The Abundance: A Novel

By Amit Majmudar

A luminous, bittersweet novel of India and the American midwest, immigrants and their first-generation children, and the power of cooking to bridge the gulfs between them

When Mala and Ronak learn that their mother has only a few months to live, they are reluctantly pulled back into the midwestern world of their Indian immigrant parents--a diaspora of prosperous doctors and engineers who have successfully managed to keep faith with the old world while claiming the prizes of the new. More successfully than their children--equally ill at ease with Holi and Christmas, bhaji and barbecue, they are mysteries to their parents and themselves.

In the short time between diagnosis and deterioration, Mala sets about learning everything she can about her mother's art of Indian cooking. Perfecting the naan and the raita, the two confront their deepest divisions and failures and learn to speak as well as cook. But when Ronak hits upon the idea of selling their experience as a book and a TV documentary, India and America, immigrant and native-born are torn as never before.

With grace, acuity, and wry compassion, Amit Majmudar has written anew the immigrant experience, the clash of cultures, the conflicts of assimilation, and, most poignantly, the tangled ties between generations in The Abundance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: Mar 5, 2013
• ISBN: 9780805096590

Amit Majmudar

Amit Majmudar is a poet, novelist, essayist, translator, and the former first Poet Laureate of Ohio. Among his books are the poetry collection What He Did in Solitary and Black Avatar and Other Essays. He has also published a translation from the Sanskrit, Godsong: A Verse Translation of the Bhagavad-Gita, with Commentary. He works as a diagnostic and nuclear radiologist and lives in Westerville, Ohio with his wife and three children.

Book preview

PART ONE

ABUNDANCE

They arrive after midnight on the twenty-third. Mala had called from Indianapolis at around 10 PM and said they were having dinner at a Denny’s. I told her I would put everything in the refrigerator, it wasn’t a problem. She said she was sorry, but they had left home later than they wanted, it hadn’t been in her control, the snow had been heavy since they crossed into Indiana. The weather was clear where we were, I told her. She said yes, but it was snowing where they were, and she really had tried to get home in time.

I could tell she was frustrated. The children were still awake, and the food hadn’t arrived yet. I could hear Vivek’s demands in the background and her own pleading, cajoling, halfhearted threats. Sachin had taken Shivani and was pacing back and forth in the waiting area, hoping to calm her. The tone of Mala’s apology was reproachful. She assumed that I was reproaching her, even though I wasn’t, even though I don’t think like that. I know she is harried, overstretched, a mother and a career woman. I cut the call short so she could focus on Shivani and Vivek.

I am still awake when she calls my phone again.

Were you asleep? she whispers. Her mood seems improved, I can tell from her tone. We’re here.

Did you take the exit already?

We’re outside, in the driveway.

I smile into the darkness. Okay, I’m opening the door. I tap Abhi’s arm, and he sits up and pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing out the sleep. I get out of bed too quickly. The pain pills make me sway. Abhi throws off the covers and guides me to a sitting position. He lays his pillow at the foot of the bed, then stacks mine on top of it.

Lie back and put your feet up.

They’re in the driveway.

I’ll open the door.

No. I’m coming.

Lie back.

They’ll know something’s wrong.

"Something is wrong."

Don’t say that. Don’t even think that. Not for these next few days. You promised.

We sit for several long seconds. Stalemate.

They’re in the driveway, I repeat.

He scoots to my side and, arm around my shoulder, helps me stand. As we get to the top of the stairs, my fingers press all the light switches, upstairs chandelier, downstairs chandelier, the fixture over the stairs. They will be watching from the van. They will see the light through the windows, the face of the house brightening in welcome. My daughter home, and my grandchildren: Will they see us on the stairs through the high oval window, Abhi with his arm around me, helping me down? I ease his arm off me and hold on to the railing; he hurries down a few steps and looks back, below me in case I fall.

I am not dizzy anymore.

Slowly, okay?

I sat up too quickly. That’s all.

