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I don’t know if it would be unwise of me to consider this book underrated based merely on the fact that I know only two other people who have read it. I’ve a suspicion that the arts community at my university is a bit of a Carter-not-reading pocket, just like it is a Pratchett-reading pocket, which makes me sad because Carter is one of the best female authors I have read. She’s perhaps the only female author I’m genuinely fond of, someone who can write chaos and humour and sadness at the same time.

Wise Children was the first Carter novel I read, a couple of years ago from a tattered BCL copy (which I nevertheless failed to locate at the next BCL Book Bazaar). It is written in the backdrop of burlesque and early Hollywood and a lot of old-world glamour and a lot of Shakespeare. There are a lot of excellent music references. Since no one has made a film out of the book yet, I collected all the music individually and compiled them into a fictitious album, which has been one of the most happy-making albums I’ve owned till date.

A book that is sad and moving and deeply beautiful. Rife with guilt and anguish, but more memorably, never have I read an author who writes music so effectively into text.

If I was given another choice I’d have included Norwegian Wood in this post (and now I have). It bothers me somewhat that both of these are novels of memory, loss and isolation, and that both of them anchor back to the time at college. I have one year left of college. I wonder if my selections are trying to say something I do not (yet) acknowledge.

All I can say about The Master and Margarita is that it’s an absolute, unbelievable, pants-charming-off delight; and once again my words fall greatly short of describing the brilliance of a book to anyone who hasn’t read it.

First read in a lonely hotel room in Bangalore years ago while I struggled to clear my head of confusion and undeserved transferred guilt, this novel is a bit of a carnival featuring lovers, writers, historical figures, the Devil, a giant black cat, Jesus Christ, Pontius Pilate and layers, layers, layers, layers. It’s funny and clever and ruthless and heartbreaking. It’s a riot. It manages to suck me right in even on my worst days and fill me up to here with wonder and awe. If there was no other book in the world and only this, you wouldn’t find me complaining one bit.