Who Knows the Bounds Of Desire

A well-ventilated novel, where the winds blow in from every quarter, representing a city mired in the frantic present and an insoluble past, with a distracted opulence, half-salvaged and half-abandoned. The narrative dives into a mirror-like depth, as if in a state of dereliction, showing old houses, back alleys, civic modernity, gardens and graveyards. Images and voices pile up and intermingle, reduced sometimes to shadows and whispers, fading in and out, as if part of an incomprehensible play. Narratives implode as they invariably do when handled by a prescient author. Osama Siddique is an expert handler, playing with a remote, as characters and vistas appear and vanish. Here is a novel, taking an unruffled look at the troubled and the troublesome and the ridiculous, and completely at home with what it depicts. A very likable spell-binder.