BOOKS

By Pico Iyer

SUCH A LONG JOURNEY

by Rohinton Mistry

Knopf; 352 pages; $22

Many of the great political writers -- Nadine Gordimer, say, or Graham Greene -- catch revolution on the human scale by showing how the affairs of state impinge on even the most private of individuals. And many a writer of compassion, from Chekhov to Arthur Miller and beyond, has described how one man can be undone by his wish to be kind. Such lofty precedents do not seem out of place when discussing the exceptionally vivid and often heartbreaking first novel of Rohinton Mistry, a 38-year-old Indian living in Canada, whose debut collection of stories, Swimming Lessons, was highly acclaimed two years ago. Such is his narrative assurance that it is not enough to say Mistry is a writer of considerable promise; he is, already, a writer of considerable achievement.

Such a Long Journey follows the daily life of one Gustad Noble, a decent, good-natured Zoroastrian living in Bombay during the early 1970s. At home, he is caught up in the feuds and conspiracies of apartment buildings everywhere. At work, he enjoys the rowdy camaraderie of his Zoroastrian friends, singing Roamin' in the Gloamin' in the bank canteen and entertaining one another with ribald tales.

Patiently, and with loving humor, Mistry develops a portrait of a household: Gustad savoring mock-Tennyson verses at the dinner table, telling his friends of his son's college prospects, singing The Donkey Serenade to his ailing daughter. The details of his life are wonderfully exact: a bottle of Camel Royal Blue Ink, old copies of Bertrand Russell, an 1897 edition of Barrere and Leland's Dictionary of Slang, Jargon and Cant. And Mistry catches the pungent cadences of Indian English as they have seldom been caught before: "What everything have you told them? Always I shout and scream, while nice Daddy watches quietly."

Gradually, however, this small world begins to be shadowed by larger forces. Gustad does a favor for an old friend and watches helplessly as the deceit spreads like an infection. His son tries to fight free of his father's plans for him. And the Zoroastrians find themselves menaced by the demon of Indian life, communalism.

Mistry draws his people with such care and understanding that their trials become our tragedies. He sees the blighted ideals in objects, and the hopes in superstitions. He gives a voice, and poignant face, to all the people in the street. Ultimately, he makes corruption intimate, and the warm commotion of Bombay as sad as the death of the man next door.