As I read Indian Summer by Pratima Mitchell, I kept oscillating between approval and disgust.
There were parts that were so real that they reached out to me and made me think, “That’s exactly, perfectly captured!”
And there were parts that were so real that they made me curl my lip and think, “Why do people write about things that are so mundane?”
I rolled my eyes at parts of the book because I found them utterly inane.
I found myself enjoying parts of the story and its telling so much that I wondered to whom I could recommend it because it was so good.
It’s a strange experience reading a novel like Indian Summer. When you finish it, all you feel is, “Hmm. Okay. But it’s not perfect.”