It had rained incessantly all night. The leaves outside her window were exhausted from all the pelting, the sounds and were sleep-deprived. Toward dawn they gently nodded off. The rain had left its perfume in every bough, an earthy lingering as it were and the trees...
Murakami’s construct leaves all of his stories open to a myriad interpretations, and that’s the beauty of his narrative.
He manages to etch distinct characters in each of his tales with remarkable dexterity and the Murakami mind observes quietly, much like the Lamprey, who live off life itself. I was agog by the sheer brilliance of an imagination that defies coherence yet draws you in, makes you believe.
Majumdar writes with great sensitivity- delving deep into the young lad’s mind, drawing from both the light and the dark that exist in tandem within. Ori senses the resentment his mother’s stage life provokes in others around him, the family and neighbours.
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