The Uncanny, Collected: My Thoughts on Ghachar Ghochar

If you’ve found yourself in a reading slump lately, I might just have the perfect novella for you.

Ghachar Ghochar by Vivek Shanbhag is one of those deceptively slim books that quietly unsettles you and then refuses to leave your mind long after you’ve turned the last page.

The story follows an unnamed narrator living with his family in Bangalore, whose life changes dramatically when a business started by Chikkappa suddenly takes off. Money enters the household almost like a quiet intruder; while at first welcomed, even celebrated, it doesn’t take long for it to begin rearranging the emotional architecture of the family. What was once a close-knit unit starts to feel claustrophobic, hierarchical and oddly fragile.

And that’s what this book does so well—it doesn’t show you dramatic conflict right away. Instead, it lets discomfort seep in slowly. Through the narrator’s detached, almost passive voice, we begin to notice small shifts: the redistribution of power, the tightening grip of dependence, the unspoken rules that everyone seems to follow without question. There’s a sense that everyone is complicit in maintaining a certain order, even when that order feels deeply unsettling.

The narrator himself is particularly fascinating. He’s observant, yes, but also disturbingly passive. He sees more than he admits, understands more than he lets on, and yet chooses inaction. In many ways, the book becomes less about what is happening in the family and more about his quiet acceptance of it. That’s where the real tension lies — not in overt violence, but in the violence of complicity.

Then comes the outsider, our narrator's wife, who isn’t willing to accept things as they are. She questions, resists and refuses to be absorbed into the family’s strange ecosystem. And through her presence, the reader is finally able to see just how abnormal everything has become. She disrupts the illusion of normalcy, and in doing so, exposes the cracks that were always there.

What I found especially striking is how the book uses seemingly minor details as powerful symbols. The recurring image of ants, for instance, isn’t just incidental; it mirrors the family itself: organised, invasive and difficult to get rid of once they’ve settled in. Even Vincent, the waiter at the Coffee House, becomes a quiet observer and occasional voice of clarity, almost like an anchor to the outside world.

The prose, translated beautifully by Srinath Perur, is simple, direct and unadorned. But beneath that simplicity lies an incredible density of meaning. There’s so much left unsaid that you find yourself reading between the lines, trying to piece together what’s really going on. And just when you feel like you’re starting to grasp it, the story comes to a screeching halt.

The ending is abrupt, almost jarring. There’s no resolution, no catharsis — just a lingering sense of unease. But to me, this feels intentional. Because this isn’t a story that wants to comfort you; it wants to implicate you. It leaves you sitting with questions about morality, loyalty and the cost of staying silent.

If you’re drawn to stories that explore money, power, family dynamics and the quiet, insidious nature of complicity, Ghachar Ghochar is absolutely worth picking up. It’s short, sharp and deeply unsettling in a way that doesn’t fade easily.