Sameer Gudhate Presents the Book Review of Aiyyo, What Will the Neighbours Say? by Aruna Nambiar
- Sameer Gudhate
- 1 hour ago
- 3 min read
There’s a particular sound that echoes through Indian homes—a sharp intake of breath followed by a whispered, scandalised question: Aiyyo… what will the neighbours say? It’s not just a sentence. It’s a mood. A warning. Sometimes even a full-blown philosophy of life. I smiled the moment I opened Aruna Nambiar’s Aiyyo, What Will the Neighbours Say? because I knew, instinctively, that this book understood that sound better than most people ever will.
Reading these thirteen stories felt like sitting in a familiar living room at dusk, ceiling fan humming, filter coffee cooling on the table, while someone tells you “just one small incident” that somehow spirals into something far bigger. Nambiar takes everyday moments—an argument between a mother and son about what happens after death, a conducted tour that slowly unravels, senior citizens grappling with social media, a bad mood that snowballs by sunset—and turns them inside out. Not loudly. Not cruelly. But with a quiet confidence that trusts the reader to recognise themselves in the mess.
What struck me first was the prose. It’s clean, observant, and deceptively light. There’s no excess ornamentation here, no literary showing-off. The narrative voice feels like someone leaning in and saying, “You won’t believe this, but…” That restraint gives the humour its power. The jokes land because they are rooted in character, not cleverness for its own sake. The pacing, too, is finely judged—each story moves briskly, but never feels rushed, leaving just enough space for the twist to arrive and settle.
And those twists matter. Each story ends somewhere unforeseen—sometimes ironic, sometimes tender, sometimes quietly unsettling. Yet none of them feel gimmicky. They feel earned. Like life itself, where meaning often reveals itself only in retrospect. One moment you’re laughing at the absurdity of social media mishaps; the next, you’re pausing, reflecting on how quickly pride, fear, or nostalgia can take over an ordinary day.
The characters are the book’s greatest strength. They are not heroes or villains. They are neighbours, parents, tourists, retirees—people with good intentions and flawed execution. Nambiar’s sharp observation captures the small anxieties that drive them: reputation, belonging, being right, being seen. What makes the experience richer is how familiar faces reappear across stories. Just when you think you’ve left someone behind, they walk back in through another door, creating a quiet continuity that mirrors real communities, where lives overlap in unexpected ways.
There’s a gentle literary intelligence at work here. The themes—mortality, modernity, superstition, memory, love—are never announced. They surface naturally, through conversation, misunderstanding, and consequence. A forgotten toy, rediscovered and revered years later, becomes a meditation on memory and meaning. A boyhood passion turning into a man’s enduring love feels less like a plot point and more like a lived truth. The emotional impact sneaks up on you. I found myself chuckling one moment and then sitting still the next, letting a line or image linger.
If there’s a hesitation at all, it’s that some stories end so neatly you almost wish to stay with the characters a little longer. But that, too, feels intentional—like the author closing the door softly, trusting you to imagine what happens next. This collection isn’t trying to overwhelm you. It invites reflection, not consumption.
In terms of functional value, this is an immensely readable book. You can dip in and out, read one story before bed, or finish several in a single sitting. It’s accessible without being shallow, and re-readable because the humour deepens once you know where each narrative is heading. Anyone who has grown up in India—or lived long enough anywhere to care about what others think—will find something achingly relatable here.
Seen in the trajectory of Aruna Nambiar’s work, this collection feels like a natural transformation. From novels that chronicled Indian quirks, she moves into short fiction with control and ease, proving her comic eye is just as sharp in smaller spaces. These stories feel timely, culturally rooted, and yet universal in their emotional impact.
I finished Aiyyo, What Will the Neighbours Say? with the sense that I’d been gently nudged—toward laughter, toward empathy, toward looking at my own daily dramas with a little more kindness. Like a neighbour’s window left slightly open at night, these stories let you glimpse the chaos, tenderness, and absurdity behind respectable curtains. And once you’ve seen that, you can’t quite unsee it.
If you’re looking for a book that feels human, observant, and quietly delightful, pick this up. Read it slowly. Smile often. And maybe, just maybe, worry a little less about what the neighbours might say.
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