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TIME: Almanac 1995
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<text id=89TT2371>
<title>
Sep. 11, 1989: Overloaded
</title>
<history>
TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1989
Sep. 11, 1989 The Lonely War:Drugs
</history>
<article>
<source>Time Magazine</source>
<hdr>
BOOKS, Page 84
Overloaded
</hdr><body>
<qt> <l>JASMINE</l>
<l>by Bharati Mukherjee</l>
<l>Grove Weidenfeld; 241 pages; $17.95</l>
</qt>
<p> So much brilliance crowds this ridiculously brief novel --
so many calamities and astonishments, so much shifting of
exotic scenery and violent plot, such skillful shading of so
many characters -- that the axles creak and the wheels threaten
to fall off. They remain in place, but the author's fictional
vehicle is far too slight for the weight of what it carries.
</p>
<p> The reader is led from a poor farming village in Punjab to
a provincial Indian city, to the swamps of South Florida, to an
Indian enclave in Queens, to Columbia University in upper
Manhattan, to an Iowa farming town -- all of this sharply and
vividly sketched -- and then on again toward California. The
heroine, a pretty and precocious Hindu child named Jyoti (later
Jasmine, still later Jane), kills a mad dog, marries at 16,
survives a terrorist's bomb that kills her husband, finds her
way to Florida, where she is raped and kills her rapist with a
knife, moves on and becomes pregnant by an Iowa banker after he
has been paralyzed by a rifle bullet fired by a bankrupt farmer.
</p>
<p> This gloss omits several subplots, one of which has Jane,
in Iowa, dealing with the adolescent pride of a teenage
Vietnamese boy who is her adopted son. The author also provides
clear expositions of Sikh and Hindu tensions after the partition
of India and Pakistan and of the roles of women in India and
bankers in Iowa.
</p>
<p> Novelist Bharati Mukherjee, born in India but long a
resident of the U.S., seems unable to write a false or flat
sentence. She is especially good at describing the morning scene
as Punjabi village women plod out to the fields together to
squat and relieve themselves and to gossip, joke about the puny
sexual equipment of their husbands and tickle one another's
bottoms with weeds. But there is simply not enough room in a
small, realistic novel for all that the author has to tell. Too
much compression makes repeated plot coincidences clang. Could
a bigger, looser narrative have contained the intensity better?
Maybe not, but the sense is strong at the end that a truly
extraordinary book has floated by, just out of reach.
</p>
</body></article>
</text>