The winter silence has a presence like sound. The bright snow draws its glow from the track lights and the cat’s cradle of Christmas lights in our front yard maple tree. The light inside the van comes on, and I can see, between Mala and Sachin, the children in their car seats, symmetrical, brother and sister sleeping with their heads fallen aside to face each other. They look warm, serene.

Sachin tugs down his hat. His skin, still used to Indian weather, is more sensitive to the cold. Mala is already outside, no hat, no gloves, sliding Shivani’s arms through the car seat straps. Mala covers her with a coat and a scarf and hurries her to the porch steps, footsteps crunching softly.

I have been standing with the door open, feeling through my nightgown the same cold they feel. I want my focus of sensation to shift from inside, where the pain is, to my body’s surface.

The moment Mala comes inside, I worry about being seen in so much light. I worry she will notice at once a change too gradual for me or Abhi to detect.

Is everything ready upstairs? Mala asks, pushing off her snowy sneakers, sole to heel.

It’s ready, I whisper.

The house, sensing the cold, starts up the heating system. White noise, I think. Good, this will help them sleep. I follow mother and daughter up the stairs, keeping my face close to Shivani’s lying on her mother’s shoulder, cheek pushed up until the eye is just lashes. Abhi, who has gotten into his boots and coat to help with the luggage, pauses at the door. He waits until I make it to the top. Sachin arrives behind him, holding Vivek. Sachin greets Abhi in Gujarati. His voice is much too loud. He sits down on the stairs with Vivek still on his shoulder. He bites each glove’s fingertip to pull his hand free, then begins unlacing a boot. When he drops it next to Mala’s sneakers, the snow scatters over the floor and doormat.

Vivek shifts and mewls. He squints into the light, and my hand leaps to the switches, hoping to salvage his sleep. Sachin gets to work on the second boot. I hurry down the stairs, thinking I should maybe take Vivek myself. Abhi arrives at the door, a bag in each hand held off the ground, his frail shoulders sloping. He is just in time to see me fall.

*   *   *

I am not out long. Mala rushes down when she hears the noise. Abhi props me against his coat’s cold sleeve. He smells of the outdoors and of the snow.

Where are you hurt?

It was just a few stairs. I look into Abhi’s eyes, and he understands he must not tell.

Mala turns the lights back on and kneels beside me on the stairs. Is she okay? Dad?

I’m fine, I say, moving away from Abhi so I don’t appear dependent or weak. I glance upstairs, toward the guest room door where I have set up the mattresses. Did I wake her?

How many stairs did you fall, Mom?

Just a few. Two steps, right here. Go close the door, Mala, she’ll wake up.

Sachin speaks to me in Gujarati. There’s a bump. I’ll go get some ice.

I touch my forehead, embarrassed. I shouldn’t have turned off the light. I slipped.

You go in the room with the kids, Mala orders Sachin. I can get the ice.

Sachin nods. I turn to find Vivek’s face close to mine. He is still a little disoriented. He blinks at me.

I kiss his forehead.

Sachin picks him up, and he puts his head on his father’s shoulder right away. I bring my knees close to give them passage. Mala, at the foot of the stairs, pauses. Are you hurt anywhere else?

I’m fine.

She comes up to touch my arm and my knee, as if to see if either gives. Your legs? Are your legs okay?

I know what she is thinking—that I have fallen and fractured my hip like an old woman. I haven’t broken a hip, I say with a little impatience.

Just have to check, Mala says, and kisses me, unexpectedly, on my widow’s peak.

She goes to the kitchen. Abhi holds me. I can hear the refrigerator’s ice dispenser. Did you tell her? I whisper to Abhi. In Gujarati, the question is only two quick words.

When could I have told her?

I nod.

Let’s get you to the bed.

No. The couch. Downstairs.

Everyone’s going to sleep.

The couch.

