Los Angeles Times Book Review
A finely observed comedy of manners that evolves into searing tragedy, rendered in a tone of wry detachment that paradoxically illuminates its characters' essential humanity...that rare storytelling feat, an evocation of the tragic consequences of comedy.
New York Times Book Review
“A deft and confident first novel . . . the finely burnished plots, the oblique irony and understated prose; above all, the sense of equipoise. All this The Death of Vishnu has, and more.”
Los Angeles TImes Book Review
“A finely observed comedy of manners that evolves into searing tragedy, rendered in a tone of wry detachment that paradoxically illuminates its characters' essential humanity...that rare storytelling feat, an evocation of the tragic consequences of comedy.”
Los Angeles Times
Narrator John Lee ably delivers all that is thought provoking and entertaining in this breakout novel.Narrator Joh Lee ably delivers all that is thought provoking and entertaining in this breakout novel.
However you interpret this muti-layored novel, you'll be struck by by its fullness and by John Lee's perfectly pitched reading.
A wonder of a book. From the first page I could tell that this is an astonishing debut, sure to win readers and prizes.
Vibrantly alive, beautifully written, full of wonderfully rich and deeply human characters. . . . Brings to mind . . . Flaubert and Flannery O'Connor.
Suri makes a striking debut with The Death of Vishnu, his lyrical novel of death and life...
[An] enchanting novel....acheives an eerie and memorable transcendence.
[A] full, sweet-scented novel.... Juxtaposing the mundane with the comic, Suri evokes these characters with intelligence, compassion and humor. Washington Post Book World
Catherine Saint Louis
A wonder.... Vibrant characters and freshly observed psychological insights illuminate The Death of Vishnu. Time Out New York
This beautifully formed and carefully expressed work is a remarkable achievement. Bookselling This Week
[B]oth a richly detailed portrait of a crowded Bombay building and a Hindu allegory of the soul's ascent to Heaven. New York
Suri is a writer of vivid gifts. His larger thematic preoccupations are balanced by seductively beautiful prose. New York
Vivid and engrossing.... [A] work of fiction that seems not only universal but absolutely cosmic. Elle
[A] provocative tale of spiritual seeking in contemporary Bombay.... Suri contributes to our understanding of what it means to believe. San Francisco Chronicle Book Review
[A] deft and confident first novel.... finely burnished plots, oblique irony and understated prose; above all, the sense of equipoise. New York Times Book Review
Enchanting....Suri's penetration of his character's lives is as precise and cunning as that of a master surgeon. Boston Sunday Globe
[D]ynamic...elegant, clever prose and emotional and philosophical probing carry the action of the novel entirely. Salon.com Books
Suri misses no comic beat, and makes delicate and inspired use of passages from Hindu myth and indian religious life. Book
[F]resh, original....[T]here is exquisite beauty in Suri's prose. USA Today
[W]onderfully comedic... .all of it filtered through the imagination of a very talented storyteller. Arizona Republic
Marvelously life-embracing.... A seamlessly constructed, quietly eloquent work of art. Newsday
[S]lendid....an exceptionally good novel. Los Angeles Times
[T]he reader is swept away by Suri's fresh, witty observations and tender, comic moments. Seattle Times/Post-Intelligencer
[A] complex, artistically rich book that is also waarm, inviting and involving. Detroit Free Press
Boston Sunday Globe
An enchanting first novel...this tale of modern Bombay will delight readers who have had enough of skinny postmodernist fiction.
Newark Star Ledger
[A] highly charged satirical work, splendidly conceived and enormously effective....Here is an adept, scathing talent.
Suri's mix of religious mysticism and quirky realism makes for a deeply impressive debut.
Witty and sweet and pithy, full of luminous writing...
San Jose Mercury News
[A] masterful novel, written with assurance and great affection for its characters.
Philadelphia City Paper
[A] compassionate, gently mocking portrait of a Bombay apartment building's quirky inhabitants.
Wall Street Journal
[A] delightful and rich first novel, a lyrical ditty on death and life...
Manil Suri has created an intimate and intricate portrait of life in this metropolis.
The Death of Vishnu finds the Universe in a block of Bombay flats; it is tender, caustic, witty and inspired.
Sympathetic, penetrating, comic and moving, this fine and unusual first novel unexpectedly braids Hindu mythology and traditions...
Washington Post Book World
[A] full, sweet-scented novel.... Juxtaposing the mundane with the comic, Suri evokes these characters with intelligence, compassion and humor.
Time Out New York
A wonder.... Vibrant characters and freshly observed psychological insights illuminate The Death of Vishnu.
