Genre Fiction
![Reema Patel - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B09CYMDNNF.jpg)
Such Big Dreams: A Novel
A savvy former street child working at a law office in Mumbai fights for redemption and a chance to live life on her own terms in this "smart, haunting, and compulsively readable" (Amy Jones, author of We're All in This Together) debut novel about fortune and survival.
"A page-turner of a story that doesn't shy away from exploring hard and painful truths about the way people navigate the systemic conditions of society."-Zalika Reid-Benta, author of Frying Plantain
Rakhi is a twenty-three-year-old haunted by the grisly aftermath of an incident that led to the loss of her best friend eleven years ago. Constantly reminded she doesn't belong, Rakhi lives alone in a Mumbai slum, working as a lowly office assistant at Justice For All, a struggling human-rights law organization headed by the renowned lawyer who gave her a fresh start.
Fiercely intelligent and in possession of a sharp wit and an even sharper tongue, Rakhi is nobody's fool, even if she is underestimated by everyone around her. Rakhi's life isn't much, but she's managing. That is, until Rubina Mansoor, a fading former Bollywood starlet, tries to edge her way back into the spotlight by becoming a celebrity ambassador for Justice For All. Steering the organization into uncharted territories, she demands an internship for Alex, a young family friend from Canada and Harvard-bound graduate student. Ambitious, persistent, and naïve, Alex persuades Rakhi to show him "the real" India. In exchange, he'll do something to further Rakhi's dreams in a transaction that seems harmless, at first.
As old guilt and new aspirations collide, everything Rakhi once knew to be true is set ablaze. And as the stakes mount, she will come face-to-face with the difficult choices and moral compromises that people make in order to survive, no matter the cost. Reema Patel's transportive debut novel offers a moving, smart, and arrestingly clever look at the cost of ambition and power in reclaiming one's story.
"A page-turner of a story that doesn't shy away from exploring hard and painful truths about the way people navigate the systemic conditions of society."-Zalika Reid-Benta, author of Frying Plantain
Rakhi is a twenty-three-year-old haunted by the grisly aftermath of an incident that led to the loss of her best friend eleven years ago. Constantly reminded she doesn't belong, Rakhi lives alone in a Mumbai slum, working as a lowly office assistant at Justice For All, a struggling human-rights law organization headed by the renowned lawyer who gave her a fresh start.
Fiercely intelligent and in possession of a sharp wit and an even sharper tongue, Rakhi is nobody's fool, even if she is underestimated by everyone around her. Rakhi's life isn't much, but she's managing. That is, until Rubina Mansoor, a fading former Bollywood starlet, tries to edge her way back into the spotlight by becoming a celebrity ambassador for Justice For All. Steering the organization into uncharted territories, she demands an internship for Alex, a young family friend from Canada and Harvard-bound graduate student. Ambitious, persistent, and naïve, Alex persuades Rakhi to show him "the real" India. In exchange, he'll do something to further Rakhi's dreams in a transaction that seems harmless, at first.
As old guilt and new aspirations collide, everything Rakhi once knew to be true is set ablaze. And as the stakes mount, she will come face-to-face with the difficult choices and moral compromises that people make in order to survive, no matter the cost. Reema Patel's transportive debut novel offers a moving, smart, and arrestingly clever look at the cost of ambition and power in reclaiming one's story.
Editorial Reviews
"Cynical, street-smart Rakhi . . . is a sharply drawn protagonist [who] gives this novel power and zest."-Kirkus Reviews
"An astonishingly gifted storyteller, Reema Patel writes with a confidence, insight, and skill that belies her status as a debut novelist. A smart, haunting, compulsively readable novel with tightly woven plot and an unforgettable narrator, Such Big Dreams is a gripping story you'll want to simultaneously race through at breakneck speed and slow down to savor every word."-Amy Jones, author of We're All in This Together
"From the very first page, Such Big Dreams grabs you by the throat and doesn't let go. Patel's prose jumps with energy, plunging the reader into a page-turner of a story that doesn't shy away from exploring hard and painful truths about the way people navigate the systemic conditions of society. With assured writing, Patel explores themes ranging from societal elitism to the nuances of interpersonal betrayal. Visceral and kinetic, Such Big Dreams is a splash of a debut."-Zalika Reid-Benta, author of Frying Plantain
"Such Big Dreams charts the ambitions, disappointments, and dreams of two people who are improbably thrust together as they try to find their way in-and make their mark on-a bustling Mumbai that's indifferent to their struggles. Unflinching yet written with compassion and insight, Such Big Dreams is a richly textured and powerful novel that, like Mumbai itself, pulsates with humanity. Patel is a writer to watch. I absolutely loved this book."-Bianca Marais, author of Hum If You Don't Know the Words
"Mumbai has inspired many great novels about the city, and now we can add Patel's Such Big Dreams to that list. Her portrayal of Mumbai is fresh, vivid, and personal, in part because of the book's charming and perceptive narrator, Rakhi. I finished the book with a sigh of regret, feeling already the loss of Rakhi and the gift of Patel's Mumbai."-Shyam Selvadurai, author of Funny Boy<...
