BLUE-SKINNED GODS

A blue-skinned boy is believed to be a god.

Sindu’s third book begins with a bit of what might or might not be divinity. Kalki is born with blue skin, prompting his family and Tamil Nadu villagers to believe that he is the latest—and last—human avatar of Vishnu, the Hindu god. In other words, Kalki, who is 10 when the novel begins, is himself a god. His father builds an ashram around him, and the faithful come from near and far for healing sessions, rituals, and ceremonies. Almost immediately, however, Kalki has reason to doubt that he is what his father says he is. Sindu’s excavations of Kalki’s internal struggles are detailed, nuanced, and rich. “My divinity had been as real as flowers, or the sun, or my own skin,” Kalki thinks. “And when that godhood broke”—when his faith finally gives way—“reality itself had shattered to pieces around me.” Throughout the book, Sindu’s prose has a textured intricacy that never becomes florid. Occasionally, though, she does slip into a slightly didactic tone when explaining Hindu practices; her assumption seems to be that her audience is entirely Western. These contextualizing passages, though not entirely necessary, don’t significantly flaw the book. A larger flaw emerges, however, when Kalki, now 22, arrives in New York. For someone who has never left his ashram—never mind his country—Kalki seems remarkably unfazed by the drinking, smoking, and partying he soon becomes subject to. No, he doesn’t know how to read a subway map, but his reactions to the wider world never feel quite believable. Still, these are minor quibbles for a novel that so admirably skates between insight and pathos, acuity, and poignancy.

Remarkably moving in its explorations of faith, doubt, and what it might mean to be a charlatan.