'Quarterlife' by Devika Rege: Overhyped or a Masterpiece?

Are you familiar with the phrase ‘quarter-life crisis’? It’s that mix of confusion, ambition, and anxiety we feel in our twenties. Devika Rege’s Quarterlife dives straight into that experience. This novel isn’t just about growing up—it’s about how our personal life is caught in societal crosswinds. While reading, I kept thinking about Nepal’s restless youth—Gen Z, who keep on pushing limits and demanding change.

Introduction to Author & Context

Devika Rege came from journalism, and you see that edge in her writing. Quarterlife is her debut novel, and it’s already made waves—winning the Mathrubhumi Book of the Year in 2021 and the Ramnath Goenka Sahitya Samman in 2023. What’s compelling is how she layers the story: it’s set in modern India, but the conflicts and tensions feel regional and universal.

Many readers called the story a “character-driven” novel—where what the characters think, perceive, and feel is as important as what they do. The inner lives, the shifting loyalties, the moral unrest—all these are what many readers say linger with them after finishing the book. And honestly, I share the same feeling.

Plot Overview with Spoilers
Let’s talk about the plot of the novel. It starts with Naren Agashe, an NRI who finally secures a U.S. green card. But instead of building a life in America, he returns to India, convinced that the new government—the Bharat Party—offers a more promising future. It promises development, honesty, and growth.

Naren brings Amanda, a photographer chosen for an NGO fellowship in Mumbai. She lands in Deonar, a suburb of Mumbai where she sees life in its rawest forms—poverty, social exclusion, and everyday resilience. While Naren is drawn into the alluring world of big business, Amanda feels the shock of India’s underbelly: caste tension, religious differences, and economic disparity.

Then there’s Rohit, Naren’s younger brother, who runs a modest film studio with friends. His life is unsettled—he becomes romantically involved with Amanda, but his heart is also drawn toward a solo road trip in the Western Ghats. On that journey, he meets Omkar, a small-town cinematographer with radical ideas. Their bond forces Rohit to confront choices he didn’t see coming.

What's interesting is how these three characters begin in parallel, almost detached from politics, but gradually get bound by it. Naren realizes that to grow in business, one often needs political backing. Amanda, through her work, begins to perceive how caste and religious identity shape every interaction. Rohit, caught between liberal city life and Omkar’s radicalism, finds himself at a cultural and moral crossroads.

One of the most talked-about scenes is when Rege portrays the Ganpati visarjan. She lets multiple voices—some central, some minor—all speak in quick succession. Even a character given just a paragraph contributes to a larger, textured image of Mumbai: its joy, its conflict, and its contradictions.

Because Quarterlife is told from alternating chapters of Naren, Amanda, and Rohit, what we see is not a single yarn but three intersecting lenses. Their perceptions shift, the alliances change, and the boundaries blur.

Title Significance
Let’s pause at the title: Quarterlife. On first glance, it refers to the age—those twenties when everything feels uncertain. But in Rege’s hands, it becomes symbolic. It’s not merely a time of personal crossroads; it’s a generational turning point. Naren, Amanda, and Rohit wrestle with ambition, identity, and morality—and with forces bigger than themselves.

“Quarterlife” thus captures both the micro and the macro—the individual turmoil of youth and the collective crisis of a society in flux. It echoes loudly when we look at Nepal: Gen Z here is confronting inequality, authority, and identity in a rapidly changing world.

Themes & Analysis
One thing readers often comment on is how Quarterlife blurs boundaries. Our everyday decisions—career, love, friendships—don’t exist in a vacuum. Rege shows us how politics seeps into our most private choices. She doesn’t preach; she lets characters stumble and change.

Privilege and inequality are central. Naren has advantages he’s partly blind to; Amanda is forced to see those disparities as an outsider. In Nepal too, young people are confronting divides—class, caste, and ethnic hierarchies; city versus village life; and corruption at every level. The discomfort is the same. Rege also doesn’t shy away from religion, caste, patriarchy, corruption, and how these play out through Bollywood, business, media—and even history.

‘Quarterlife’ doesn’t feel top-heavy with ideas; the ideas grow organically out of the characters. That’s exactly why the novel stays with them—the internal conflicts and shifting allegiances feel deeply human.

Another theme that gets mentioned often is disillusionment vs. hope. The characters are frequently frustrated or disillusioned—but they still argue, still push, still question. That tension is powerful.

Strengths and Criticism
Quarterlife has a lot of strength. Its characters are layered and real. Its structure—alternating perspectives—keeps us engaged. The writing feels crisp and urgent. And the depth of Rege’s research shows: politics, religion, media, and society all feel fully lived rather than tacked on.

Every reader of this book definitely appreciates how it doesn’t settle for easy answers. It is messy. It is morally gray. It pushes us to question assumptions.

