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Amma is a book I deeply admire, even if I didn’t fully connect with it on this first read. It’s an ambitious and thematically rich novel that spans generations and continents, exploring the far-reaching consequences of a single act of violence committed by a child in 1951 Singapore. Josephina’s decision to kill her abuser shapes not only her life but that of her daughter, Sithara, and granddaughter, Annie. The story traverses Sri Lanka, New Zealand, Australia, and London, unpacking trauma, diaspora, queer desire, and identity with an unflinching honesty.
The prose is lyrical, vivid, and emotionally intelligent. The character development is strong, the settings atmospheric, and thematically it ticks every box I usually love in literature—intergenerational storytelling, queerness, diasporic narratives, and richly complex women’s lives.
And yet… I just couldn’t quite get into it. It’s hard to articulate why, exactly. I kept waiting for the moment when the book and I would fully click, but it never really happened. It feels like meeting someone who, on paper, you should be best friends with—you share values, interests, everything—but the chemistry just isn’t there. Maybe I came to it at the wrong time. Maybe I needed a different headspace. I don’t think the book is the problem. I don’t think I’m the problem. I think we just didn’t meet each other at the right moment.
That said, I would genuinely reread it. I have a sense that if I came back to it, something might fall into place. And I can absolutely see why so many people love this novel. It’s powerful, important, and worthy of attention—even if this time, it wasn’t quite mine.