Bookselling This Week
This beautifully formed and carefully expressed work is a remarkable achievement.
Suri is a writer of vivid gifts. His larger thematic preoccupations are balanced by seductively beautiful prose.
Vivid and engrossing.... [A] work of fiction that seems not only universal but absolutely cosmic.
San Francisco Chronicle Book Review
[A] provocative tale of spiritual seeking in contemporary Bombay.... Suri contributes to our understanding of what it means to believe.
[D]ynamic...elegant, clever prose and emotional and philosophical probing carry the action of the novel entirely.
Suri misses no comic beat, and makes delicate and inspired use of passages from Hindu myth and indian religious life.
[F]resh, original....[T]here is exquisite beauty in Suri's prose.
[W]onderfully comedic... .all of it filtered through the imagination of a very talented storyteller.
[T]he reader is swept away by Suri's fresh, witty observations and tender, comic moments.
Detroit Free Press
[A] complex, artistically rich book that is also waarm, inviting and involving.
As this spirit looks back on the life just ending, on the mother who named him
after a Hindu god, on the prostitute whom he truly loved, Suri's novel achieves an eerie and memorable transcendence.
Suri has a cynic's sense of humor and a seeker's sense of wonder, and the author deploys both to penetrating effect in his first novel. The book, which takes place in a Bombay apartment building, is about an alcoholic, informally employed gofer, Vishua, who camps on the first-floor landing. The other primary characters are a gaggle of selfish and resignedly mediocre middle-class residents of the building. Each has gained some advantage from Vishua's life, as he has from theirs, and each demonstrates a petty reluctance to deal with his looming death. This is a rich and lovely book. Like U.R. Anantha Murthy's classic 1965 novel, Samskara, in which the body of an unpopular upper caste villager lies decaying in his home while the village squabbles over how to deal with it, it turns a discerning eye on Indian communal life, with its exigencies and odd moralities. Suri misses no comic beat, and makes delicate and inspired use of passages from Hindu myth and Indian religious life.
Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
This is a remarkable first novel, whose lyric prose is further enhanced by Lee's soft, mesmerizing reading. The story hinges on the comatose alcoholic Vishnu, who lays dying on the first floor landing of the Bombay apartment building for which he is the houseboy. Suri has fashioned Vishnu as the conduit to each and all of the book's vibrant characters and their intertwined comic, tragic and melodramatic stories. Vishnu enables listeners to move easily through the real, the mystical, the metaphoric; as he gradually slips down into death, he crawls slowly up the stairs, recalling fine and funny scenes of his youth and early manhood. Even listeners unfamiliar with India's religions and the Hindu trinity of Brahma the creator, Vishnu the preserver and Shiva the destroyer will marvel at Suri's ability to reveal the tapestry and nuances of Indian culture through the activity contained in one small apartment building, to which Lee's rich and myriad Indian accents add atmosphere and humor. Simultaneous release with the Norton hardcover (Forecasts, Nov. 6, 2000). (Jan.) Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.
Vishnu, a dying alcoholic dwelling on a stairway landing of an apartment building in Bombay, comes to suspect that he is, in fact, the god Vishnu. He may also be hallucinating; his slow death ties together the stories of various inhabitants of the building: the comic feud of Mrs. Pathak and Mrs. Asrani; the elopement of a Muslim boy with an immature, movie-obsessed Hindu girl; the rational Mr. Jalal's crisis of faith; and Vishnu's own memories of love with the shallow prostitute Padmini. In an interview at story's end, Suri defines himself as an Indian writer and discusses the implications for his audience. While a layperson's familiarity with Hindu mythology and India's movie industry should suffice to follow the tale, a fuller understanding may elude many U.S. readers. A glossary, for instance, would be helpful, were such a thing possible on cassette. Narrated by John Lee, this audiobook is recommended with reservations. John Hiett, Iowa City P.L. Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.
"The reader is swept away by Suri's fresh, witty observations and tender comic moments."
The Los Angeles Times Book Review
"[THE DEATH OF VISHNU] reads like the work of a highly skilled and experienced practitioner of the writer's craft."
San Fransisco Chronicle
"Suri, at his best, reveals not only a collision of modern and mythic India but a commingling of them."
"Marvelously life-embracing … THE DEATH OF VISHNU is a seamlessly constructed, quietly eloquent work of art."
“Enchanting…Masterfully created…No telling detail or private vanity escapes the author’s comic yet infinitely compassionate scrutiny.”
