This is post-colonial India, where, at school, Sai is taught that "cake was better than laddoos, fork spoon knife better than hands, sipping the blood of Christ . . . was more civilized than garlanding a phallic symbol with marigolds. English was better than Hindi." The British influence is rampant among the upper class--they prefer all things English, especially angrezi khana, and often scorn their less-Anglicized countrymen. The judge is a perfect specimen of this breed, even though he never was really respected by the British: As a student in England, "for entire days nobody spoke to him at all, his throat jammed with words unuttered . . . elderly ladies, even the hapless--blue-haired, spotted, faces like collapsing pumpkins--moved over when he sat next to them in the bus, so he knew that whatever they had, they were secure in their conviction that it wasn't remotely as bad as what he had." Sadly, once he returns home, the judge treats his own wife with equal contempt. Her refusal to learn English and to stop typical Indian rituals, like oiling her hair, enrage him--he ignores and abuses her, crushing her spirit.

If Sai were solely exposed to her grandfather's prejudices and bitterness as well as the cook's embellishment of his master's past, she wouldn't have much personal growth. But Lola and Noni--old, Anglophile sisters who live in a cottage among their Marks and Spencers underwear and talk of fresh-strawberries-and-cream--provide Sai with a real family. It includes Father Booty, a Swiss priest obsessed with making cheese, and Uncle Potty, who spends his time drinking between drinks. They teach Sai about life, the Beatles, classic books, English food . . . the world. And for love, there's her tutor, Gyan, a Nepalese student who gradually romances her during lessons.

However, their comfortable existence cannot last in a changing world where people question social and economic disparities. After an Indo-Nepali uprising in the mountain area, the balance shifts and Kalimpong's residents are faced with surrendering to the insurgents or fearing for their lives.

The most empathetic character here is Biju, the quintessential Third World citizen seeking the American opportunity. While the cook continues to exaggerate his son's career, Biju barely survives, bouncing from one dead-end restaurant job to the next. Along with other illegal immigrants, he lives in the worst possible conditions, first in a run-down basement in Harlem and then in the kitchen of a café run by Indians who thrive on exploiting their cheap South Asian labor. Often, Biju's nighttime companions are rats that thrive in spaces where all health codes are violated.

Only the dream of a Green card--which is actually pink--makes this soul-sapping existence worthwhile for people like him. Miserable and homesick, Biju begins viewing his life of poverty back home in the village with his grandmother in a different, better light. His suffering is heightened by the biting East Coast winters, which he tries hard to endure: "Biju put a padding of newspapers down his shirt . . . sometimes he took the scallion pancakes and inserted them below the paper, inspired by the memory of an uncle, who used to go out . . . in winter with his lunchtime parathas down his vest. But even this did not seem to help, and once, on his bicycle, he began to weep from the cold, and the weeping unpicked a deeper vein of grief--such a terrible groan issued from between the whimpers that he was shocked his sadness was so profound." For simple Biju has never had a deep thought.

Desai skillfully weaves her tale, shifting from the present to the past as well as between continents without losing the thread. She explores how colonialism, the caste system, racism and globalism affect all inheritors of loss on so many levels--limiting their dreams, humanity and, most important, their sense of self.

Farah Ameen is copy editor in New York City.