The Immortals is a gentle, unshowy novel. Chaudhuri eschews dramatic fireworks in favour of instances of mordant insight and affectionate humour (particularly directed against Nirmalya’s parents), which stud the text like currants in a rock bun.

Mr Sengupta had just been made Head of Finance. He was steadying himself after the congratulations; he was weary of the felicitatory food he’d eaten at parties — he felt full all the time.

The narrative spans the period of Nirmalya’s childhood, advancing seamlessly through the years against a richly detailed backdrop of Bombay’s smarter residential quarters.

Chaudhuri’s prose has a luminous, unforced elegance which is consistently engaging and wholly delightful, though readers unfamiliar with the trappings of Indian life may regret the absence of a glossary. If The Immortals reaches no dramatic conclusions, its spheres of enquiry — a young man’s coming of age, his parents’ acceptance of the perimeters and possibilities of the lives they have made for themselves — possess universal appeal which resonates beyond the confines of this accomplished and absorbing novel.

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