Read an Excerpt
Not wanting to arouse Vishnu in case he hadn't died yet, Mrs. Asrani tiptoed down to the third step above the landing on which he lived, teakettle in hand. Vishnu lay sprawled on the stone, his figure aligned with the curve of the stairs. The laces of a pair of sneakers twined around the fingers of one hand; the other lay outstretched, as .if trying to pull his body up the next step. During the night, Mrs. Asrani noted with distress, Vishnu had not only thrown up, but also soiled himself. She had warned her neighbor, Mrs. Pathak, not to feed Vishnu when he was so sick, but did that woman ever listen? She tried not to look at the large stain spreading through the worn material of Vishnu's khaki pants, the ones that her husband had given him last Divali. Mat a mess-the jamadarni would have to be brought in to clean up such a mess, and it would not be free, either, someone would have to pay. Her large frame heaving against the sari in which it was swaddled, Mrs. Asrani peered at Vishnu from the safety of the third step and vowed it would not be her.
A more immediate problem had to be dealt with first-what to do about the cup of tea she brought Vishnu every morning? On the one hand, it was obvious that Vishnu did not have much need for tea right now. Even yesterday, he bad barely stirred when she had filled his plastic cup, and she had felt a flutter of resentment at not having received her usual salaam in return. On the other hand, giving tea to a dying man was surely a very propitious thing to do. Since she had taken this daily task upon herself, it would be foolish to stop now, when at most a few more cups could possibly be required. Besides,who knew what sort of repercussions would rain down upon her if she failed to fulfill this daily ritual?
Pressing the edge of her sari against her nose to keep out the smell, Mrs. Asrani descended gingerly to the landing. Using the scrap of brown paper she had brought along for the purpose, she fished out the cup from the small pile of belongings near Vishnu's head, taking care to always keep the paper between her fingers and the cup, so as not to infect herself with whatever he had. She placed the cup on the step above the landing and poured tea from the kettle. Hating the idea of good tea being wasted, she hesitated when the cup was half full, but only for a second, filling it to its usual level to fulfill her pledge. Then she ascended the steps and surveyed her handiwork. The cup lay steaming where she had left it-but now Vishnu looked like he was stretching out across the landing to try and reach it, like a man dead in the desert, grasping for the drink that could have saved him. She thought about moving the cup to correct this, but the scrap of paper she had used now lay on the landing, and she couldn't be sure which surface had touched the cup. There was nothing she could do anymore, so she turned and climbed up the remaining steps. At the door of her flat, it occurred to her that she still didn't know if Vishnu was alive or dead. But it didn't really matter, she had done her duty in either case. Satisfied, Mrs, Asrani entered her flat and closed the door behind her.
The stream rises lazily from the surface of the tea. It is thick with the aroma of boiled milk, streaked with the perfume of cardamom and clove. It wisps and curls and rises and falls, tracing letters from some fleeting alphabet.
A sudden gust leads it spiraling down to the motionless man. It reaches his face, almost invisible now, and wafts playfully under his nose. Surely the smells it carries awaken memories in the man. Memories of his mother in the tin-and-cardboard hut, brewing tea in the old iron kettle. She would squeeze and press at the leaves, and use them several times over, throwing them away only when no more flavor could be coaxed out. Memories of Padmini, the vapor still devoid of cardamom or clove, but smelling now of chameli flowers fastened like strings of pearls around her wrists. After they had made love, and if she did not have another person waiting, the tea would be carried in by one of the children at the brothel, and they would sit on the bed in silence and sip it from metal tumblers. Memories of Kavita, the steam finally milk-rich and perfumed, her long black tresses framing her smiling face as she bends to fill his cup. For almost a month last year while Mrs. Asrani was sick, it was her daughter Kavita who performed the daily ritual. Vishnu would scrape a broken comb through his knotted hair every morning and wait to deliver a toothy "Salaam, memsahib!" when she came, winking at her with his good eye.
All these memories and more the steam tries to evoke in the man. His mother discarding all her used leaves on festivals, even scooping out a few spoonfuls of sugar to sweeten the tea. Padmini pressing her lips against the metal rim, laughing as she offers him the tumbler stained with unnatural red. Kavita trying to keep her dupatta from falling off as she bends down, passing the kettle from hand to hand so as to not bum her fingers.
A breath of exhaled air emerges from the man's nostrils, fraying the steam into strands. The strands shimmer for a second, then fade away.
It had been almost eleven years now that Mrs. Asrani bad been bringing Vishnu his morning tea. Before that, it had been Tall Ganga for whom she had brought the tea, the old woman who had slept on the landing between the ground and first floors since as far back as anyone could remember. One day, Tall Ganga had announced to Mrs. Pathak and Mrs...The Death of Vishnu. Copyright © by Manil Suri. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.