He takes me to the couch, tracking snow on the hardwood. Mala’s ice pack against my forehead, I watch the bits of white boot-print soften and clear. Sachin is still upstairs with the children, so Abhi brings in the rest of the luggage. Mala helps take it up the stairs. I lean forward to listen. Are they exchanging whispers? Mala turned on the kitchen lights to get me ice. Did she see me here on the couch and guess? She is a doctor, after all. She has called a patient’s name, swished the penlight over each glassy eye, knuckled the sternum. She has seen illness before, and she will see mine. Haven’t I seen it myself lately? Every night, I feel a stranger staring at me while I sleep, nose to nose. His shadow remains on my face.

Mala comes down with two bottles and starts washing them in hot water. I would have done it for her, but she has a specific ritual, and I have learned not to interfere. Abhi opens the closet. I hear a click and slide of hangers as his hand parts and pushes aside our coats, making room.

Sachin joins me. In his white socks he walks through Abhi’s melted boot-prints and doesn’t seem to notice. When he sits on the couch, his thighs tilt upward because he is so tall. He grew up in India, where everyone is shorter, and learned to slope his spine to hide his height. Resting on the carpet, his feet point slightly inward, just as they do when he walks.

Sachin asks me in Gujarati about my fall. He is relaxed, almost garrulous, anticipating Abhi’s arrival. When Abhi, smiling, comes into the still-dark family room, Sachin rises to hug him. They begin chatting immediately in Gujarati.

Abhi turns on the light, and I fear Sachin and Mala will see everything. I move the ice pack to hide my face. I am ashamed of this stupid bump that has brought me so much attention. Abhi, sitting close to me, murmurs a question about the drive. I know how happy Abhi usually is to see Sachin; I want to tell him he doesn’t have to distract himself with sympathy, he can sit next to Sachin.

Sachin eyes my forehead periodically. He is also a doctor, but maybe he doesn’t see the change in me, either. I wonder whether my slip on the stairs might be a windfall, this tender swelling distracting from the harder lump inside me.

Sachin turns the conversation, predictably, to OSU football. It’s what Abhi and he would usually talk about at this point. Mala, over by the sink, looks up in annoyance from the running faucet.

Sachin?

Yes? He is already on his feet.

Sippy cups. I’m missing two.

Where do you think they are?

The back row. Or else check the floor between the car seats. I know I gave her apple juice.

Sachin heads to the door and begins the process of lacing and zipping. Abhi says it is too cold to go out for two cups, but Sachin, in English, says it isn’t a problem. Abhi acquiesces. This is between husband and wife. Mala turns the faucet off, grabs a hand towel, and looks down the hallway at her husband. What are you doing?

Putting on my glows, he says, the v becoming a w. Most of the time he sounds American. Suddenly, under Mala’s glare, his accent comes out strong. Abhi and I keep our eyes on the carpet.

Take your time, all right?

Okay.

The sarcasm has not registered. She keeps drying her hands while he pulls on his hat and gets his hood over it. She looks at us.

Mom, Dad, you can go back to sleep. You don’t have to wait.

Abhi smiles. We’ll go up with you.

Sachin closes the front door behind him, at last.

How’s that bump, Mom?

It’s fine.

Let’s see.

She comes close and draws a gentle fingertip across my cold skin. It’s fine now, I say. The bump is at my hairline. I haven’t colored my hair in some time. Neither has Abhi. Although we are stocked with L’Oréal boxes in the bathroom closet, one shelf below the towels, Soft Black, we’ve lost the desire to do it. From this close, Mala must be noticing my gray hair.

Though I, too, see some disturbing signs up close: the sinkhole above my daughter’s collarbone, the brittle lines from elbow to wrist, the too-sharp outline of her jaw. She needs to eat. She does not eat.

Have I gone completely gray under the dye? Would what is happening inside me seem less of a shock if I didn’t fool myself with young hair? I have my mother’s hair, loose at the roots, every morning a matted tangle over the shower drain, and wisps wound around two fingers and tugged free of the comb.

