'The loneliness of Sonia and Sunny' explores nostalgia, displacement and quiet despair

If there’s a book to be treated reverentially — each word appearing dipped in blood or diamonds — it is this: The Loneliness of Sonia and Sunny by Kiran Desai. To be nominated for the Booker Prize again after her 2006 win for The Inheritance of Loss is no small feat, made even more striking by the fact that the manuscript was picked over in-print books. Naturally, one question tiptoes up: does the book live up to its hype?

A few pages in, despair — and all the familiar conspiracy theories about awards — creep in. A shaky start, though Desai soon steadies the bicycle handle, unleashing a finely meshed tale of nostalgia and displacement: of memory in India, and discovery abroad; of yearning for the desi past and making peace with an alien present. She writes of an ayah sweeping, “…fanning the dust into the dust upon the dust, to make a final pattern of dust scallops all the way to the outskirts of the compound.”

The quaint life of Dadaji, Ba and Mina Foi, unfolding on Mina’s 55th birthday, feels supremely subcontinental — especially the visit to the bank locker and Ba’s relief at recovering her daughter’s dowry jewellery. “…Ba experienced, not happiness, of course, given the circumstance, but a resettling of her gut.” Theirs is a story of genteel decay, of time and quiet displacement from importance. The narrative, though far from linear, always seems to arrive at this trio, gently finding a companion for Sonia, continents away.

The Vermont campus, meanwhile, is nearly deserted — just three foreign students stranded there, working predictable jobs. Sonia bursts into tears in every call home, so deep is her displacement, buried under snow and sorrow. On such a winter day, she meets Ihan, a middle-aged painter who seduces her with Japanese food, grand gestures, and the pretence of happiness.

Sunny Bhatia, once of Columbia and now with the Associated Press, roams the big bad world of journalism — buzzing with news, but never important enough. He is thrice removed: from India, from family, from himself. “He had thought he would be able to love her better from New York.”

“Don’t you know how f***ed up you are?” Sunny blurts to his mother — an Indian son to an Indian mother! But Babita owes him an ocean. “While Sunny did not believe in God, he did believe in the devil — therein may lie his life’s problem.” Sunny plots to steal back Badal Baba, the treasured talisman, from Ihan — a last token of love. “Was this the person Sonia had loved? Sunny felt small.” Meeting Ihan brings a pang of pity. The book nods to Frida Kahlo (her portrait hangs in Ihan’s house) and Diego, yet the parallels run deeper: “Her art became more vital than his art.” When Sunny asks, “Was your happiness at the expense of those who lacked the privilege of turning pain into art?”, Ihan erupts — and then crumbles.

From Allahabad to Delhi, Hewitt College to New York, Goa, Europe, and Mexico —Desai’s worlds expand and collapse in rhythm. People, she suggests, are the same everywhere; only their languages of love differ.

The true hero of this book is Desai’s craft. She leaps effortlessly from the mundane to the profound, painting swirls of lives, regrets, and revelations. She lends weight to the unimportant, tenderness to the scathing, and wisdom to the ordinary. Reading her feels like listening to a friend recount your memories — only sharper, funnier, more alive. The cast—Dutch, Korean, Filipino, Hungarian, and more — forms a tapestry of dazzling precision. Tug one thread, and the whole hums in response.

“He launched himself into the water and swam straight out to her in the manner of a seabird joining another seabird.” The Loneliness of Sonia and Sunny is, at heart, a romance — but one that turns the genre inside out. All art is love, it suggests — and the lovers we meet are frogs, narcissists, serial daters, manipulators, and sometimes, reflections of ourselves.

This is a post-breakup novel of staggering depth and a writer clawing her way back to her voice with icy disdain and exquisite precision. Savage, elegant, and wickedly funny, it burns its way into the subconscious of an entire generation. When elephants clash, even ants see fireworks. Mean? Maybe. But as readers of great literature, who wouldn’t crave more of this glittering implosion of delight? If one book were to represent writing in the 21st century—to capture its chaos, beauty, and brilliance — it might just be this.