Every now and again you pick up a book and as you read it you’re aware that a fair amount is going over your head. This was Bhava for me. It’s a deceptively complex read, telling the story of a man who thinks he’s killed his wife in a jealous fit, only to discover (or think he’s discovered) many years later that he hadn’t, and therefore he has been living with a misplaced guilt all along. Albeit a guilt that hasn’t stopped him having numerous affairs. I have to confess, whilst preferring not see relationship stories in black and white, I found it hard to engage with the subject’s back story. Furthermore, I found it hard to follow the twists and turns of the narrative. The afterword, written by the translator, Judith Kroll, threw some light on what I’d been reading, but it’s always disconcerting to find that a novel requires elucidation. As such, I feel that this is more a record of the novel having been read than any kind of critical reaction; rarely have I come across a book quite as baffling Bhava and I couldn’t for the life of me tell you if that’s to do with my failings as a reader, problems with the translation, or something that’s fundamental to the novel itself.
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