Sachin returns with the sippy cups. He takes off his gloves and boots but stands with the winter coat still on, shoulders dusted in fine snow. His hands look small at the ends of his puffy sleeves, the plastic Mickey Mouse cups even smaller. Mala takes them without saying thank you. As Sachin removes the rest of his gear, the talk turns to weather, how many inches of snowfall in St. Louis versus here, how bad it was last year—and I think how merciful it is that all people have the weather in common, the one subject everybody can talk about. We three speak in Gujarati, Sachin at ease again, his pleasantness undiminished by his humbling. Steam rises from the sink as Mala turns the fixture all the way left and holds the cups under the water, her face set, as though proving to herself she can withstand the heat.

*   *   *

Upstairs, in the dark, Abhi sits on the bed. I tug at his pajama sleeve.

Do you really think we can do this? he says. Pretend this way? Let them know.

It’s late. The little ones will be up early.

Tomorrow morning. Take Mala aside.

This is their last visit before things change, Abhi. I told you.

You will have her as she is, then.

That’s what I want. You saw, she was sweet to me when she came in.

Tonight she snapped at Sachin, tomorrow morning she may snap at you.

I don’t mind.

He shakes his head. How can we walk about as if there’s nothing crushing us?

This is their last visit before they find out and things change.

He covers his face a moment, palms side by side, then slides the heels of his hands up to his eyes and presses in frustration. Things have already changed. You are in pain. I know it. I see it every time I look in your eyes.

It’s nothing.

It’s not nothing.

You should sleep, Abhi. Mala says the kids have been getting up lately at six thirty.

It’s not nothing.

Come here. Come here and sleep.

Abhi shakes his head again and joins me under the covers. He lies apart from me for a few moments, then he turns and sets his thigh over mine, brings his arm under my breasts, nuzzles my neck. Once, this used to be a signal that he wished to make love; now it is the burrowing of a scared creature. The thigh and arm that rest on me make sure that I do not vanish without warning. I cannot remember when we last made love. I do not want to remember, either. If we let it happen now, I will keep thinking, This may be the last time. Maybe I will think it just once, then concentrate harder, focus, shake the thought from my head—but the pleasure, if there can be any pleasure, would rise between my legs like a lump in the throat. I would be conscious of every moment. And later I would remember this one night, our last, more intensely than all the others we have spent together, back when we were time’s millionaires, rolling in nights.

I lie on my back for a while, unable to sleep. I trace Abhi’s arm across my chest, the soft hairs of his hand, his rough knuckles, his fingers limp now that he has fallen asleep. I find the white gold of his wedding band and turn it around and around, as though winding a clock.

I made everything in advance the morning we went for the second opinion. I poured the dahl still steaming into a casserole dish. Condensation jeweled the glass lid. The fan over the stove kept me safe. I thought of its roar as a leaf blower’s, scattering my apprehensions. Anything not to concentrate on the appointment.

Two events were crowded into that day after weeks of waiting: my appointment at the Cleveland Clinic with Dr. D’Onofrio, and the arrival, from Buffalo, of Abhi’s nephew and his wife. Life is like that, a long lull, then all the phones ring at once. We had to leave at 10 AM to make it to our 12:45 meeting, then, after two hours, come back here to pick up the guests from the airport.

Of course we hadn’t planned things this way. Abhi called Dr. D’Onofrio’s office and got me the first available opening. His nephew Shailesh’s itinerary arrived by e-mail three days afterward. We hadn’t been able to attend his wedding in Ahmedabad, so showing this hospitality, during the couple’s visit to America, was crucial.

Abhi asked me whether he should request that they fly into Cleveland. We could pick them up on the drive back. I didn’t want that. His nephew would never tell us whether the airline had penalized them for changing flights, or if it cost more to go through Cleveland. I didn’t want to lie, either—though we did end up lying that evening, not with our words but with our bodies and faces. Eyebrows high, lips stretched, we hugged our young guests outside baggage claim after they bent to touch our slush-caked shoes.

