[In the following review, Greenlaw applauds Mehta for constructing an insightful and flowing narrative in A River Sutra, complimenting the novel's skillful use of fables as representations of modern Indian culture.]

The glossary at the back of A River Sutra tells us that sutra has two meanings: an aphoristic literary form, and a string or thread. In this book, the two usages are simultaneously employed, as a simple narrative carries the reader through a careful arrangement of interlocking didactic tales. Gita Mehta's skillfully constructed second novel follows the experiences of an Indian bureaucrat who retires to run a government resthouse, in the jungle by the sacred Narmada river. He has become a vanaprasthi, “someone who has retired to the forest to reflect”. The Narmada is the focus of his meditations, and its many historical and mythological associations mean that he finds life literally flowing past his door; for the river attracts pilgrims and refugees of all kinds. Their stories are brief but intense human dramas that not only explore the desire for enlightenment but also express the complex roots of India's cultural and political heritage.

The bureaucrat's first encounter is with a Jain monk. The son of a diamond merchant, he has forgone a life of luxury in order to seek a greater truth. The pattern of this story is repeated throughout the book: the outcome is apparent from the start but contains a powerful mystery, luring the reader into the tale. Drawing such devices from traditional storytelling, Mehta also seems to be challenging the reader with the idea that the natural focus of interest is not meaning but motivation: as much is revealed in how the characters express themselves as in what they say. The monk casually announces that his father spent 62 million rupees on the ceremony to mark his “departure from the world”. Despite his assertion that “Ritual means nothing if you do not know the longing that precedes it”, it is the chaotic splendour of this three-day event, with its silver chariots and painted elephants, that holds the bureaucrat's attention.

Repeatedly, the lesson to be drawn from the bureaucrat's encounters seems to be that the knowledge he is seeking will not be found through study and observation, but through experience and, in particular, the experience of desire. “How can you say you have given up the world when you know so little of it?” asks his friend, Tariq Mia, the mullah, who teases him with erotic Sufi songs and, in turn, relates the chilling story of a failed singer turned music-teacher whose ambition for his angelic-voiced pupil leads to the child's death.

Each story contains profound upheaval—a moment when the protagonist is forced to accept a painful revelation or to let go of long-held beliefs: a cynical executive is literally seduced by tribal ritual when he leaves the city to manage a tea garden; a courtesan sees the irrelevance of her ancient art when faced with the conviction of the outlaw, who kidnapped her believing they were married in a former life; and an ascetic rejects the constraints of his austere religious order, to save a young girl from prostitution, acting once more in the secular world.

An interesting fusion of cultural influences evokes a world in which the forces of tradition and change are equally visible: the music teacher takes his pupil to a Calcutta park where the homeless sleep beneath English oaks caught in the red flash of nearby neon light; goatherds graze their flocks next to a Victoria memorial and store their milk in aluminium cans; and the future of the young singer is decided on by a recording studio, then denied by a murderer whose status places him beyond the law. Mehta is gifted at identifying the vivid moments and concise observations that can illuminate such a complex society. Her book about the impact of Western culture on India, Karma Cola (1979), was acclaimed for this achievement, and her first novel Raj (1989) is packed with historical detail, expressed through the narrative rather than imposed on it.

The voice of A River Sutra is quieter and more formal. It has a clarity and a dignity that contains these stories of endurance and loss, avoiding any excess of sentiment or pathos. The harshness of life is inescapable and the value of its lessons paramount. Whenever the bureaucrat is distracted by esoteric abstracts, his assumptions are challenged and he is reminded of the book's epigraph: “Man is the greatest truth. Nothing beyond.”

Gita Mehta has a strong sense of dramatic tension and the ability to construct powerful intrigues in the briefest exchange. A River Sutra ends with a brilliant narrative twist, revealed just when the bureaucrat, and the reader, have perhaps become a little too sure of their understanding. With gentle humour, Mehta removes the possibility of a definitive answer. This is ultimately a satisfying conclusion, as the bureaucrat's much-patronized servant Chagla shyly asserts: “Nothing is ever lost, sir. That is the beauty of a river view.”