Still, it has a few weaknesses. Some sections feel a bit long—scenes where the political or social commentary slows us down. Some emotional arcs don’t get as much space. Given how many big topics it takes up, there are moments that could have been tighter. Having said that, I still feel it’s a “very strong debut” with huge promise ahead.

Relevance to Nepal’s Context
Quarterlife is a bold and provocative debut. Its strength lies not just in what it tells but in how it lets us live inside the minds of characters wrestling with their time.

Why should Nepali readers like me care about this book? Because the themes this novel carries mirror exactly what’s happening here.

Nepal’s Gen Z—whether on social media, in rallies, or on the ground—is challenging authority, fighting corruption, and redefining identity. They’re restless and disillusioned but also deeply hopeful. And that’s exactly what Quarterlife captures: the messiness of being young in a society that’s changing too slowly.

In many ways, Nepal’s Gen Z is closer to Omkar than to Rohit—impatient, radical, and unafraid to shake the system. Just like Naren, young Nepalese living abroad are wondering if they should invest their future back home, despite the political mess. And just like Amanda, outsiders sometimes see the inequalities of Nepal more sharply than we do ourselves.

Final Verdict
This parallel made the book hit very close to home for me. I’d give Quarterlife 4.5 out of 5 stars. It’s challenging and uncomfortable but deeply rewarding. If you're someone who wants fiction that engages with society, that forces reflection, that doesn’t let you walk away unaffected—this should be on your shelf.

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'Good Material' by Dolly Alderton – Heartbreak, Humor & Life Lessons

I recently finished Good Material by Dolly Alderton, and honestly, this book really got under my skin. It’s witty, it’s heartbreaking, and it captures the messiness of modern relationships in a way that feels painfully familiar. Alderton is best known for her memoir Everything I Know About Love and her debut novel Ghosts, but with Good Material she takes a bold risk: writing entirely from the perspective of a man. And the result is both refreshing and incredibly moving.

Plot Overview

The story follows Andy, a comedian in his mid-thirties, who has just been dumped by his girlfriend, Jen. There’s no explosive fight, no dramatic betrayal—just the quiet, devastating end of a relationship. Andy, of course, is heartbroken. He can’t stop analyzing what went wrong, replaying their memories, and trying to piece together a narrative that makes sense.

Most of the book is told through his perspective, and what makes this so compelling is that Andy isn’t exactly a reliable narrator. He sees himself as the victim, the “good guy” left behind. But as readers, we begin to sense that his version of events might not be the full story. And just when we’re fully absorbed in Andy’s side, Alderton flips the script and lets us hear Jen’s perspective. That structural choice completely reframes the novel and forces us to confront the truth that breakups are never as simple as one person being right and the other wrong.

Themes

This book, Good Material is about more than heartbreak. It’s about identity, self-worth, and the painful but necessary process of growing up. Andy is in that awkward in-between space of being in his thirties but still not fully settled—his career as a comedian is shaky, his peers seem more “grown-up,” and losing Jen forces him to reckon with what he actually wants from life.

The title itself is layered. On one level, “good material” refers to Andy’s job—turning pain and humiliation into jokes for the stage. But it also reflects a bigger idea: that the raw stuff of our lives—our breakups, our failures, our disappointments—eventually becomes material. The stories we tell, the lessons we carry, the things that shape who we are.

Humor and Heartbreak

What makes this novel sing is its balance of comedy and sadness. Andy’s narration is laugh-out-loud funny at times—his rants about dating, his awkward run-ins with friends, even his reflections on the indignities of everyday life. Alderton has a sharp eye for the absurdities we all recognize but rarely articulate.

And yet, beneath the humor, there’s a deep well of vulnerability. Andy’s heartbreak is raw and messy, and his inability to move on feels incredibly real. You laugh with him, but you also ache for him. It’s that blend—humor and heartbreak, comedy and confession—that makes this book feel so alive.

Characters and Relationships

Andy is a wonderfully flawed protagonist. He is insecure, self-pitying, often blind to his own mistakes—but he is also tender, witty, and deeply human. You root for him, even when he stumbles.

Jen, on the other hand, is quieter for much of the book, but when her voice finally comes through, she feels equally complex. She is not just “the ex.” She is a fully realized character with her own needs and disappointments. And that’s one of Alderton’s greatest strengths—she refuses to flatten her characters into archetypes.

The supporting cast—Andy’s friends, family, and fellow comedians—add richness to the story. They provide humor, perspective, and sometimes the harsh truths that Andy doesn’t want to face.