Did they sense that something was off? Did Abhi’s eyes look sunken? He had been sleeping even less than usual. My weight loss, at least, was hidden by the winter coat. We quizzed them about their parents and their honeymoon during the car ride home. Abhi did well. How was Niagara? Where else were they going? I made sure not to leave all the work to him. How was Kaka’s health? And Kaki’s health? Always the inquiry about health. In Gujarati, you say it without thinking. You are asking about general well-being, not the heart medications or last year’s stroke.

Shailesh noticed a change when we got home. I was putting their heavy coats on hangers. They were well-worn coats, brought out for them, I suspected, from the basement of his aunt in Buffalo.

Kaki, he said with surprise, you have reduced!

Reduced was the English word he used, though the sentence itself was Gujarati. Healthy, in Gujarati, means chubby, ruddy, a second chin; reduced, having noticeably lost weight, is not the compliment it is in English. It is asked with concern. If it’s the husband who looks thinner, the next joke is usually, Isn’t she feeding you anymore?

Abhi played off the joke and patted his stomach. "You’re right, she has reduced. She cooks so beautifully, I leave nothing for her!" Polite laughter gave me cover to get into the kitchen.

Henna, Shailesh’s wife, followed me, offering to set the table. I wanted to be alone, like a wounded deer, I wanted my kitchen’s familiar niche. But with Henna there, I wouldn’t have the chance. Maybe this was for the best. No opportunity for despair. Having guests would keep me heating and ladling and stirring for a few days. I would have some continuity between my life before and my life from now on.

Henna filled the pitcher tentatively, with skinny, delicate fingers, her wedding mehndi’s paisleys a faded red-orange, only the pads of the fingers still dark. The jostle of ice cubes put an absurd lump in my throat. The sound, for me, meant time to call everyone to dinner. I always brought the water out last. I liked to set it cold and dripping under the chandelier. I always told the children to drink water with their meals. Enough so they could taste the food, but not so much that it would fool their hunger.

Most of the meal I had set out on the counter to cool. I had made masoor dahl—the amenable lentil, a cop-out. But in the deepest casserole dish I had something to impress them: stuffed breaded baby eggplants with yams, potatoes, onions, and even segments of banana cooked in the sleeve, the peels blackened and edibly soft. This was a dish our mothers used to cook in open-field fire pits when I was girl. That and the bhartha spiced with its own burning. You could hold an eggplant to a ring of natural gas, and the shiny skin would crinkle. But nothing flavors eggplant quite like red fire and wood.

I observed myself emerging from my mood as I set everything to heat. You are getting everything ready, you are still functioning. Then I saw the stray pot on the dormant back burner, and I remembered immediately the dahi. I curdle mine the old way, seeding it from the last pot. I had left it out overnight to take on body and the right hint of sour. It had been perfect this morning. I had tasted it and made sure. Why, why hadn’t I moved it to the refrigerator? Distraction. I had skipped forward, in my mind, to the appointment. And now, hours later, there it

Reviews for The Abundance

[klburnside · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The Abundance is told from the point of view of an Indian immigrant to the United States who is dying from cancer. Throughout the book, she tells of her present reality and also reflects on her life and her relationships with her children. As a way of bonding, she teaches her daughter, who has never been interested in cooking, how to cook traditional Indian dishes.The book moved me to tears several times. The reflections on love and family, both the good and the bad, were very powerful.

[suzanne81 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A beautifully written story of an Indian woman, living in America, facing a cancer diagnosis and how she chooses to live the last months of her life. The male author succeeds in getting inside the mind of the female main character, as she navigates her relationships with her husband, daughter, son and daughter-in-law. Food plays a central role in the way she nurtures her family. There are many touching moments and realistic tensions. The ending is almost too poetic; I wished for more resolution and clarity.

[gwendolyndawson · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A mother is diagnosed with cancer, and her two adult children are forced to confront the possibility of her death. This is a novel that explores the interactions of family--the conflicts, the love, the competition, the food. I enjoyed the mother's voice as the narrator and the lush descriptions of food.

