Durga in Nigeria is not a novel that asks to be read quickly—it asks to be felt slowly. Piyush Mahiskey’s debut work is a quiet, layered meditation on trauma, faith, displacement, and the fragile boundary between lived experience and myth. It resists spectacle at every turn, choosing instead the gravity of emotional inevitability.
At the heart of the novel is Saanidhya Ashtankar (Saani), a disciplined, emotionally contained product strategist from Pune whose life in Lagos becomes the site of an unintentional transformation. Her near-death experience does not erupt into miracles; instead, it mutates into narrative. Others project meaning onto her silence, and gradually, she is elevated into a symbol—almost a deity. The brilliance of the novel lies in this refusal to confirm divinity. What grows is not a god, but belief.
Running parallel is Anant Joshi, who relocates from Pune to Lagos, leaving behind his wife Roshni and son Kush. His relationship with Saani evolves with rare restraint—from professional alignment to something sacred, unnamed, and emotionally dangerous. Mahiskey handles intimacy through glances, rituals, and pauses, never through overt declaration. The result is a bond that feels earned, inevitable, and quietly devastating.
The supporting arcs are equally powerful. Roshni’s devotion is not passive suffering but resilient faith. Kush exists more as a symbolic anchor than a conventional character, representing inheritance, absence, and continuity. Anant’s physical collapse into broken heart syndrome is both literal and metaphorical—an embodied consequence of emotional fragmentation.
The novel’s structure—23 chapters culminating in “Godwoman”—is deliberate and deeply symbolic. The “Nine Days of Battle” echo Navratri not as religious reenactment, but as emotional warfare: between self and society, silence and interpretation, trauma and commodification. By the final chapter, Saani’s silence is no longer absence—it becomes scripture. Not because she speaks, but because others refuse to stop listening.
One of the book’s greatest strengths is its treatment of Lagos. It is never exoticised. Instead, it becomes an emotional terrain—mirroring displacement, anonymity, and reinvention. Faith migrates across borders just as people do, reshaped by context yet rooted in memory. Durga, in this world, does not reside in temples. She appears in trauma, endurance, and unresolved grief.
Mahiskey’s prose is emotionally precise and restrained. His background as a technology architect subtly informs the narrative—technical metaphors, clean structural choices, and an almost architectural sense of pacing. There is no melodrama, no forced catharsis. Ambiguity is honoured. Mystery is earned.
What makes Durga in Nigeria truly distinctive is its ethical refusal to explain itself. It does not argue, preach, or conclude. It listens. It trusts the reader to sit with discomfort, uncertainty, and silence. Rooted in Marathi cultural nuance and diaspora psychology, the novel still feels universally resonant—because belief, loss, and longing know no geography.
Final Verdict:
Durga in Nigeria is not a commentary on faith—it is a meditation on how faith is born. A deeply thoughtful, mature debut that will appeal to readers who value emotional depth over plot-driven urgency. This is literature as emotional architecture—quiet, strong, and enduring. 🌾📚