Writing Style

Dolly Alderton’s writing is conversational, sharp, and full of warmth. She has this gift for capturing the way people actually speak and think—those little tangents, those awkward silences, the way humor often masks pain. Andy’s narration almost feels like listening to a stand-up routine that gradually turns into a confession. And when Jen’s perspective enters, the tonal shift is subtle but so effective—you immediately feel the difference in clarity and restraint.

Final Thoughts

So, what makes Good Material stand out? For me, it’s the way it takes something so familiar—a breakup—and turns it into a meditation on identity, love, and the stories we tell ourselves. It’s funny, it’s tender, and it’s brutally honest about how messy relationships can be. Dolly Alderton proves here that she is not just great at writing about love; she’s brilliant at writing about what comes after love.

For me, Good Material is a solid 4 out of 5 stars. It’s relatable, heartfelt, and beautifully written—a book I’d recommend to anyone who’s been through heartbreak, or honestly, to anyone who’s ever loved and lost.

 

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'The Anthropologists' by Ayşegül Savaş | Book review

I recently finished The Anthropologists by Ayşegül Savaş, and honestly, it’s one of those rare novels that doesn’t shout, but quietly lingers in your thoughts long after you've closed the final page. It’s a slow, introspective read that invites you to sit with it, reflect, and really observe—which makes sense, because that’s what the whole book is about: observation, belonging, and the quiet rituals of daily life.

The story centers on Asya, a Turkish-born filmmaker, and her husband, Manu, who live in a foreign, unnamed European city. They’re both immigrants—rooted in different homelands but equally adrift—and are trying to find their footing, both physically (they're house-hunting throughout the book) and emotionally. Asya is working on a documentary project about people in a public park, and through this lens, the novel opens up into a thoughtful exploration of how people create meaning, community, and identity.

One of the things that really stood out to me is how The Anthropologists doesn’t follow a traditional plot structure. Instead, it's told through short, vignette-like chapters—almost like journal entries or field notes—which mirrors Asya's observational approach to the world. It’s like she’s an anthropologist herself, quietly studying the people around her, trying to understand their habits, their silences, and their gestures. That structure isn’t just stylistic—it’s deeply thematic. It reflects the way we piece together meaning in our own lives, one fleeting moment at a time.

The Title: “The Anthropologists”

The title is so fitting, and not just because Asya is technically doing fieldwork for her documentary. The real anthropology happening here is emotional and personal. Asya and Manu are constantly studying their environment and the people in it—not out of academic curiosity, but as a way to figure out how they fit in. In a sense, all of us become anthropologists when we live in places where we don’t quite belong—we learn to observe, adapt, and quietly translate. The title also nods to how we sometimes try to make sense of our own lives by stepping back, becoming observers of ourselves.

Themes: Belonging, Identity, and the Everyday

At its heart, The Anthropologists is about displacement—not just the literal kind that comes from living in a foreign country, but also the emotional kind that comes from not feeling fully rooted. Asya and Manu are both gently floating through this city, surrounded by the routines of others, trying to create their own. There’s a lovely, melancholic theme of in-betweenness: between countries, between languages, and between homes.

The book also explores the idea of domestic life as something both deeply ordinary and profoundly meaningful. There’s a lot of emphasis on small rituals—making tea, walking through the park, exchanging pleasantries with a neighbor. These small acts become ways of grounding oneself. Savaş writes these moments with such care that they feel sacred.

There’s rich symbolism throughout the book. The park, where Asya films her documentary, is a symbol of transient community—it’s a shared public space where people gather but don’t necessarily connect deeply. It mirrors Asya’s own feeling of being surrounded by people yet still feeling apart. Apartments and homes serve as symbols of permanence—or the lack of it. Asya and Manu are constantly searching for a place to live, which speaks to their deeper search for stability and identity.

Even the act of filming in the book is symbolic. Asya is always watching, capturing, and documenting but rarely participating. It’s a powerful metaphor for how she moves through life—like an observer, always slightly detached, trying to make sense of things from a distance.

Writing Style and Characters

Savaş’s writing is restrained but so elegant. She doesn’t over-explain or dramatize anything. The beauty is in the quiet. The characters, especially Asya, are introspective and gentle. Manu feels like a counterpart—someone who’s just as quietly lost but supportive. And then there are side characters like Ravi and Tereza, who each add layers to the couple’s experience of community and solitude.

Final Thoughts

The Anthropologists is a novel that rewards patience. If you’re looking for high drama or twists, it’s not that kind of book. But if you enjoy stories that reflect on the human condition with grace and subtlety, this will absolutely resonate. It reminded me a lot of authors like Teju Cole or Rachel Cusk—writers who understand the richness in everyday moments and the quiet ache of modern life.

I’d definitely recommend this to readers who’ve lived abroad or anyone who has ever felt like they’re living just outside the edges of belonging. It’s meditative, moving, and beautifully written. I’d give it a strong 4.0 out of 5 stars.

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