No need for a map to get lost in the millions of metaphors this book is sprinkled liberally with. A story of a Pakistani family and South Asian community lost in trying to finding ways of living (and loving) in Dasht-e-Tanhai (the "Desert of Solitutde") somewhere in England. In the way of (according to the author) Pakistani thinking, the language brims with flowers (and moths & butterflies) in a way that is entirely and utterly enjoyable. ( )

Beautifully poetic writing, with a very sad story. I wish that a few things, particularly surrounding the murders at the center of the book, hadn't been made as clear by the end. The uncertainty was more powerful, I think. I was also bothered by the amount of hypocrisy in the words and actions of a number of characters. The hypocrisy of the more fundamentalist characters is clearly held against them, but there's a great deal of hypocrisy that goes less highlighted in the characters that we are meant to find more sympathetic. That said, the book is overall honest in showing the failings of both sides, and it provides a really interesting look at people caught between two cultures. ( )

Shamas and Jugnu are the unconventional sons of an accidental Muslim, a Hindu boy rendered amnesiac by a bomb blast in the wake of the Amritsar riots and subsequently adopted by Muslims. His younger sons (now adults) live with the slight tarnish to their name his legacy brings; the hothouse gossip-beds of their immigrant community in Britain thrives on such morsels.

When Jugnu falls in love with Chanda, twice-divorced daughter of a local shopkeeper, they outrage the faithful - including Kaukab, his sister-in-law - by moving in together. Months later, they go on a trip home to Pakistan and are never seen again. When Kaukab asks some boys to peer in their window, it becomes evident that they came home, and a police investigation begins.

Picking up some months later, Maps for Lost Lovers explores the fractures and griefs within a community that holds itself wilfully separate from its host nation, fearful of ridicule, racism, and ritual pollution. Slowly unfolding stories that wind about the core tragedy, it is a little like a toccata and fugue, revisiting the same themes through varying iterations to underscore - or perhaps explain - the culturally acceptable murder that is an honour killing in Pakistan.

This is beautifully written stuff, shamelessly slow and given to evoking floral and butterfly imagery (Jugnu is a lepidopterist) in such detail that the colours and scents leap off the page, as do the sharp smells and rich flavours of Kaukab's glorious cooking. It contrasts harshly with the often-unthinkable beliefs that the novel confronts you with, and the human frailties that are exposed by them.

It lost me a little in the penultimate act, where it ultimately felt like polemic (in part because there is no illustration of a moderate or integrated Islam anywhere within the tale). Kaukab's confrontation with her beloved son Ujala is the only time we hear from him directly, and his assault on her faith feels like the voice of the author in part because Ujala has been given no voice of his own. I think I would have been happier too without the final act, where the truths of Jugnu's and Chanda's disappearance are spelled out; this wasn't a story that left me craving certainty.

It's a fairly minor gripe. This is a powerful novel, if difficult reading, and I highly recommend it. ( )

One of my favourite books - a dark story of honour killing told in beautifully poetic language. ( )

The prose is rich but too many similes make it difficult to get to the point. Story itself is gripping. Though perhaps the Muslim orthodoxy part is overdone as it is everywhere you look in the book. ( )