Blurb:
‘I can hardly imagine it, but everything will be different tomorrow. I’ve looked forward to it for years. I’ll truly be Sundaram’s wife, together in body as in spirit . . .’
But that tomorrow never comes, and at just fourteen, Aru is left a widow. Worse, the village whispers name Sundaram a drunkard and a thief―the thief who called down the wrath of the local goddess by stealing the most precious jewel from her temple. The future Aru once envisioned vanishes, leaving only bleak and endless days ahead. So when a ray of hope appears in the form of the landlord’s children offering her a job as their grandmother’s companion, Aru seizes the opportunity. In the landlord’s house, Aru gains an education, finds that her charge is an unexpected ally, and dreams impossibly of having a profession of her own one day. But she also learns uncomfortable truths. Soon, her very life is in danger . . .
“The White Lotus” is a gripping murder mystery and a rich social portrait of the plight of widows in rural Tamil Nadu at the very start of the twentieth century.
My Review:
“The White Lotus” is a searing portrait of a society that measures a woman’s worth by her relationship to a man, demands grief as performance, and punishes any attempt by a woman to choose life over mourning.
Aru is barely a teenager, but her life is already considered over. People whisper. She becomes a burden, a shadow, a bad omen. But, Aru is no passive victim. When an unexpected opportunity arises — an offer to be a companion to an elderly woman in the landlord’s household — she takes it. This decision opens up new avenues for her: education, friendships, and glimpses of a life she could choose for herself. Through her first-person voice, we experience her growth from a confused girl into a young woman with ambition and agency. She doesn’t just want to survive anymore, she wants to thrive.
The author’s writing is rich and emotionally resonant. Her choice of first-person narrative draws readers intimately into Aru’s thoughts. The grief, confusion, shame, and flashes of courage that mark her journey are beautifully described. The novel balances emotional depth with plot-driven urgency. It’s not only about social commentary; it’s also a murder mystery, with whispers of theft, secrets buried in temples, and the lurking danger of truth. The suspense is maintained skilfully, giving the narrative a gripping, page-turning quality.
The symbolism of the white lotus is delicately woven throughout the story. It represents purity, echoing Aru’s journey as she rises from the murky waters of societal expectations and personal grief, becoming more than a motif.
The supporting characters are equally well-drawn. Periyamma, the formidable lady Aru cares for, becomes both a mentor and an unexpected ally. Mirazdar’s children and Balu play crucial roles in nudging Aru toward a different future. Even Sundaram, who never appears in the story, feels deeply present. Through Aru’s memories and his letters to her, he becomes a driving force. Being seven years older than Aru, he shows that maturity and gladly uplifts her in a society that doesn’t expect or even appreciate such a gesture. Without being there for Aru, he becomes her support through her transitioning life.
The family dynamics are layered and honest. The parents themselves don’t know what to do but try to be supportive. Her brother is almost a ghost in the story, while her sister-in-law, Janki, and Janki’s parents, get more limelight in the story, as Janki was to become the mistress of the house.
What makes “The White Lotus” stand out is not just its exploration of widowhood or its mystery plot, it’s the rare combination of both. You come for the social message but stay for the riveting twists and the well-crafted characters. Every revelation is earned, every character arc feels complete, and the final pages leave you hopeful.
If you are a fan of Arundhati Roy’s emotional intensity or Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni’s psychological depth, you’ll feel right at home here. “The White Lotus” manages to be both specific in its setting and universal in its themes. It speaks of a past India, but the questions it raises about grief, female agency, and societal control remain disturbingly relevant.
This book stirred something deep. It’s emotionally charged, socially aware, and unputdownable. Aditi Krishnakumar has not only written a novel that matters, but one that lingers. “The White Lotus” is a rare gem — quietly brilliant, bravely honest, and beautifully told.
PS: One of the most touching and misunderstood characters in “The White Lotus” is Malar, Aru’s younger sister, for avoiding Aru after her widowhood and for expecting Aru to “live like a widow.” Since the novel is written in first-person, we only experience Aru’s viewpoint, and her feeling that Malar is jealous of her is understandable. But, I also see Malar’s side.
She is a year or two younger than Aru, barely 12 or 13, and raised under the same cultural conditioning that defines a woman’s worth through marriage and her place in her husband’s home. While Aru eventually gets a chance to escape this life by moving to Mirazdar’s household, Malar remains at home, constantly surrounded by the same rigid beliefs and people enforcing them.
I initially dismissed Malar’s distance as coldness or envy, but it’s important to remember that she’s still a child, trying to make sense of the world around her. Malar doesn’t reject her sister; she reflects the very society that they’ve both been taught to obey. In her defence, she never desired the statuette that could’ve been hers, as she was expecting a child. She tried to keep peace between her in-laws and her own family by upholding the social expectations. She was ensuring her and her family’s safety when there was a theft attempt at her home. She lashed out when she found out that Aru was secretly meeting a woman who later disappeared. When Aru said that she couldn’t confide in Malar, she perhaps didn’t realise that Malar couldn’t open up either. Yet Malar never betrayed Aru by repeating what others said, spreading gossips, seeking revenge, or acting selfishly. She kept her distance, yes, but that’s what society dictated. Even their mother subtly endorsed that distance while pretending not to care.
Malar, to me, was misunderstood and, therefore, is one character I empathise with the most.
Suitable for age: 14+