For about a hundred-fifty years—a little before 1800 to the middle of the twentieth century—the British Empire militarily got the drop on most of India, and while they systematically looted it while the looting was good, India, as had been its very long habit, absorbed what it liked of English culture and language, and discarded the rest.

One of the things it absorbed was the sport cricket.

This novel’s elevator pitch is: poor Indian father is obsessed with making his two sons into cricket stars. But that’s like saying that War and Peace is about ballroom dancing and Borodino.

Put it this way. Out of all the billions of people on earth right now, it would be difficult to find anyone less interested in any kind of team sports than I. Yet I found this novel absorbing, vivid, often rough and painful, in spite of the cricket.

Sports-obsessive parent-zillas are well known in America. Indian’s version, according to author Aravind Adiga, share some of the same traits, including what under pretty much any other context would be rampant child abuse.

Radha and Manju are the two sons. The father has followed his own crackpot philosophy in raising them, then negotiates hard to in effect sell them, with a mind to commercials and merchandizing.

With such lines as “Revenge is the capitalism of the poor,” and “[Anand Mehta talked superman to superman with Mohan Kumar, suffering the others, mere humans, to stand around them eavesdropping,” Adiga offers pitiless insights into human nature that we all share, while illustrating with vividness the details of life of rich, middle class, and poor in India—among its varieties of languages and cultures. Dramatic tension, for me, rises between what I recognize as universals (not always admirable—far from it) and fascinating differences.

And because this is not American sports drama, which tends to have one ending, you really don’t know where it’s going as you watch the group madness of sports do its best to consume these two—and what eventually happens.

Copy provided by NetGalley

Narrated by Sartaj Garewal, the audiobook was laugh out loud funny in parts though so theatrical and over the top that an already over the top story was just too much, and ultimately not enough. Too much snark, not enough heart.

I loved The White Tiger; I don't know if this was not enjoyable just because I'm not a sports fan or what but I really struggled my way through this, convinced it had to get better with each page. It never did.

I really enjoyed reading this book, but I think some of the characters and storylines missed a bit of debth if that makes sense

A major disappointment, whilst Between the Assassinations was sparkling an original and White Tiger was stunning - this was a total stinker.

I hated all of the characters, all of whom appeared to be utterly self-absorbed and just generally unlikeable.

There really was no spring in this wicket, a very stodgy and unappealing affair.

For some reason, I'm always slightly reluctant to start an Aravind Adiga book. There's always a sense of, "he wrote a whole book about that?" But every time, I'm moved and entranced and so, so glad I entered the world he created.

I liked the way it was written as well as the story