[peggydean-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Told through the eyes of a mother facing a terminal illness, this is beautiful story of family relationships. I appreciated the insight into the ways that the couple has changed during their time in America and the ways they are still drawn to traditional customs. The idea that the mother and daughter use cooking as a way to deal with the illness was so moving, and made me want to get Indian food! I highly recommend this to readers of domestic stories.

[amandacb_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I don't know, y'all -- lately I am having such trouble finding readable contemporary Indian-American fiction. So many tend to have so many layers that it is nearly impossible to tie all the threads together into a cohesive, comprehendable story. Such is the case with The Abundance by Majmudar. While the plot is something I feel many of us could grapple with (mother diagnosed with cancer, adult children), the total immersion into who-sis and what-sis without explanation was baffling to me. I have read Indian-American fiction that does an excellent job of capturing the convulated familial ties without confusing a reader who is not from such families. I wish those writers would come back!

[beamis12 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A moving and bittersweet story of mothers, their children and second generation immigrants. When their mother is diagnosed with cancer, both children and their families, find their mothers in different ways. The daughter Mala, has always had somewhat of a contentious relationship with her mother but mother and daughter heal their relationship by cooking together. In the kitchen they become the friends they always wanted to be, bonding over the cooking of Indian food. The difference in the ethnic outlook of the parents, are contrasted with the difficulty of the son and daughter trying to fit in their new culture while the parents try to teach them the old. Parents, children sandwiched between taking care of their parents while trying to raise their own children are one the themes of this novel. Well written, fresh voiced about the cultural divide and family relationships. One of the things I was most impressed about was that the mother, whose voice we hear, is written by a male author and he has done quite well.

[jcambridge_4 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is the second of the author's books I have reviewed and again give it very high marks. From my own personal experiences as a daughter (and daughter-in-law), wife, mother, and grandmother, I found it interesting how similar the situations and experiences of the family are to my own -- despite coming from a totally different religious and ethnic heritage. The book shows how similar life experiences are across cultures. I applaud Majmudar for writing yet another book that deftly explores cultural dynamics and family emotions. (NOTE: I do wish some of the recipes the daughter was compiling had been an appendix to the book!) I highly recommend this book.

[signoraedie_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Being a granddaughter of Italian immigrants, I am drawn to stories of the immigrant experience and the connections between the generations so I was thrilled to receive the advance reader's copy of The Abundance. I am not overly familiar with the Indian culture so I looked forward to spending a few days immersed in the story. I found the portrayal of these immigrant parents and their children very touching and real. Narrated in the first person by the immigrant mother, I felt like I was in her head and in her heart as she navigated the last months of her life connecting and reconnecting with her two children. A victim of cancer, she tries valiantly not to impose her illness on her children. Their desire to be with her during this time presented the opportunity to bond in a new way. With her daughter, the bonding occurred over food...the passing on of traditional recipes as they cooked together in the kitchen. While there were moments of tension and discord, underneath was the deep love that existed between them. When I realized that the mother was dying I thought it might be a downer book...but not so. It is not a book about dying, but rather a book about living.

[cariola_6 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This book has gotten a lot of praise from LTers, and while I liked it well enough, I'm not quite as enthusiastic. There's something rather precious and emotionally manipulative about it. That may not bother some readers, but it does bother me; I want to be genuinely moved by a book, not manipulated. In some ways, of course, the story of a woman dying of cancer can't help but wring one's emotions, but still . . . The central storyline revolves around the narrator, an Indian immigrant to the US, attempting to strengthen the bonds with her two Americanized adult children in the final months of her life. Her daughter Mala, a doctor, flies home for long weekends, caring for and cooking with her mother. One of her goals is to learn how to make all of her mother's specialities and to write down the recipes; she is also writing a diary of their time together. Ronak (or Ron), a financial wizard who has married outside of the Indian culture and all but rejected it, visits less often, but enough to appear dutiful. He causes a brief crisis when he proposes selling a cookbook--along with the 'hook,' the story of the estranged daughter-dying mother reunion.Maybe it's because I went through this experience with my own mother, but I found the narrator almost too perfect and self-sacrificing to be real. She puts off telling her adult children and everyone else for as long as possible. She accepts but won't ask for help. She never complains. She makes excuses for her distant, uninvolved husband. She seems to have expectations for her children but won't voice them. I would say that perhaps this is just the way traditional Indian women act when they are seriously ill--except that we get quite another view in the flashbacks of the narrator taking care of her mother and mother-in-law in their final illnesses.As others have mentioned, Majmudar does an admirable job of creating a voice for his female narrator, and there are indeed some touching moments in The Abundance. I also give him credit for writing a book that couldn't be more different from his first, Partitions, which focused on the chaos and atrocities surrounding the division of India and Pakistan. Too often writers allow themselves to get pigeonholed, but that isn't the case here.

