Heart Lamp Review

 

Author: Banu Mushtaq
Translated by: Deepa Bhathi.
Publisher: Penguin Random House India
Genre: Short Stories

    The Heart Lamp, originally written in Kannada by Banu Mushtaq and translated into English by Deepa Bhasthi, is a collection of twelve short stories spread across roughly 200 pages. Rooted in ordinary, everyday lives, the book explores love, marriage, faith, gender, silence, and suffering with an honesty that is both unsettling and deeply moving. Rather than offering escape or comfort, the collection demands emotional engagement and reflection.

Some books entertain. Some books educate. And then there are rare books that do something far more dangerous, they reach inside the reader, light a flame, and refuse to let it die quietly. The Heart Lamp belongs firmly to this last category. It does not simply illuminate the heart; it unsettles it, softens it, and ultimately leaves it exposed. After I had finished reading or rather the book was done with me, I was surprised to find huge damp circles on the page; the emotional response was unexpected and overwhelming. By the time the final story ended, what remained was a quiet emptiness, the kind that lingers long after the book is closed.

I approached The Heart Lamp with very few expectations. Having recently rekindled my love for reading, I picked up the book out of curiosity after hearing that it had won the Booker Prize. I had little idea of what awaited me. The opening stories welcome the reader with a gentle, almost playful tone. There are moments of humor and lightness, scenes that provoke sudden laughter, the kind that makes others wonder what you are reacting to.

This lightness, however, is short-lived. Gradually, laughter fades into mild unease, unease turns into confusion, and confusion deepens into concern. Almost without noticing, I found  my emotional defenses weakening. Eyes begin to burn, pages begin to blur, and the tone of the stories shifts from casual observation to emotional confrontation. In just twelve stories, the book took me through a complete emotional arc, culminating in a storm that leaves no part untouched.

One of the most striking aspects of The Heart Lamp is how it refuses to allow emotional distance. These are the kinds of stories we often hear from afar, tragedies that happen to someone, somewhere. Mushtaq does not allow the reader to remain a passive observer. Instead, the narratives draw you in, making us feel complicit in the unfolding events. While reading, I found myself hoping that something, anything, would change in the characters’ favor. I imagined alternate endings, searched for solutions, and waited for moments of redemption.

That redemption rarely arrives. The book delivers a harsh but necessary truth: life does not follow the structure of fairy tales. Not every story ends with closure, justice, or happiness. Unlike the rainbows we are taught to chase, The Heart Lamp pulls the reader down from illusion and places them firmly on the grey ground of reality.

The opening story, centered on Iftiar and Shaista, establishes the emotional tone for the collection. Their relationship is tender and affectionate, filled with moments of genuine care. Yet it is also deeply unsettling. While their love as partners is admirable, their choices as parents are difficult to accept. Reading their story felt like plucking rose petals: liking and disliking them at the same time. The story forces the reader to confront uncomfortable truths about generational thinking and emotional inheritance.

The ending of this first story is quiet but devastating, and it sets a pattern that repeats throughout the book. A recurring reaction emerged as I moved from one story to the next: a deep sense of frustration, often directed toward male characters. This response, however, is not rooted in mockery or simplification. Over time, it becomes clear that the true antagonist of the book is not individual men, but patriarchy itself, a system that normalizes emotional neglect, silences women, and places endurance above happiness.

As the collection progresses, this pattern becomes increasingly difficult to ignore. Women are repeatedly expected to adjust, forgive, and endure, often in silence. Their suffering is not always dramatic or visible, but it is persistent and deeply ingrained. The stories reveal how control, neglect, and unspoken rules shape lives quietly, often without any obvious villain.

The title story, The Heart Lamp, marks a significant turning point in the collection. In retrospect, the earlier stories feel almost like a preparation; a slow introduction to the emotional terrain that follows. This story functions as a bridge, shifting the reader from observation to full emotional immersion. From this point onward, the narratives grow heavier, and the emotional impact intensifies. Resistance becomes impossible. Stopping midway no longer feels like an option; the reader is compelled to continue, regardless of the discomfort.

From here on, emotional restraint collapses entirely. Grief, anger, love, despair, and fleeting hope rise to the surface all at once. No amount of reminding oneself that it is “just a book” offers protection. The stories insist on being felt rather than simply read.

One of the book’s greatest strengths is its cultural depth. Set largely within the Muslim community, the stories draw on specific customs, rituals, and social expectations. As someone not deeply familiar with these traditions, I found myself learning constantly. On several occasions, I turned to the Internet to better understand certain terms and practices.

What is particularly striking, however, is how familiar these stories feel despite their specific cultural setting. The emotions, family dynamics, conflicts, and expectations transcend boundaries with ease. Love, disappointment, sacrifice, and resignation are not confined to any one community. The cultural specificity adds richness, but the emotional truth remains universal.

This universality is especially evident in the story titled Fire Rain. Despite its intense title, the story balances humor and reflection with remarkable precision. On the surface, it is amusing and light. Beneath that surface, it offers sharp commentary on social norms, contradictions, and unspoken pressures. The story lingers not because of its events, but because of what it quietly exposes.

The simplicity of the language is another major strength of The Heart Lamp. The prose is clean, direct, and free-flowing, allowing emotion to take center stage without unnecessary decorations. The pacing feels natural; never rushed, yet never stagnant. Mushtaq’s ability to create vivid characters and grounded settings made it easy to blend seamlessly into each story.

Deepa Bhasthi’s translation deserves special mention for preserving both clarity and emotional nuance. The language never feels heavy or forced, and the emotional weight of the original writing carries through effectively in English.

Even the physical design of the book adds to the reading experience. The cover is soft and understated, visually calm and inviting. This gentleness stands in sharp contrast to the emotional turbulence contained within its pages, almost disguising the intensity of what lies ahead.

In the end, The Heart Lamp is not an easy book to read, but it is an essential one. It offers no comfort through fantasy and no relief through resolution. Instead, it offers honesty. It reminds the reader that reality is often unkind, that love is complicated, and that silence can be as destructive as cruelty.

When I finished the book, I found myself sitting quietly, absorbing everything I had read. Despite the discomfort it creates, the book leaves a lasting impression. I am certain that every woman will find something in these stories that resonates deeply. The Heart Lamp stay with the reader not because it offers hope, but because it forces confrontation with the truth—and that, perhaps, is its greatest achievement.

I would rate the book 4.8/5.