Amanda
The Archer moves with the methodical, recurring, and emotionally controlled intensity of mastered movement. In this debut novel, Shruti Swamy resists spectacle in favour of scrutiny—of the body, of memory, and of the hidden labour of becoming someone you were assured you couldn't be.
Set in mid-century Bombay, The Archer follows Vidya, a girl drawn to kathak dancing by yearnings she cannot name—not only for performance but also for isolation, self-mastery, and liberation. The limiting choreography of daughterhood shapes her life, while her aspiration alters every space she moves through. The elegant minimalism of Swamy's work—short, precise lines that never strain for impact—is remarkable. The book develops not through sudden revelation, but through the precise and calculated repetition of choices that are returned, refused, and ultimately made once again.
Although kathak is not in my cultural background, the book carefully and curiously drew me towards it. Arriving unversed as I did, aware of my distance, made me appreciate Swamy not over-explaining. She respects the tradition rather than making an exhibit of it. Here, kathak is form and philosophy rather than merely metaphor. Its rhythms resound in the pace of the book: stillness, repetition, variation, and breath. The process left me with a growing curiosity about how the dance lives in the history it embodies.
Oftentimes, the emotional and narrative framework of The Archer is an extension of that form. This book doesn't have a linear plot in the conventional sense, but there is no doubt that there's an important story here. The narrative circles back on itself, stressing internal transformations before outside events. This framework fosters immersion but also runs the risk of stasis; some sections serve as echoes of past ones without clearly expanding on them, and some emotional beats seem to land the same way more than once. Readers seeking a strong narrative force could find themselves adrift.
In particular, the restraint of the book might calcify into detachment for some readers. Swamy's approach is all about control: about what is left unsaid and what is all but unseen. This powerful aesthetic choice also sometimes leaves Vidya feeling artistically remote, with her inner existence more mapped out than embodied. We're sometimes shown what she does with beautiful precision, often with the reason why, but at times it's hard to echo her feelings in the moment. Some key scenes felt detached, as if we were watching from behind glass.
A similar flattening effect also applies to secondary characters, meaning figures like Manorama, Vidya's mentor and the most emotionally charged presence in the novel, can feel more like symbols than fully formed people. The roles they play are clear and crucial—teacher, foil, or obstacle—but their texture can get lost in the exacting form of the prose. Focussing solely on Vidya's viewpoint is practical and serves as an effective storytelling technique, yet it diminishes the emotional depth of her relationships.
Despite any criticism around its austerity and distance, The Archer thrums with composed tension, especially around the idea of desire. Though it never states it clearly, the book is deeply queer in this regard. Vidya's relationship with Manorama is filled with both reverence and longing, and her decision to forego marriage and motherhood appears to be more an active act of refusal than one of hesitation. Here, the queerness is subtextual, even spectral, but manifestly present in how attention flows between the women and how their intimacy alters their sense of self. It may not be clearly romantic or even completely aware of its existence, but it is absolutely there.
Swamy writes with the exactitude of a dancer; no unnecessary effort or strain. Though they are sparse, her sentences are effective. She depends on the stillness within them and puts her trust in the reader's efforts to listen closely. By means of those efforts it gives something rarer than the emotional catharsis it often calculatedly withholds: the sensation that the book was carefully constructed, not merely written.
The ending does not so much resolve everything as it brings about a shift in Vidya's life. The decisions she makes seem neither sad nor triumphant, just important. We are left with a sense of movement—direction without destination and a life starting on it own terms.
The Archer is not an overly generous book, nor a kind one. Still, it is exacting, and its exactness has a special sort of appeal. For readers with a predisposition toward interiority, self-discipline, and the complexity of queer self-invention, it provides something even more lasting: not a revelation, but a resonance
Originally posted at marvelish.me.
The Archer moves with the methodical, recurring, and emotionally controlled intensity of mastered movement. In this debut novel, Shruti Swamy resists spectacle in favour of scrutiny—of the body, of memory, and of the hidden labour of becoming someone you were assured you couldn't be.
Set in mid-century Bombay, The Archer follows Vidya, a girl drawn to kathak dancing by yearnings she cannot name—not only for performance but also for isolation, self-mastery, and liberation. The limiting choreography of daughterhood shapes her life, while her aspiration alters every space she moves through. The elegant minimalism of Swamy's work—short, precise lines that never strain for impact—is remarkable. The book develops not through sudden revelation, but through the precise and calculated repetition of choices that are returned, refused, and ultimately made once again.
Although kathak is not in my cultural background, the book carefully and curiously drew me towards it. Arriving unversed as I did, aware of my distance, made me appreciate Swamy not over-explaining. She respects the tradition rather than making an exhibit of it. Here, kathak is form and philosophy rather than merely metaphor. Its rhythms resound in the pace of the book: stillness, repetition, variation, and breath. The process left me with a growing curiosity about how the dance lives in the history it embodies.
Oftentimes, the emotional and narrative framework of The Archer is an extension of that form. This book doesn't have a linear plot in the conventional sense, but there is no doubt that there's an important story here. The narrative circles back on itself, stressing internal transformations before outside events. This framework fosters immersion but also runs the risk of stasis; some sections serve as echoes of past ones without clearly expanding on them, and some emotional beats seem to land the same way more than once. Readers seeking a strong narrative force could find themselves adrift.
In particular, the restraint of the book might calcify into detachment for some readers. Swamy's approach is all about control: about what is left unsaid and what is all but unseen. This powerful aesthetic choice also sometimes leaves Vidya feeling artistically remote, with her inner existence more mapped out than embodied. We're sometimes shown what she does with beautiful precision, often with the reason why, but at times it's hard to echo her feelings in the moment. Some key scenes felt detached, as if we were watching from behind glass.
A similar flattening effect also applies to secondary characters, meaning figures like Manorama, Vidya's mentor and the most emotionally charged presence in the novel, can feel more like symbols than fully formed people. The roles they play are clear and crucial—teacher, foil, or obstacle—but their texture can get lost in the exacting form of the prose. Focussing solely on Vidya's viewpoint is practical and serves as an effective storytelling technique, yet it diminishes the emotional depth of her relationships.
Despite any criticism around its austerity and distance, The Archer thrums with composed tension, especially around the idea of desire. Though it never states it clearly, the book is deeply queer in this regard. Vidya's relationship with Manorama is filled with both reverence and longing, and her decision to forego marriage and motherhood appears to be more an active act of refusal than one of hesitation. Here, the queerness is subtextual, even spectral, but manifestly present in how attention flows between the women and how their intimacy alters their sense of self. It may not be clearly romantic or even completely aware of its existence, but it is absolutely there.
Swamy writes with the exactitude of a dancer; no unnecessary effort or strain. Though they are sparse, her sentences are effective. She depends on the stillness within them and puts her trust in the reader's efforts to listen closely. By means of those efforts it gives something rarer than the emotional catharsis it often calculatedly withholds: the sensation that the book was carefully constructed, not merely written.
The ending does not so much resolve everything as it brings about a shift in Vidya's life. The decisions she makes seem neither sad nor triumphant, just important. We are left with a sense of movement—direction without destination and a life starting on it own terms.
The Archer is not an overly generous book, nor a kind one. Still, it is exacting, and its exactness has a special sort of appeal. For readers with a predisposition toward interiority, self-discipline, and the complexity of queer self-invention, it provides something even more lasting: not a revelation, but a resonance
Originally posted at marvelish.me.
