Neither anthropologists nor men come much better than M.N. Srinivas, who passed away not long ago. One of the first Indians to write on the ethnography of his own country, he studied in England with both Radcliffe-Brown and Evans-Pritchard, now deities in the hagiography of Anthropology. Back in 1948, Srinivas studied a village in what was then Mysore state, investigating everything he could, from agriculture to caste relationships, from religion to village politics. It was the classic style of field study. In succeeding years, Srinivas published a large number of important articles and several books, including "Religion and Society among the Coorgs of South India", "Caste in Modern India and other essays" and "Social Change in Modern India". He never actually got around to writing up his old village study. In 1970, he was a fellow at Berkeley and finally was about to finish the work. An arsonist burned his office and all three copies of the work. THE REMEMBERED VILLAGE, then, is literally "remembered" because the bulk of the work went up in flames, though some notes were saved and the original data was in Delhi. What emerges is a wonderful portrait of an Indian anthropologist's time in the field, his relationship with the various villagers, and a lovingly detailed picture of the village itself, covering all the usual aspects of an anthropological study. Perhaps adversity and misfortune combined to produce a greater work. As an anthropologist who has worked on India for many years and as a person who was impressed with the warmth and humanity of Prof. Srinivas (though I only met him briefly many years ago in Australia), I strongly recommend this book to anyone who wants to know the feel, the look, and the inner workings of an Indian village back in the days before the Green Revolution, television, and globalisation. This is Anthropology without jargon, India from the inside.

In response to Veena Shekar's comments about the Sibi mural on the cover of my book, all the information I have ever seen or been told about this mural is that it portrays Haidar Ali and Tipu Sultan. Before commenting, perhaps she should have read the book.

To the author, This is not a review of the book but just a comment on the cover page which is very important. I have not read the book so I will not pass any comments on it.The photograph which you have used for the cover is unfortunately not appropiate as it does not belong to Tipu Sultan. The picture is a mural found on the walls of a temple in Sibi, Karnataka. The person seated in front of Krishna Raja Wodeyar is Karnik Nallappa who was in the service of Tipu and Wodeyar and not Tipu Sultan himself. I am the author of a book on the paintings of Sibi so the information given is authentic. I will be happy if the author wishes to get in touch with me.

I recently watched a documentary on TV about the life and times of Tipu Sultan and was thoroughly engrossed for the couple of hours or so that the programme was on. As a result of my fascination for this heroic and brave individual I felt I really needed to research into him further. Thus, I came across this book and read it from cover to cover in a matter of days. I found it as interesting, if not more so, as the programme. It confirmed alot of what was discussed in the programme so I can at least say that it is authentic and very well researched and written. Well done to the author. It cant be easy writing historic fiction with all the research involved and the need to make sure all the information is authentic and accurate...Ms Brittlebank has done exceptionally well. Long live the memory of Tipu the Lionheart!

I confess I could not even complete the book. There are too many characters and it was hard to keep track of everybody. I had to go back many times to check whether the character was really introduced before. The description of places was remarkable. I felt I was physically 'seeing'them. The story might be enlighetening to some but Shashi Deshpande must keep the pace and interest of the reader. There were hardly any dramatic happenings in the first half which I read. Do the readers feel compel to read? My definite answer was big NO. Unless the reader feels compulsion to turn over the page and reach the last page neither entertainment nor enlightenment will be experienced.

This must have been the most boring, hard to follow book I had read on my life. I did not understant the author's way of writing; the confusing, hard to keep up characters names, the slow pace (I felt like in a non-passing time zone)to name a few. I was really enthusiastic about reading it, but unfortunely it became a drag just making myself finish to read it, I think (on my personal experience)that the book just did not give enough sustance to hated it or to loved it, It was just a lifeless, cold story.

As a writer, Deshpande speaks with the voice of truth. The core of her talent is a profound understanding of the layered complexities of women's familial interactions, the nurturing friendships and smoldering silences of past deeds. She weaves the story of four generations of Indian women caught in the "metaphor of silence".

When Gopal, in a rush of existential angst, tells his wife, Sumi, that he cannot stay married, he makes this decision in good faith. Unable to find joy in the small moments of family, he is hyper-aware of the fleeting nature of happiness. With the simple intention to be true to himself, he sets in place a series of events with tragic consequences. The most wrenching change is for Sumi, Gopal's beautiful still-young wife, who must return to live in her parents home with three young daughters. In her struggle for a new definition of herself, Sumi grieves and accepts the loss of her marriage, discovers untapped strengths within herself and possibilities for her future. Sumi begins anew knowing that "where I stand is always the center to me". Of the girls, Anu, the oldest, struggles hardest to understand how her everyday simplicity could change so drastically. She watches the grownups carefully: her mother, Sumi, her grandmother, Kalyani, and distant grandfather, Shripati. And Anu listens to old family stories in an attempt to comprehend the intricacies of the women's subtle alliances.

No one is prepared for tragedy as they attempt to reassemble their hopes and dreams with an eye to the future. But life is ever unpredictable and this Indian family is dealt a blow that leaves them staggering for balance. In her powerful, quiet way, Deshpande lovingly renders her complex characters, bringing the reader into their home just long enough to love these women too, and mourn their loss, a rare gift in a writer.