It is fascinating when the murder in a murder mystery happens two-thirds of the way into the novel, and then turns out not to have been a murder at all. Sorry if I have just given away the twist in The Tailor of Giripul, but suspense is not at all the point of this novel. Instead, the book revels in conjuring up the

Part bildungsroman and part manifesto, The Truth About Me is, fittingly, a book that does not fit fully into either category. Revathi, born Doraisamy in a small village in Tamil Nadu, journeys through incredible violence in multiple cities to arrive at Sangama, a sexual minorities human rights organisation in Bengaluru. She has had a sex-change operation,

These are angry poems. Not in their tone, nor even necessarily in their choice of words, but rather in their extended meditations on knowledge, migration, feminism, and violence. They induce and celebrate anger (the closing lines of Arrival read: “And though her aunt and father are dead,/I wish her strength to break the rhyme/ Of Reason divorced from all time,/ I wish her sight to see the danger,/I wish her will, I wish her anger!”), which marks a welcome return to one of the primary functions of literature —