by Shehan Karunatilaka | Booker Prize Winner 2022
| “If you had a week to solve your own murder in the afterlife, would you waste it looking for justice?”
When I picked up The Seven Moons of Maali Almeida, I didn’t expect it to hit this hard. Set in the chaos of 1980s Sri Lanka, the story begins in the afterlife—confusing, crowded, violent, and very much like the world Maali left behind. What follows is a surreal, fast-paced, politically charged murder mystery with ghosts, demons, photographers, journalists, and war criminals all coexisting in this strange limbo.
The writing is wickedly clever. The jokes are smart and sometimes hilarious, but they land in the middle of grim imagery—burnt bodies, bloodied children, dead soldiers—which makes laughing feel wrong, even when the wit is sharp. The descriptions of the dead are relentless, and you can’t unsee them. The afterlife is no escape—it’s another battlefield.
And that’s part of what makes this book so effective.
History, politics & uncomfortable truths
I didn’t know much about the significance of 1948 or 1983 in Sri Lanka’s history—what I learned was both fascinating and horrifying. I felt ashamed for having stayed so insulated from the pain and violence that unfolded just across our border. You can blame the education system only so much—at some point, the ignorance is our own.
The political commentary is layered but unflinching. The assassination of the Indian Prime Minister is only hinted at, yet it looms. The Indian government’s involvement in Sri Lanka’s internal conflict is suggested, messy and unresolved. There’s no single villain—just a tangle of agendas and bloodshed.
Characters like Mahakali and Sena, even in death, are still playing political games, manipulating the dead with the same bitterness that likely consumed their lives. Their anger isn’t baseless—but their means are horrifying.
And then there’s the bureaucratic horror. The “closed offices” in the afterlife are a darkly funny—but all too real—nod to government indifference. Even in death, there are forms to fill, queues to stand in, a general confusion of the dead souls is pitiful.
Maali, Jaki & humanity
What grounds the book is Maali himself—a closeted war photographer who was flawed, self-centered, and emotionally evasive. He wasn’t always likeable. He mistreated people who loved him. But despite everything, he never lost his humanity. And that made me root for him.
Jaki, especially, stood out. Her deep mistrust of men and her unwavering loyalty to Maali made her one of the most quietly powerful characters in the book. She was the one who never stopped trying, even when it cost her everything.
Maali’s relationship with DD—his reluctant boyfriend—was tender but tragic. Even in the afterlife, they couldn’t quite meet each other with honesty. That heartbreak lingers.
What I loved most was how Maali’s memories unfolded across the story, giving us a clearer picture of who he was and why he did what he did. And in the end, we realise he wasn’t chasing justice for himself—he was trying to show the truth to the world. Not for fame, but for accountability. That was his redemption arc. Quiet, but powerful.
Ghosts, guilt & grief
Some of the most devastating moments came not from the living, but from the dead. Ghosts who still held on to rage, spirits driven mad by bloodlust—many were no different from the killers they hated. But you couldn’t fault them. Not when they’d been murdered, dumped in wells, or burnt alive. The scenes involving children, women, entire villages—those made me cry.
The most heartbreaking part wasn’t the violence itself—it was the indifference. The mask-wearing men, the body dumpers, the “cleaners”—they didn’t even hate. They simply didn’t care. And that’s worse.
The Leopard’s truth
And then comes the leopard.
A creature of quiet wisdom in this chaotic world, it speaks only a few times—but each line is unforgettable. Especially this one:
“Why should a Creator watch over you? Wasn’t creating you enough?”
That single sentence hit harder than any ghost story. We’re not broken because we don’t know right from wrong. We’re broken because we do—and still choose cruelty.
When Maali tells the leopard, “I guess every creature thinks itself the centre of the universe,” the leopard replies:
“I don’t. Because we’re not. We are microcosms. An ant colony contains the universe. Though it is not its centre.”
What a humbling reminder of our place in the world—and our responsibility in it.
In the end…
Despite its brutality, The Seven Moons of Maali Almeida ends on a note of peace. Not triumph, not justice—but calm. Maali gets a second chance. He chooses to let go. And for once, he doesn’t run. That moment made me genuinely happy—for him, for Jaki, and even for the reader. After all the chaos, it felt earned.
The Curated Corner 