fail to triumph in such moments and are left to play their own kind of solitaire, matching what was to what might have been.
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