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3.49 AVERAGE
3.49 AVERAGE
So. Much. Cow. Information.
Less memoir, more informational in my book. Titling it "an unexpected adventure" seems a bit like hyperbole as nothing too crazy adventurous appears to happen. Informational and semi interesting, but could be advertised differently. Also, not a huge fan on how the author's reflections on those poorer than her.
Less memoir, more informational in my book. Titling it "an unexpected adventure" seems a bit like hyperbole as nothing too crazy adventurous appears to happen. Informational and semi interesting, but could be advertised differently. Also, not a huge fan on how the author's reflections on those poorer than her.
I wasn't mentally prepared for this to be so much about Hinduism and the how and why of cow worship.
Shoba Narayan's wonderfully charming book will entertain and inform you. Weaving pieces of India's rich culture in which cows play a significantly reverent part, she tells a personal story of an unlikely friendship that in transcending education and culture serves as reminder that no matter which way the winds of life have taken us in our individual journeys, the humanity that we share will always bind us together.
Thank you to Netgalley and the publisher for an advance copy of the book in exchange for an honest review.
I thoroughly enjoyed Shoba Narayan’s memoir.
First of all it was the milk: sweet, fresh and healing milk. Milk is friendship and family; connection and compromise; nourishment and nostalgia; reconnection and remedy. The milk was as sweet as Shoba and Sarala’s budding friendship.
The it dawns on the reader: “The milk is so good because it comes from the cow.” And now you’re hooked. I never thought I’d enjoy reading a book about cows, but this one got me.
I loved Shoba’s vivid descriptions of trips to the countryside, the food! and the occasional dip into history.
I would have loved to read more about how her daughters and husband adjusted to life back in India; she touched on this but not in great detail. Maybe another book? :-)
I thoroughly enjoyed Shoba Narayan’s memoir.
First of all it was the milk: sweet, fresh and healing milk. Milk is friendship and family; connection and compromise; nourishment and nostalgia; reconnection and remedy. The milk was as sweet as Shoba and Sarala’s budding friendship.
The it dawns on the reader: “The milk is so good because it comes from the cow.” And now you’re hooked. I never thought I’d enjoy reading a book about cows, but this one got me.
I loved Shoba’s vivid descriptions of trips to the countryside, the food! and the occasional dip into history.
I would have loved to read more about how her daughters and husband adjusted to life back in India; she touched on this but not in great detail. Maybe another book? :-)
Since I haven't yet travelled to India, I rely on books and friends for once-removed experience. This spare memoir, with its focus on a family of urban dairy purveyors, is also the tale of returning home, with the breadth of an expat's experience and the hubris developed in city life. I learned many details about cows, Indian and imported, and perhaps this explains my recent fixation on milk, cream, and home-kitchen cheese experiments. Many thanks to the author for bringing parts of southern India to life for me, and leaving me wanting so much more.
adventurous
funny
hopeful
lighthearted
medium-paced
I'm not sure I got much out of this book. It's interesting that someone returning to India from abroad was so surprised at how much cows became a part of their life, but honestly I just wanted a story *about* the milk lady, not one featuring her as chief supporting actress.
The Milk Lady of Bangalore is a memoir by Shoba Narayan, who moved to the United States to attend college twenty years ago then got married to another South Indian and had two daughters. With the desire to expose their children to the motherland after being away for twenty years, Narayan and her spouse move to Bangalore, the capital of Karnataka, with their American children. Bangalore is a city of twelve million residents and is called the Indian Silicon Valley for its tech industry. However, people in poverty with rural jobs still exist right outside Narayan’s city door, including Sarala and her family, who milk cows on the street.
Fearful of diseases after reading warnings from agencies like the CDC, Narayan ignores the warnings and buys fresh milk from Sarala. Her logic is personal, despite risks to her family’s health:
Though I enjoyed the premise of The Milk Lady of Bangalore, I came away from the memoir feeling as distant as if I had not opened the cover. Narayan often claims she feels deeply about something — a calf born of the cow she purchases, a dog she had for three years that dies, Sarala and her family — but tends to shrug her shoulders, imply an “oh, well!” and move on with her life. Narayan’s American, citified daughters are supposed to be thrilled they own (donated) a cow, but the author fails to capture their excitement or even the time her children spend with the animal. Had the author woven together her family’s experiences with fresh milk from Sarala’s cows and how they adjusted to living in India, I would have been more interested.
Though she describes moments that are called “only in India,” such as riding in a rickshaw, drinking cow urine to cure whatever ails a person, dragging a cow through a new apartment to bless it, and describing how the milk tastes (which is supposed to change based on what the cow eats, whether it has had a calf, and its emotional state), I had a hard time picturing the setting. I missed out on the distinct foods and flavors, smells, and feel of living in southern India. Coconuts are mentioned a few times. Those rickshaw rides didn’t feel terrifying, but the author claims she’s in a few vehicular crashes in her memoir. I could easily forget Banglaore is a tech hub with giant shiny buildings. Narayan could have been living in decimated inner city Detroit for as vivid as her setting was.
Narayan’s own feelings are a mystery, keeping readers at arm’s length. When I reached the end of The Milk Lady of Bangalore only to learn that Narayan has lost track of the milk woman who sells her product across the street from Narayan’s apartment building, I was surprised. For no reason explained to readers, Narayan goes back to buying processed milk like an American, and Sarala is forgotten. There is no connection made between milk, India, Narayan’s family, or the author’s identity.
