(Alfred A. Knopf; 342 pages; $25.95) Reviewed by Carmela Ciuraru San Francisco Chronicle, Copyright 2009 'The Immortals,' Amit Chaudhuri's first novel in nearly a decade, is not exactly Seinfeldian -- it isn't a novel about nothing -- but it is a novel in which not much happens. His characters, even those who make only brief appearances, are complex and somewhat mysterious. They evolve not by way of a plot-driven narrative, but in subtle ways, through startling insights and observations. In that sense, 'The Immortals' is impressive and rare, and it seems somewhat old-fashioned in its slowness, its refusal to tip toward facile plotting, grandeur and postmodern irony. (The clash between the old and the new is in fact a central theme of the novel.) Broadly, Chaudhuri examines the ways in which customs both unite families and pull them apart, and the anxieties stirred by that struggle. 'The Immortals' is set in 1970s and '80s Bombay, following the lives of a bourgeois family, Apurva and Mallika Sengupta and their teenage son Nirmalya, and Shyam Lal, a sought-after music teacher whose own family becomes inextricably linked with theirs. Shyam is the son of the renowned late singer and teacher Ram Lal, a legacy that enhances his reputation but proves a tiresome burden. Like each of the characters in the novel, Shyam feels conflicted about the lure of affluence; he's keenly aware that he isn't doing what he's 'meant' to do. Though trained in the Hindi classical music tradition, like his father, Shyam teaches popular songs for a nice, easy living. He dabbles in 'the musical currency of the day ... the songs with which a middle class of faithful, hardworking husbands and vivacious housewives expressed its dreams.' Shyam begins by tutoring Nirmalya's mother, Mallika, after she fires Shyam's brother-in-law as her voice teacher. Although the impudent Motilalji is a minor character, his psyche is richly distilled: 'Part of Motilalji's problem was drink; no use blaming others for a self-inflicted problem,' Chaudhuri writes. 'And his talent became a problematic responsibility he did not know what to do with; it was as if, having given so much to his gift -- hard work, practice -- he wanted something in return; and not having got that 'something,' whatever it might be, he had decided to punish both himself and everyone around him.' Mallika has a beautiful voice and harbors hope of a record deal, but her Bengali pronunciation of Hindi songs is considered an amateurish flaw. 'She knew she could have been famous,' she tells herself, 'but she had opted for the life of a Managing Director's wife.' Chaudhuri brilliantly captures the Senguptas' lavish lifestyle, courtesy of Apurva's ambitious rise up the corporate ladder: a large home in a posh neighborhood; cocktail parties with the 'right' people; a cook, a housekeeper, a chauffeur-driven Mercedes-Benz, and a flower arranger who comes to the house twice a week. Mallika also hires a man to teach her Urdu lessons privately, and during one session, '[h]alf her mind, of course, was on whether the furniture had been dusted, whether the decorations had been moved inadvertently from their shelves.' The puritanical Nirmalya is the novel's imperfect moral center, railing against his parents' frivolity and social climbing, criticizing his mother for not taking her singing more seriously, and pursuing his own love of North Indian classical music. He is comically pretentious, wandering the streets of Bombay in bohemian clothing and a goatee, angst-ridden, immersing himself in Western philosophy. He's also completely spoiled: 'Nirmalya had never known want; and so he couldn't understand those who said, or implied, they couldn't do without what they already had.' (Along with other characters, he will eventually come to experience hard loss.) Nirmalya, who ultimately breaks from his privileged family to attend university in London, comes to embody the tension between traditional Indian society and the embrace of Western culture and materialism. He's a fascinating protagonist -- naive and brooding, but never a caricature. As 'The Immortals' weaves in and out of its characters' lives, skipping around in time, Chaudhuri spreads unease among them -- about their futures, their vocations -- but he lets ambiguity reign. They are left searching, whether wanting fulfillment through music or more mundane ways. Seldom has any contemporary author invested such detail in descriptions of place, behavior and even physicality; one leading Bombay music critic is a 'small, short-sighted man, shaped like a bitter gourd.' Chaudhuri is astonishingly precise. Like any masterwork, 'The Immortals' won't appeal to everyone; it might seem 'slow.' Yet anyone who savors enchanting, rhythmic passages about traditional Indian music, daily life in Bombay and the private yearnings of these wondrous characters will find the novel wholly absorbing. 