One of the most important things Tridib imparts to the narrator is the necessity of using one’s imagination “with precision.” He impresses upon him that one cannot truly know a place without first inventing it in the imagination. As opposed to simply absorbing facts and conventions, the narrator is encouraged to take them as starting points and conjure possible details. This allows him to escape “other people’s inventions” and avoid being caught up in constricting meta-narratives, such as in the case of Tha’mma, who gradually becomes consumed with nationalism and militancy.

Similarly, Ila, who has devoted her life to being a “free woman and free spirit,” eventually realizes that her Bohemianism has failed to save her from the cliched trap of domestic unhappiness. Constant traveling has desensitized her to novelty and dulled her imaginative sense. While she strives toward an independent, non-conformist lifestyle, Ila fails to see Nick as anything but the white savior who assuages the insecurities she has regarding her foreignness. Her and Tha’mma’s fates are portrayed as not so much borne of moral weaknesses but a failure of the imagination.

As evidenced by Tha’mma’s obsession with war, memory without imagination can be a dangerous thing. The wounds of the past are left to fester, diminishing the possibility of healing or reconciliation. To the narrator, however, memory serves as an illuminative device. Because his childhood is filled with memories of other people’s lives, he imbues them with his own values and assumptions. As each memory—sometimes his own, sometimes those of other people—is revisited in the novel, meaningful links and conclusions are generated. His own imagination guides him productively through memories of the past to the present.

As The Shadow Lines is concerned with fundamental similarities and differences, it is a novel replete with mirror images. The narrator sees himself reflected in several characters, such as Ila. While the narrator and Ila share similar physical characteristics, however, the latter’s complete disinterest in histories and local mythologies separates the two. Ila also remains fascinatingly foreign to the narrator, as she talks and dresses unlike any other girl he knows.

The narrator and Nick Price are also mirror images of each other. Growing up, the narrator constantly compares himself to the perfect image of Nick he has in his head. He imagines Nick as a spectral presence that is always a few steps ahead—“always bigger and better.” By Nick’s last appearance in the novel, however, the narrator is no longer intimidated by him.

These mirror images also traverse from the personal to the political. When Mayadebi comments on the friendliness and generosity of Londoners during World War II, Alan Tresawsen remarks that the same solidarity exists in Germany:

People don’t believe me, he said, but it’s the same over there—in Germany—though of course in a much more grotesque way. It was odd coming back here—like stepping through a looking-glass.

Tha’mma’s fractured ancestral home in Dhaka is also a grotesque reflection of the India-Pakistan partition of 1947. Similarly, the governments of India and Pakistan trade “curiously symmetrical accusations” in the aftermath of the 1964 riots. Through these mirror images, the novel makes the point that these divisions do not erase crucial similarities. Despite seemingly insurmountable barriers such as distance, time, and cultural beliefs, it is all too easy for people to look across borders and see themselves reflected.

While freedom is a common goal among the characters of the novel, they all hold different conceptions of it—and therefore, pursue it in different ways. To...