"An astonishingly gifted storyteller, Reema Patel writes with a confidence, insight, and skill that belies her status as a debut novelist. A smart, haunting, compulsively readable novel with tightly woven plot and an unforgettable narrator, Such Big Dreams is a gripping story you'll want to simultaneously race through at breakneck speed and slow down to savor every word."-Amy Jones, author of We're All in This Together
"From the very first page, Such Big Dreams grabs you by the throat and doesn't let go. Patel's prose jumps with energy, plunging the reader into a page-turner of a story that doesn't shy away from exploring hard and painful truths about the way people navigate the systemic conditions of society. With assured writing, Patel explores themes ranging from societal elitism to the nuances of interpersonal betrayal. Visceral and kinetic, Such Big Dreams is a splash of a debut."-Zalika Reid-Benta, author of Frying Plantain
"Such Big Dreams charts the ambitions, disappointments, and dreams of two people who are improbably thrust together as they try to find their way in-and make their mark on-a bustling Mumbai that's indifferent to their struggles. Unflinching yet written with compassion and insight, Such Big Dreams is a richly textured and powerful novel that, like Mumbai itself, pulsates with humanity. Patel is a writer to watch. I absolutely loved this book."-Bianca Marais, author of Hum If You Don't Know the Words
"Mumbai has inspired many great novels about the city, and now we can add Patel's Such Big Dreams to that list. Her portrayal of Mumbai is fresh, vivid, and personal, in part because of the book's charming and perceptive narrator, Rakhi. I finished the book with a sigh of regret, feeling already the loss of Rakhi and the gift of Patel's Mumbai."-Shyam Selvadurai, author of Funny Boy<...
Short Excerpt Teaser
1
This time, the flames are everywhere-licking the walls, sweeping across the tin roof of my one-room hut.
I bolt upright in the dark, a full-body scream ready to erupt from somewhere deep inside my lungs. My hands reach for my throat as I gasp for air. Panic courses through my body while I try to recall Dr. Pereira's bad-dream exercise, the one she told me to do each time this happens.
"When you wake up," she said, "sit on the edge of your bed and put your feet on the floor." I had to tell her I don't have a bed, just a thin mat. "So sit at the edge of your mat cross-legged," she replied, patiently. "Then, name out loud the objects in the room."
Trembling, I fold one leg under the other and try to focus on the dim outlines of my belongings scattered around me.
In the corner of the room, my heavy, steel cabinet. "Almirah."
Beside it, the cooking vessel I never use. "Pot."
Drenched, sweaty clothes plastered to my back. "Kurta," I mutter.
Then I notice the damp, heavy weight tickling my neck. "Hair."
I slide a cautious hand toward the little blue Nokia that Gauri Ma'am gave me when I started working for her. "Phone." I clutch it tight. The small screen oozes a dull green glow, which I hold up in front of me to illuminate the room.
Shining the light on my cassette player, I press the eject button with a trembling finger and retrieve the tiny crystal elephant from its hiding spot. "Elephant." As I say the word and cradle the figurine in my palm, I can sense the flames of my nightmare start to recede.
And now for the last, most stupidest part of Dr. Pereira's night terror exercise: "I am awake," I whisper into the shadows. "I am safe."
My shoulders tense as I wait for flames to climb back up the walls, sparks to burrow into my clothes. None of that happens, though. I let out a deep breath and flop back onto my mat, dank and musty from my sweat and the humid monsoon air.
The nightmares started eleven years ago, after the paanwala incident. Just after I lost Babloo. They used to come almost every night. They've since tapered off to a few times a week, but they're just as vivid as ever. Most nights I try to stay awake for as long as I can, fighting the lull of the dead air and emptiness of my one-room hut, before drifting into broken sleep by two or three in the morning.
Behrampada slum sprawls out over seven acres in the middle of Bombay-or Mumbai, if that's what you want to call it-an island city flooded with too many people with too-big dreams. By the time I come home in the evenings, the slum roars with noise: The hiss and flare of gas cooking cylinders being lit; tawas and kadais clanging on stovetops. Women shouting at their husbands, who in turn shout back. Someone's shrieking child is always chasing someone else's bleating goat. And when India wins a cricket match, firecrackers burst in the lanes like fistfuls of corn popping. By midnight, though, people retreat inside and switch off their television sets, and the pressures that build up in Behrampada's crowded huts and narrow lanes fizzle out until dawn. Except for the squeals of horny rats and the occasional bottle smashing, all goes quiet-and that's when the night terrors come for me.
Letting out one of those big yawns that almost unhinges my jaw, I roll onto my side. Last night, flash rains banged down on my leaky tin roof like a herd of sharp-clawed cats. The steady sound of water dripping into a plastic bucket would drive anyone else to tears, but I was grateful to be kept awake for a little while longer. As the storm died down, though, so did the noise, and I eventually fell asleep. If I had the secret weapons that important people do, like loud English or proper Hindi, I'd command the nearby Garib Nawaz Masjid to keep the call to prayer going all night, crying out "Allahu akbar" and "la ilaha illa-Allah" on loop from their tinny loudspeakers. "We have to help Rakhi keep the night terrors away," the muezzin would reply flatly, if anyone complained about his six-hour azaan.
