With sparse, carefully constructed prose, the novel unfolds as though it were a nesting doll. Moving with June from her flat to one airport after another, I was anxious for the narrative to begin, anxious to get to India. The sparse and fragmented language in the beginning places the reader firmly with June’s interior and initially I longed for longer sentences, richer detail. And then comes a quiet encounter with a stranger on a plane, beautifully rendered, and then India.

June is not an idealized traveler in a hyper-realized world. She carries with her: a guide book, her journal, and her preconceived understanding of a place and of a journey. At every turn and with every encounter and experience filled with fellow travelers, beggars, the Hindu God, Ganesh, the purpose of her journey shifts, is more fully realized.

Dorothee Lang’s resistance to creating an idealized narrator or an exotic India allows the people and the landscape in her novel to shine—every detail like a jewel in the sand, as in this passage: "--There, on the page, the day hasn’t even started, it is white and unmarked yet. June takes her pencil, and sketches the temple, the river, the nutshell boat. Her Shanti hut. Now for a line about the day. She closes her eyes, to search her memory. There it is. Something Halille has said. Or was it Nel?

You start from scratch every time you arrive."

With the inclusion of Lang’s own travel bio and with a section of savvy travel tips, India is calling.