It feels like the author is say, “Haha, wasn’t this a funny moment in my life, me buying a cow?” but it’s hard to feel jovial when she barely investigates her own feelings, personal growth, or reflects on her efforts to recapture the “simple times” of her childhood. A very underwhelming book.
Fearful of diseases after reading warnings from agencies like the CDC, Narayan ignores the warnings and buys fresh milk from Sarala. Her logic is personal, despite risks to her family’s health:
The reason I want to buy milk from a cow is because I’m trying to recapture the simple times of my childhood, particularly after the intricate dance that I have undertaken for the last twenty years as an immigrant in America.Narayan gets to know Sarala’s family better when they ask her to buy a cow to replace one that was recently hit in the street. Due to India’s history and religious attitude toward cattle, Narayan can reasonably donate to Sarala a cow and call it a gift to her father and father-in-law, who have 80th birthdays close together. Finding the perfect bovine takes a long time, much travel, and a great deal of arguing with Sarala’s son. Overall, this is the entire plot of the memoir.
Though I enjoyed the premise of The Milk Lady of Bangalore, I came away from the memoir feeling as distant as if I had not opened the cover. Narayan often claims she feels deeply about something — a calf born of the cow she purchases, a dog she had for three years that dies, Sarala and her family — but tends to shrug her shoulders, imply an “oh, well!” and move on with her life. Narayan’s American, citified daughters are supposed to be thrilled they own (donated) a cow, but the author fails to capture their excitement or even the time her children spend with the animal. Had the author woven together her family’s experiences with fresh milk from Sarala’s cows and how they adjusted to living in India, I would have been more interested.
Though she describes moments that are called “only in India,” such as riding in a rickshaw, drinking cow urine to cure whatever ails a person, dragging a cow through a new apartment to bless it, and describing how the milk tastes (which is supposed to change based on what the cow eats, whether it has had a calf, and its emotional state), I had a hard time picturing the setting. I missed out on the distinct foods and flavors, smells, and feel of living in southern India. Coconuts are mentioned a few times. Those rickshaw rides didn’t feel terrifying, but the author claims she’s in a few vehicular crashes in her memoir. I could easily forget Banglaore is a tech hub with giant shiny buildings. Narayan could have been living in decimated inner city Detroit for as vivid as her setting was.
Narayan’s own feelings are a mystery, keeping readers at arm’s length. When I reached the end of The Milk Lady of Bangalore only to learn that Narayan has lost track of the milk woman who sells her product across the street from Narayan’s apartment building, I was surprised. For no reason explained to readers, Narayan goes back to buying processed milk like an American, and Sarala is forgotten. There is no connection made between milk, India, Narayan’s family, or the author’s identity.
It feels like the author is say, “Haha, wasn’t this a funny moment in my life, me buying a cow?” but it’s hard to feel jovial when she barely investigates her own feelings, personal growth, or reflects on her efforts to recapture the “simple times” of her childhood. A very underwhelming book.
Who knew there were so many uses for cow urine and poo?!
After living in the US for 20 years, Shoba and her family return to India to reconnect with their roots. Shortly after moving in to their new apartment she becomes somewhat obsessed with the lady selling milk in the street - and her cows. A friendship with benefits is tentatively formed, and we begin to learn everything we could ever hope to about Cows and their “products”.
After living in the US for 20 years, Shoba and her family return to India to reconnect with their roots. Shortly after moving in to their new apartment she becomes somewhat obsessed with the lady selling milk in the street - and her cows. A friendship with benefits is tentatively formed, and we begin to learn everything we could ever hope to about Cows and their “products”.
3.75/5
A well gelled narrative. The flow of the text was gripping and like a novel kept me hooked for the most part. The narrative at the end didn't mirror the expertise that was there in the remainder three-fourths of text. I wish it too had been better.
Based on the title and premise I expected that the author had owned a cow in Bangalore, owned in the true sense and that's what got me intrigued. But the author owned the cow only in a managerial sense, in a very vicarious way.
Most of the chapters are like narrative interspersed with either cultural or scientific discussions on the cow as a species mostly Bos indicus, or sometimes both.
A well gelled narrative. The flow of the text was gripping and like a novel kept me hooked for the most part. The narrative at the end didn't mirror the expertise that was there in the remainder three-fourths of text. I wish it too had been better.
Based on the title and premise I expected that the author had owned a cow in Bangalore, owned in the true sense and that's what got me intrigued. But the author owned the cow only in a managerial sense, in a very vicarious way.
Most of the chapters are like narrative interspersed with either cultural or scientific discussions on the cow as a species mostly Bos indicus, or sometimes both.
So. Much. Cow. Information.
Less memoir, more informational in my book. Titling it "an unexpected adventure" seems a bit like hyperbole as nothing too crazy adventurous appears to happen. Informational and semi interesting, but could be advertised differently. Also, not a huge fan on how the author's reflections on those poorer than her.
Less memoir, more informational in my book. Titling it "an unexpected adventure" seems a bit like hyperbole as nothing too crazy adventurous appears to happen. Informational and semi interesting, but could be advertised differently. Also, not a huge fan on how the author's reflections on those poorer than her.