Already, I hear the clamor of the people of Behrampada as they start to stir, which means it's just past five. By six, the sun has risen, and by seven, I've used the stinking public toilet and bathed. By eight, I've drunk a cup of tea and gotten dressed, and am ready to leave for work.
On this muggy July morning, the main road from Behrampada to Bandra Station glistens with a slick layer of oil, water, and dirt. I take careful strides over the puddle-filled potholes dotting the street, but the cotton ankles of my clean salwar end up speckled with mud anyway. "Dressing smart tells the world you think our work is valuable," Gauri Ma'am told me du...
This time, the flames are everywhere-licking the walls, sweeping across the tin roof of my one-room hut.
I bolt upright in the dark, a full-body scream ready to erupt from somewhere deep inside my lungs. My hands reach for my throat as I gasp for air. Panic courses through my body while I try to recall Dr. Pereira's bad-dream exercise, the one she told me to do each time this happens.
"When you wake up," she said, "sit on the edge of your bed and put your feet on the floor." I had to tell her I don't have a bed, just a thin mat. "So sit at the edge of your mat cross-legged," she replied, patiently. "Then, name out loud the objects in the room."
Trembling, I fold one leg under the other and try to focus on the dim outlines of my belongings scattered around me.
In the corner of the room, my heavy, steel cabinet. "Almirah."
Beside it, the cooking vessel I never use. "Pot."
Drenched, sweaty clothes plastered to my back. "Kurta," I mutter.
Then I notice the damp, heavy weight tickling my neck. "Hair."
I slide a cautious hand toward the little blue Nokia that Gauri Ma'am gave me when I started working for her. "Phone." I clutch it tight. The small screen oozes a dull green glow, which I hold up in front of me to illuminate the room.
Shining the light on my cassette player, I press the eject button with a trembling finger and retrieve the tiny crystal elephant from its hiding spot. "Elephant." As I say the word and cradle the figurine in my palm, I can sense the flames of my nightmare start to recede.
And now for the last, most stupidest part of Dr. Pereira's night terror exercise: "I am awake," I whisper into the shadows. "I am safe."
My shoulders tense as I wait for flames to climb back up the walls, sparks to burrow into my clothes. None of that happens, though. I let out a deep breath and flop back onto my mat, dank and musty from my sweat and the humid monsoon air.
The nightmares started eleven years ago, after the paanwala incident. Just after I lost Babloo. They used to come almost every night. They've since tapered off to a few times a week, but they're just as vivid as ever. Most nights I try to stay awake for as long as I can, fighting the lull of the dead air and emptiness of my one-room hut, before drifting into broken sleep by two or three in the morning.
Behrampada slum sprawls out over seven acres in the middle of Bombay-or Mumbai, if that's what you want to call it-an island city flooded with too many people with too-big dreams. By the time I come home in the evenings, the slum roars with noise: The hiss and flare of gas cooking cylinders being lit; tawas and kadais clanging on stovetops. Women shouting at their husbands, who in turn shout back. Someone's shrieking child is always chasing someone else's bleating goat. And when India wins a cricket match, firecrackers burst in the lanes like fistfuls of corn popping. By midnight, though, people retreat inside and switch off their television sets, and the pressures that build up in Behrampada's crowded huts and narrow lanes fizzle out until dawn. Except for the squeals of horny rats and the occasional bottle smashing, all goes quiet-and that's when the night terrors come for me.
Letting out one of those big yawns that almost unhinges my jaw, I roll onto my side. Last night, flash rains banged down on my leaky tin roof like a herd of sharp-clawed cats. The steady sound of water dripping into a plastic bucket would drive anyone else to tears, but I was grateful to be kept awake for a little while longer. As the storm died down, though, so did the noise, and I eventually fell asleep. If I had the secret weapons that important people do, like loud English or proper Hindi, I'd command the nearby Garib Nawaz Masjid to keep the call to prayer going all night, crying out "Allahu akbar" and "la ilaha illa-Allah" on loop from their tinny loudspeakers. "We have to help Rakhi keep the night terrors away," the muezzin would reply flatly, if anyone complained about his six-hour azaan.
Already, I hear the clamor of the people of Behrampada as they start to stir, which means it's just past five. By six, the sun has risen, and by seven, I've used the stinking public toilet and bathed. By eight, I've drunk a cup of tea and gotten dressed, and am ready to leave for work.
On this muggy July morning, the main road from Behrampada to Bandra Station glistens with a slick layer of oil, water, and dirt. I take careful strides over the puddle-filled potholes dotting the street, but the cotton ankles of my clean salwar end up speckled with mud anyway. "Dressing smart tells the world you think our work is valuable," Gauri Ma'am told me du...
