farewell to Minstry...

"Where humans were concerned, the only emotion that made sense was wonder, at their ability to endure; and sorrow, for the hopelessness of it all."

The book left me quite unsettled, a little more fearful of life. Which many books do, but I make a point to look for that dash of glory, to balance the scale a bit. Even after a good night's sleep, I still insist that this one is a tad too tragic.
The tragedies you can put in a book are boundless; I think the art is in drawing the margin. An orange sky is pretty, but you can't make it too orange now, can you?
I don't know what draws people to tragedies; I only grasp the trend. Perhaps it speaks more accurately about life; is it really, though, filled with sacks of gloom?
I have an itching propensity to question people with too many good things in their life, never so if the bucket is full of calamities. It comes to me as naturally as mixing in three spoonfuls of sugar into my tea.
This book is my cure. I finally think you can have enough tragedy in a book. Perhaps there is a way to write tragedies into the story if you decide to have so much.

Mistry is pleasant to read, only sometimes he's agonising to the point that persuades you to stop reading, for fear that you may no longer delight in your afternoon walks like you used to.
There is hilarity though, however light; good characters and storyline, structured and carefully written sentences that leave me with that rare delight when I get my tea right - not the too sugary, too black semi-liquid; and it lacks what gives so many books that touch on India a little note of kitsch : extravagant melancholy.
Nevertheless, as I lapped away at the final pages and closed my last, I could only lament on the seeming fact that there is only one flimsy strip of sunshine in the bleak, bleak path of a life. (not with mine, not with mine!)