There is a musicality that permeates Ameen Merchant's exquisite debut novel. Right from the name, The Silent Raga, (the Tamil Mounaragam is more eloquent, but would be meaningless to Western readers), to the way its chapters are structured after the various stages of a raga's performance in recital, and the mellifluous prose they contain, and in the way certain sentences or words are repeated as a refrain, there is an inherent musicianship about the enterprise.

Two skeins of intricately wrought narrative unspool simultaneously, like melody and harmony. Within the first few pages, one is hooked as the question, "How did they get here from there?" forms in the reader's mind.

"Here" is the protagonist's present: Janaki Asgar, the Brahmin Hindu second wife of a Muslim film star. She is famous now in her own right with a successful classical music academy whose students are on the verge of international renown. It has taken her ten years to reinvent herself. Naturally, there are the psychic scars of abruptly severed ties and the whiff of scandal. "Here", geographically is Bombay or today's Mumbai.

"There", in purely physical terms, is a small town in Southern India, not far from Madras or present-day Chennai. Its distance from Bombay is considerable, though far less than those of perceived differences of caste, religion, and tradition. In the past "there", Janaki is a middle-class Brahmin girl with few prospects and no hope. An early adulthood is thrust on her when, plucked out of school upon her mother's untimely demise, she is dispatched to the kitchen to become the family cook and cleaning woman, plus replacement mother to the younger sister upon whom she dotes.

As it is with millions of such girls in India, this Janaki must live a life of servitude, first in her father's home, then in her husband's (if her family can rustle up a sufficiently attractive dowry sum), without murmur or question. But Janaki is different. With a survivor's canny instincts, she realizes early on that tradition can ensnare only if subscribed to. Her common sense makes her modern in our understanding of the word. And she plays the veena-a stringed instrument akin to the sitar-divinely. A gypsy woman, to whom she gives alms, prophesies that the instrument will be her salvation.

This prediction and a shocking incident galvanize her into putting an escape plan into action, or so one is led to think. It is best that no further details of the plot are revealed to ensure untarnished pleasures of reading and discovery.

What is fascinating is that Ameen Merchant has populated his book predominantly with women. Men-the perpetrators, the oppressors, the aggressors, and yes, sometimes, saviors-remain shadowy figures. Apart from three male characters, one feels pity and a cold contempt for the men, and turns ones attention back to the women characters, who are uniformly compelling.

One cannot ask why the women do not rebel, or leave, or tell the oppressors to go to hell. Feminism, as it is known in the West, cannot be transplanted to South Asia and expected to flourish. The women themselves would not subscribe to it. What one can hope for are the quiet epiphanies that come to the Janakis of the world. Janaki uses her wits, and one knows from the outset that she has forged her own destiny. Perhaps change was imminent, for Mallika, the younger sister, gets to follow her desires for education and an empowering fulfilling job. But how did it happen? The author offers judiciously measured morsels of information and expertly draws out the tension in his tale, until it progresses to a satisfying, emotional crescendo.

Ameen Merchant has retained many of the Tamil words and locutions that are part of everyday speech, often because they do not readily translate into English. This does not reduce the pleasure of the non-Indian reader, for the meanings are readily apparent from the gist of the sentences. His spot-on descriptions of the rhythms of small-town life and each task that comprises the quotidian routine transcend the humdrum and take them into the realm of the poetic. The remembrance of long-forgotten sights, colours, customs, tastes (yes, there are many tantalizing South Indian dishes mentioned), and textures is among the many pleasures of the book.

And when Janaki and Mallika finally meet again, it is as though a benediction has been pronounced. The concert has ended, and that, dear reader, is our cue to stand and applaud.