The narrator is variously 'nine or 10'' a teenager training to be a journalist. Pinto seems reluctant to locate his narrative in a definite present. But I still wanted to be in that flat in Bombay, living the lives of these people at the same time as they were living them. This structure – the interview-like conversation, which is interspersed with recollections, anecdotes, short scenes and letters and diaries from the time of the parents' 12-year courtship – is interesting. And, of course, how she became unwell enough to say 'the cock and cunt' thing when the narrator is only nine or 10. I knew I would love spending time in this flat in Bombay with these kids who have to endure their mother, Em, accusing them of being 'Oedipal-Shmeedipal' and saying things such as, 'I thought you boys knew everything about the cock and cunt business.' But it soon becomes clear that we're not really in the flat in Bombay: we are in 'Ward 33 (Psychiatric), Sir JJ Hospital', where the narrator and his sister are in conversation with their mother, learning about her past, particularly how she met their father, the Big Hoom. The blurb promises a family living in a tiny flat in Bombay where the mother is manic-depressive, prone to charmingly termed 'microweathers'.

Its pink, green and yellow cover has endorsements from Salman Rushdie, Kiran Desai and Amitav Ghosh.

When it arrived, it looked so attractive I could hardly touch it. I can't remember the last time I wanted to read a book so much.

Em and the big hoom by jerry pinto