Rich Tapestry of Indian Life Is Folded Into One Building

Manil Suri, a mathematics professor at the University of Maryland, has created a world within a world with his debut novel, “The Death of Vishnu” (Harper Audio; unabridged fiction; eight cassettes; seven hours; $39.95; read by John Lee).

Shading his novel with a sly comic undertone, the Bombay-born author created a microcosm of modern-day India within the walls of a middle-class apartment building. As Vishnu, an alcoholic odd-job man, lies dying on the staircase within the building, his neighbors squabble over who will pay for an ambulance. As Vishnu contemplates his life, we learn of the mother who named him after the Hindu god and of the prostitute he once loved.

Suri writes with great insight, capturing the cultural, economic and religious differences among the tenants and the many people in and around the building that serve and barter and sell. Much of the novel’s humor is found in the elopement of rebellious Kavita Asrani with a boy her parents would never choose for her.

Kavita narrates her life as if she were living in a movie. Her romance is brash and witty, while a tender love story between the reclusive Vinod Taneja and his long-dead wife resonates with sadness and longing. Mr. Jalal, who becomes the building’s scapegoat when tempers flare, is obsessively seeking the meaning of life when he decides that Vishnu just may be the actual god and not merely an irresponsible drunk. And then there are the Asranis and the Pathaks, whose argumentative wives share a kitchen and bring much discord to their families and the building. Suri mixes passages from Hindu mythology with scenes lifted from Bollywood movies and slices of mundane, everyday life.

Narrator John Lee ably delivers all that is thought-provoking and entertaining in this breakout novel. Lee has a rich, low voice and an even manner. His diction is clear and crisp, and he reads with a leisurely pace that befits the story, but is not so slow as to make it drag. He easily adopts various regional accents and is surprisingly adept at women’s voices. He also handles the sexual scenes dotting this fictional landscape with tenderness and sensuality.

One small problem with the production is that it often moved too quickly from one story in the apartment building to another. A bit of music or a longer break would have helped us to leave one tale behind before settling into the next one. The novel is followed by an interview between Suri and Pulitzer Prize-winning author Michael Cunningham. It reveals a few interesting tidbits about the author and his writing, but is generally more static than not.

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I am guilty of judging a book by its cover. “Renato’s Luck,” by Jeff Shapiro, looked like such a fun and breezy diversion that I could not resist. Unfortunately, this debut novel is so lightweight and lengthy that it fails to deliver the escapism so welcome during tax season. (Books on Tape, unabridged fiction; eight cassettes; 11 hours; $29.95; read by Edward Lewis.)

The novel begins with great promise as Renato Tizzoni, a waterworks man in a pretty Tuscan village, finds himself entangled in a midlife crisis. His family is having problems, his marriage is boring him, a dear friend has just died, and everyone he encounters seems burdened with their own weighty troubles.

The answer to his problems and those of the people around him comes to Renato in a dream. He decides he must make a list of everyone he knows, dutifully writing down one wish from each friend or relative. He thinks he must travel to Rome and shake the pope’s hand as he touches the list. Renato believes this will change his luck.

While Shapiro captures the sweetly picturesque details of life in a small Italian community, the story is just too, too winsome. Everyone is a character, everyone believes that Renato’s silly dream will bring them luck and even save the town, which is scheduled to be flooded when a new dam is built. It does not take long for us to see where the story is headed and wish it would just get there quickly.

Not helping matters is narrator Lewis. He is a mediocre talent at best. Though his Italian pronunciations are right on the mark, his delivery ranges between monotone and singsong. He attempts different voices for characterization, but we can only wish he hadn’t. Emotional dialogue of any kind is delivered in the same grating whine, no matter the gender of the speaker or the subject matter. The result is tedious, and 11 hours is a long time to spend with a so-so novel and a less-than-pleasing narrator.

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Rochelle O’Gorman reviews audio books every other week. Next week: Dick Lochte on mystery books.