[loried_5 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I loved this book! It's beautifully written, very easy to relate to the characters. Although I am not Indian, I could feel the universality of family relationships portrayed in the book. Given the subject matter, it could have been a depressing book, but the author succeeded in making it a compelling read. I couldn't put it down. I would highly recommend this book, and I think it would be an excellent choice for book discussion groups.

[cameling_2 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

When a woman is diagnosed with terminal cancer, memories of the past, especially that of her children evolution from toddlers to adults flood back. As her children spend more time with her, Mala discovers how cooking with her mother and learning her recipes has given her the haven in which talk and share their own personal time. Ronak has been too detached from his family and what he deems to be the perfect plan threatens instead to cast him further away.This is a story of family, the resilience of love and in times of a crisis, the strength of their bond.

[carolee888 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The Abundance by Amit Majmudar is a beautifully written book about a mother dying and the effect of the experience on her husband and her children. The author has demonstrated such a tremendous sensitivity that makes you forget that the mother’s character is written by a man.The mother really wants a celebration of life instead of discussing her coming death. She loves it so much, she loves music, art, books and cooking, especially cooking. She wants to keep on loving life as long as she is alive. The kitchen is her empire. She could have completed her education and become a doctor but cooking was so natural to her and a big way of showing her love to her family. A good bit of the book expresses that and now I regret that I did not have time in the past to go with an Indian friend to the grocery and learn how to cook some Indian foods. That sadness was hanging around me as I read this book. I want to make the mother’s stuffed eggplants!Mala, her daughter who has always tried so hard for her mother’s love by being perfect, she felt in competition with her mother’s love with her brother Ronak. She works hard and becomes a doctor. The two are prone to quarrels with each other but that may be that they are alike. Ronak, the son does not follow the rules and has a finance career which is completely different from what his parents wanted but they still love him. The spouses are a part of this book too and I see myself akin to Amber, Ronak’s wife! The portrayal of Abhi was surprising rich with layers. He loves numbers as much as my husband! In fact, I could see my husband showing his love in the same gentle ways as Abhi. Mala told her mother that she was lucky that not many arranged marriages turn out to be so loving. Love marriage or arranged marriage, her mother was indeed fortunate to be married to a man who cared deeply for her.I highly recommend this book to all who interested in good marriages and Asian Indian families

[markon_305303 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I liked this book, but didn’t love it. The novel explores family dynamics when the mother of two adult children is diagnosed with terminal cancer. It’s readable, does a good job of portraying the layers of love, insecurities and competition that exist in families.(Read as part of the early reviewer program.)

