Rohinton Mistry’s A Fine Balance, first published in 1995, has long been celebrated for its haunting portrayal of India during the tumultuous years of the Emergency in the 1970s. Since its publication in the culminating phase of the 20th century, the book has secured a lasting place on the horizon of Indian English literature. Set in an unnamed Indian city, the novel weaves together the lives of four central characters: Dina Dalal, a Parsi widow; Ishvar and Omprakash, two tailors from a low-caste background; and Maneck Kohlah, a young student from the mountains. Their stories converge in a moment of social and political unrest, and the novel plunges the reader into a world where the personal and the political overlap with devastating effect. The critical acclaim the book has received is, in many ways, deserved. Mistry’s prose is elegant, his commitment to realism unwavering, and his characterisation nuanced. Yet, for all its literary sophistication, A Fine Balance falters when viewed through the lens of contemporary readership and social sensibility. It becomes increasingly complex to ignore the criticisms that the novel, though rich in historical texture, seems to wallow in the past, glorify human suffering, and offer little in the way of hope, relevance, or meaningful continuity with the present.

The narrative of A Fine Balance is expansive and detailed, offering a panoramic view of Indian society through its multi-caste and multi-class characters. Mistry brings out with remarkable precision the grim consequences of state violence, poverty, caste oppression, and personal loss. His style is observational and meditative, allowing the reader to witness the disintegration of individual dreams under the weight of systemic cruelty. However, as the novel progresses, the persistent emphasis on suffering can begin to feel overwhelming, if not indulgent. The author meticulously documents every misfortune that befalls his characters, leaving very little space for hope to emerge. One can admire the commitment to depicting the dark realities of Indian life. Still, the relentless barrage of tragedies, whether inflicted by institutions or by fate, creates a lopsided moral and emotional universe. It is in this sense that Alok Mishra’s critique gains significance: “Hope, not despair; resilience, not suffering; struggle, not pain. I guess Mistry might have mistaken pain for something timeless. It’s not. Hope, not pain, is timeless.” Mistry’s narrative, while undeniably powerful, seems to confuse the representation of endless pain with artistic profundity. In doing so, it overlooks the regenerative and universal appeal of hope, making the novel emotionally exhausting rather than inspiring.

Another dimension of critique is the novel’s inability to resonate with the sensibilities of today’s readers. Contemporary readers, particularly the younger demographic, are not necessarily uninterested in the past. They are, however, more attuned to narratives that explore the past to illuminate the present or chart a trajectory of progress, resistance, and change. A Fine Balance, despite its many virtues, remains tethered to a static vision of India’s past—one defined almost entirely by chaos, deprivation, and social decay. There is little interrogation of what comes next, no imaginative leap into the possibilities that survive beyond pain. The characters’ fates are sealed in a kind of terminal melancholy. For a reader living in the 2020s, who is constantly negotiating a rapidly changing social, digital, and political reality, Mistry’s refusal to inject a spirit of resistance or transformation into his narrative feels not only dated but disengaged. Unlike Amitav Ghosh, whose historical narratives often extend themselves into ecological, cultural, and political critique relevant to our time, Mistry’s work remains locked within the frame of a tragic past. It gropes for universality through suffering but ends up alienating those who look for agency and possibility in literature.

Furthermore, the novel’s depiction of suffering, particularly that of the lower classes, sometimes treads perilously close to exoticism. Mistry, in his attempt to portray the depth of caste-based exploitation and poverty, crafts scenes that are almost too painful to be honest, too consistently brutal to be credible as a reflection of life. There is, of course, no denying the historical veracity of many events depicted. Yet, how pain is aestheticised and repeated gives rise to the suspicion that suffering itself has become a kind of spectacle. The reader is drawn again and again into the despair of Om and Ishvar, whose physical mutilation and emotional annihilation occur with such dramatic finality that their experiences seem symbolic rather than personal. The same can be said of Dina and Maneck, who are systematically stripped of their agency and dignity. Mistry’s literary lens, rather than empowering these figures, turns them into emblematic representations of a nation in disrepair. One cannot help but wonder, in this context, if the author has “confined and battered hope in isolation” while allowing pain to run free across the narrative landscape, as Mishra aptly observes.

