#Review: Last Song Before Home by Indira Das

Last Song Before Home is one of those rare novels that doesn’t unfold as much as it drifts—like memories rising unhurriedly to the surface. What stayed with me long after I finished was how Aparajita’s letters never felt like nostalgia for its own sake. They are deliberate, almost stubborn attempts to anchor herself when her mind begins slipping through the cracks. There’s a particular letter about her childhood courtyard in Barisal—the smell of damp earth after rain—that hit me harder than the more dramatic moments. It’s in these small sensory flashpoints that the book truly shines.

The novel’s treatment of Partition is unusually tender. It doesn’t shout its trauma; it lets it bleed quietly into family anecdotes, half-remembered songs, and the way silence sits between sisters. At times, the epistolary structure creates a haunting distance—you’re aware of how much Aparajita is losing even when she sounds lucid. But that distance is intentional; it mimics the heartbreak of watching someone fade while still reaching out.

What makes the book unforgettable is its belief that memory isn’t about accuracy—it’s about connection. Even in her moments of confusion, Aparajita’s love remains luminous. The story becomes, ultimately, a hymn to dignity, sisterhood, and the stubborn resilience of the human spirit.

Find this book here.