[cherylk_44 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Mala and Ronak’s mother has a secret. She has terminal cancer. However is does not want her children to know as she does not want to ruin their visit home. She does not do a good job of hiding her secret. Once Mala and Ronak find out, they decide to spend more time with their mother. For Mala this means learning how to cook traditional Indian food. For Ronak, he pays a crew to plant his mother’s garden as she can not get out to do it herself. I have not read Mr. Majmudar’s Partitions, however after reading this book I will check it out. I absolutely loved, loved this book. Yes, I said loved twice. I could not read this book fast enough. This book is about family, love, friendship, food, and a happy ending. All filled with an intriguing cast of characters. My favorite person however is Mala and Ronak’s mother. She was kind and had such a caring heart. Even with her dying of terminal cancer she still put her family first. I thought that I would not like Mala in the beginning because she did have a bit of an edge to her but luckily it did not last long. Mala turned out to be a better mother to her two children due to her own mother and how close they became. All the yummy foods that they cooked together had my mouth watering. If books had smell-o-vision then I would be in trouble. I would have to make sure that I did not eat the book. Both Ronak and Mala and Ronak’s father were caring and warm-hearted. It was so easy to fall in love with everyone. The ending put a big smile on my face. The Abundance is filled with happiness, love, great food, loving characters, and a pinch of spice to make the right recipe for a best seller!

[carolynschroeder · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I thought this was just an exceptionally beautiful, sensitive and honest novel about a family on the brink of losing its nucleus, i.e., Mother (who is diagnosed with cancer at the onset of the story). I was ready to bristle at a male author taking on the perspective of an older woman (in first person, no less!), but he did so wonderfully. Although this is an Indian novel in many ways, the feelings, both good and bad, could be any family that struggles with the modernization and changes of each generation. The tension between the characters, mostly the grown daughter Mala and her Mother, are spare perfection, and I think we all have felt those feelings, or witnessed that kind of familial discord a time or 20. But what shines is the love. At the end of the day, the family pulls together and focuses on why they love each other, quirks and all. Highly recommended, especially if you like a family drama that stands above many out there today. And although the subject matter is sad, it is not a depressing novel. It is hopeful. But real.

[clara53_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

When getting a book through LibraryThing Early Reviewers, there is always that apprehension - what if the book is "so-so" and would require a "so-so" review... You have to be truthful, even while appreciating the generosity of the publishers....Thankfully, with this book, I didn't have to worry: it captivated me from the start and got deep under my skin. Not a happy story, but by the time you are done reading, you realize that it's not a depressing one, either. Terminal illness, reminiscences of the life passed and its predicaments, wondering whether priorities were fair, rekindling the relationship with grown children before it's too late, and also the parallel theme of imparting cooking skills to the daughter in the last months of the heroine's life - there wasn't a false note in the whole book, every gesture had a powerful meaning.It amazed me that a male author can write with such unique eloquence from the point view of a woman. Amit Majmudar is not a professional writer, but a radiologist - and yet talent is talent!... Though not a thriller, the novel was hard to put down. It took me by surprise that I could relate to it on so many levels. It brought me to tears countless number of times, the story often poignant to insanity, but more than that - it taught me more than one lesson. Surrounded by love during her last days, the protagonist remarks with sad irony that "dying is a kind of royalty", and while she pays her bills she is using "forever" stamps - another little irony of life... But the author assures: this is "not a book about dying, but about life" - which, in fact, is totally true if you come to think about it.One more point: to really appreciate this book it helps if one has a connection - like I happen to have - to Indian immigrant community here in U.S. Only then you can truly grasp certain subtle points and nuances of the narrative... Also, I will not hesitate at all to place this book on the same high level as Jhumpa Lahiri's "Namesake" and Aravind Adiga's "The White Tiger".

[esta1923 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

“The Abundance” by Amit MajmudarIn this beautiful/sad book Amit Majmudar takes its readers into the home of an unusual family at a time of crisis.The “I” of the text is a woman. Her voice and those of her family blend with the thoughts she reveals in the text: opinions she stifles, family history that enriches our understanding of the “now” we are watching unfold. She is a brave person.Her husband and her children are supportive, despite problems of their own;grandkids supply distractions. Food:its preparation and consumption,is as much a character as are the people.(“At home, when I made corn, we rubbed each length with a lemon wedge dipped in chili powder and salt. All they had here was butter, salt, and pepper.”) The four pages of notes I made while reading remind me of the moments I found most compelling. It is, however,the book’s final scene that I will cherish. I thank Amit Majmudar for his portrait of a valiant woman and her husband and family.