"...when you find it difficult to say something, when the words get trapped in your chest, your lips quiver, as in winter, you can always write it down."
|I'd read it on a train journey.|
Set in the humidity of Calcutta, the book is in the form of words being fervently written by the protagonist as he sputters out his strange story. All in the span of one night. A baby lies near him and he is addressing it as he writes. The story is powerful and delves upon the delicate and contentious subject of physical intimacy between siblings (some threads reminded me of A God of Small Things). At times I wanted to read faster than the words were written, but the tone sometimes collapses into overt sentimentality, and sometimes, the reader is almost isolated as the protagonist moves ahead. However, for its calmly urgent story telling and perhaps because of its flaws, The Blue Bedspread is a book I wouldn't have wanted to miss.
For a taste, here is the first chapter.
"Like lonely lovers often do, I keep thinking things, I conjured up worlds where we were husband and wife, we had taken a house, all for ourselves, with a tiny garden in front."