Sameer Gudhate Presents the Book Review of The Parijat Tree and Other Stories by Sameer Nagarajan

There’s something quietly unsettling about a tree that watches you. Not in a mythical, larger-than-life way — but in the way an old house watches its inhabitants age, fracture, betray, and forgive. That was the feeling I carried through The Parijat Tree and Other Stories by Sameer Nagarajan — the sense that these stories are not merely told, they are observed. Closely. Patiently. Almost clinically at times.

This collection moves across decades of Indian life — from the 70s to the anxious pulse of the present — and what struck me first wasn’t the range of genres. It was the emotional temperature. There’s heat here. Desire, shame, ambition, resentment, tenderness — all simmering just beneath ordinary domestic surfaces. A woman waiting at home. A boy navigating cruelty in a new city. A corporate executive watching his personal world tilt. On paper, these could be familiar premises. In execution, they rarely stay predictable.

What I appreciated most about the narrative design is how deceptively simple the prose feels. The sentences don’t strain for ornamentation, yet they carry weight. Many stories are written in first person, and that choice collapses distance between reader and character. You don’t feel like you’re watching events unfold — you feel implicated. At one point, I had to pause after a twist not because it shocked me loudly, but because it rearranged my sympathy. That subtle shift — that quiet moral destabilization — is where this book does its real work.

The pacing varies deliberately. Some pieces move briskly, almost like a sharp gust of wind that unsettles everything in minutes. Others linger, unfolding with a steadier rhythm that allows emotion to ferment. I found myself adjusting my breathing to match each story’s rhythm. That kind of control over narrative tempo isn’t accidental; it signals craft.

Thematically, there’s an undercurrent of transgression — sins committed openly and secretly. Lust, greed, betrayal, revenge. Yet the stories rarely feel moralistic. Instead, they function like mirrors held at uncomfortable angles. The India portrayed here is layered: feudal remnants rubbing against urban aspiration, farmers pushed to the brink, boardrooms hiding private fractures. One of the more haunting aspects is how frequently characters stand on the edge of moral compromise — and step forward anyway. “We fall not because we don’t see the abyss,” I found myself thinking, “but because we convince ourselves we can fly.” That, to me, is the quiet thesis threading through these tales.

The story “Chameleon” in particular carries a taut energy that borders on thriller territory. Its progression feels coiled, deliberate. But what stayed with me longer were quieter images — a rural landscape shaped by drought and pride, a household where silence grows heavier than accusation, a spectral presence seeking justice not out of horror but wounded dignity. These moments feel less like fiction and more like overheard confessions.

There are strengths here that deserve acknowledgment. First, the author’s psychological access — he understands how people rationalize their own undoing. Second, the willingness to step into uncomfortable subjects: sexuality, exploitation, social hierarchies, violence that often goes unnamed. Third, the structural variety; the anthology doesn’t flatten into sameness.

That said, not every story resonates equally. A few lean so heavily on their twist or dark undercurrent that the emotional aftermath feels slightly rushed. In certain places, I wanted the narrative to linger one page longer — to let consequence breathe. But even that impatience comes from engagement rather than indifference.

Who is this book for? Readers who enjoy short fiction that bites rather than soothes. Those who prefer layered character studies over neat resolutions. Anyone curious about how contemporary Indian realities — urban, rural, privileged, marginalized — can coexist within a single literary canvas.

By the end, I didn’t feel entertained in a light, disposable way. I felt observed. And that’s rarer. These stories don’t shout for attention; they sit beside you, waiting for you to admit what you recognize in them.

If you pick this up, don’t rush it. Let each story settle like evening light on an old courtyard — revealing cracks you hadn’t noticed before.

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