I have to say that getting through this book was a bit of a drag. Apart from the story, that seemed somewhat gloomy, I attribute this to the fact that a sense of humour appears to be simply inexistent in Lahiri's universe. (I cannot remember the last book I read, in which there was not a single hint at a sense of humour.) The author tells the story in a distanced tone, even though less distanced than the style of her debut "Interpreter of Maladies". The tone only lightens up a bit when the protagonist is meeting and dating his future wife. But this is just a brief interlude before the account returns to its gloomy style.

The book is most valuable, when it comes to giving the reader an idea about what it is like to be a first or second generation immigrant from a completely different culture in a Western country.

On the wooden bench close to the right river bank