It is essential to recognise that A Fine Balance is not without moments of warmth and genuine human connection. The camaraderie between the tailors and Dina, the slow development of Maneck’s idealism, and the small joys of shared meals and storytelling offer brief interludes from the overarching bleakness. Yet these instances are fleeting and ultimately consumed by the overwhelming machinery of misfortune. The characters, each shaped with psychological depth, rarely escape the crushing determinism that surrounds them. This creates a sense of inevitability that stifles the narrative rather than expanding it. In a novel spanning nearly six hundred pages, the absence of redemptive arcs or even the possibility of inner transformation speaks less of artistic restraint and more of a narrative choice that favours closure through despair.

Critically, Mistry’s prose, while elegant and evocative, sometimes lapses into over-description and narrative inertia. The slow pacing, though meant to mirror the rhythms of ordinary life, can feel cumbersome when paired with the persistent onslaught of hardship. The author’s commitment to detailing every moment, every memory, and every misfortune risks alienating readers who seek emotional modulation, rather than constant descent. There are passages of rare lyrical beauty, particularly in the descriptions of urban life, social rituals, and personal grief; however, these are often overshadowed by the bleakness of the events they depict. In a time when narrative economy and emotional agility are valued, A Fine Balance occasionally feels like a literary relic from another age—one that demands patience but offers little reward in return.

Another issue that emerges upon close reading is the novel’s insistence on individual passivity in the face of systemic oppression. While it is true that the Emergency era was marked by authoritarianism and limited avenues for resistance, literature need not mirror helplessness so uncritically. There is little in the novel that points to organised resistance, political awakening, or even collective solidarity beyond personal relationships. Mistry’s narrative isolates suffering within the domestic and the individual, denying it a broader political or philosophical horizon. This narrow focus limits the novel’s interpretive scope. It prevents it from engaging with readers who view literature as a catalyst for thought, change, or at the very least, a challenge to prevailing power structures.

In juxtaposition with Indian literary greats such as R. K. Narayan and Raja Rao, or contemporary voices like Amitav Ghosh, Mistry’s work lacks the connective tissue that binds the past to the present or opens the present to the future. Narayan’s Malgudi may have been fictional, but it reflected real emotional landscapes and growth. Raja Rao, while metaphysical and philosophical, still gestured toward the evolution of Indian consciousness. Ghosh, perhaps the most telling comparison, infuses his historical narratives with urgent ecological and geopolitical relevance. In contrast, A Fine Balance remains fixated on wounds, treating them as sites of unending introspection rather than as points of departure. As Alok Mishra notes, “people, the everyday readers, seldom cared about A Fine Balance like they do for Amitav Ghosh these days or did for R.K. Narayan or Raja Rao in yesteryears.” This is not merely a commentary on popularity but a reflection of the novel’s limited emotional and intellectual mobility.

In conclusion, A Fine Balance is a work of undeniable craft and integrity. Its commitment to realism, character depth, and historical context is formidable. It offers a detailed, compassionate, and often gut-wrenching portrait of life in a particular moment of Indian history. However, its overindulgence in pain, its confinement of hope, and its reluctance to imagine alternative trajectories limit its contemporary appeal and emotional resonance. While it may continue to hold a place in academic syllabi and literary archives, its relevance to today’s readers—those seeking literature that confronts the past while energising the present—is tenuous at best. In its search for balance, the novel leans too heavily on despair, leaving little room for the affirming, enduring force of hope that literature, at its finest, should never forsake.

Explore more: Rohinton Mistry (a detailed critical biography and list of his works)

Review by Avinash for Egoistic Readers