Published every Friday, Between the Lines is a weekly column by Namrata.This week, she asks why so many South Asian novels seem to wander away from their own plots and why those detours are often where their deepest truths lie.
We have been taught to distrust stories that wander. A novel, according to most contemporary writing advice, should move with purpose. Every chapter must advance the plot. Every scene should reveal character or raise the stakes. Anything that delays the narrative is often dismissed as unnecessary exposition, indulgence, or simply slow writing. We have become so accustomed to stories that hurry us towards their endings that the slightest detour can feel like a mistake. And still, some of the most memorable South Asian novels seem almost determined to resist this logic.
Just as a story gathers momentum, a grandmother begins recounting a folktale from her childhood. A journey pauses while someone explains the history of an old mango tree. A family meal unfolds over several pages, carrying recipes, memories, jokes, and long-forgotten quarrels. A seemingly minor character suddenly takes over the narrative, telling a story that appears unrelated until, much later, it transforms our understanding of everything that came before.
These moments can feel like interruptions, especially to readers trained to expect relentless narrative momentum. But what if they are not interruptions at all and rather, they are the story’s true method. What if these novels are not losing their way but asking us to rethink what it means for a story to move forward?
The question is worth asking because speed has become one of the defining values of contemporary storytelling. We binge-watch television series over a weekend. Publishers speak of page-turners. Creative writing manuals urge authors to cut anything that does not serve the central narrative. We consume stories as though they were destinations to be reached as quickly as possible.