In American publishing circles, adjectives like "controversial" and "thought-provoking" are compliments, especially when they refer to the works of a foreign novelist forced to self-publish, or to tell her story abroad. In Singapore, when the same adjectives are affixed to a manuscript, its chances of publication are zero to none.

But in America, self-published manuscripts and their "controversial" results are often overdramatized in advertising; the novel itself, to an American who has ostensibly seen and heard everything, seldom can live up to the adjectives hyping its publication.

To a certain degree, this is the problem which confronts the Westernized, tabloid-hardened reader of Catherine Lim's The Bondmaid, a novel which hits American bookstores this month. Lim, a best-selling author in Singapore for years, saw her latest manuscript rejected by every major publishing house at home before publishing it herself. Deemed objectionable and too "adult" by mainstream literary houses, the book promptly hit the top of Singapore's bestseller lists, leading to publication and distribution rights abroad.

If for nothing else, Lim deserves credit for her perseverance in resisting a ridiculously over-conservative mainstream. But controversy is no synonym for quality, and the reader tends to waver between feeling admiration for Lim, and wondering what all the hoopla is about.

The novel--which opens in 1950s Singapore--is a fictional account of the life of Han, a girl sold into slavery at the tender age of five by her impoverished mother. Almost immediately upon her arrival at the House of Wu, Han befriends the young master, also a child, like herself, who kindly tends to her when she throws tantrums at the loss of her mother. Over the years, their friendship blossoms, and when the two become adolescents, Han falls in love with Master Wu. Although their class differences force her to internalize her passion, she vehemently resists the assaults and presumptions of other suitors, remarking to herself that she "would but be a plant" if only the young master would deign to "water" her.

Her patience pays off, albeit a bit dubiously, when Wu takes her as his mistress upon his marriage. The conflict between Han and Wu's new wife, the pregnancies of each woman, the secret negotiations the three undertake with the matriarch of the House of Wu and the circumstances of Han's eventual immortalization all contribute to the superbly-crafted climax.

One of The Bondmaid's strengths lies in its exploration of the relationships between the servants. As Han realizes more and more the complexities of the life of a bondmaid (a kind of slave), so too does the reader: as Han makes friends and enemies among her fellow servants, so too are the portraits of these characters increasingly more intimate with the succession of the chapters.

In one particularly illuminating scene, the bondmaid Chu, who has been charged since youth with the care of "The Old One," --an ancient and literally undying presence in the house of Wu--must come to terms with his demise. Although she suffered his abuse for years and has developed a keen resentment for the old man as a result, Chu finds herself, in his absence, wandering aimlessly around the palace is the days before her eventual suicide. Lim's portrait of this depressing symbiosis is but one way in which the dichotomy between slave and slave owner is blurred, and often, transcended.

Another dualism that Lim consistently manipulates is that which exists between the gods and goddesses of the Singaporean pantheon, and the mortals who supplicate to them. From the very beginning of the novel, the gods are denigrated and demonized by the poor women and bondmaids who have been victimized by their carelessness. Han's mother prays as a last resort before selling her daughter. But finally she is forced to realize that "Sky God has no eyes nor ears" for the helpless village women who "had cried to [him] from time immemorial" for relief from abusive husbands and yearly pregnancies. Han's own prayers that Wu will return her love are only answered when she constructs her own altar to an abandoned female idol she finds in the woods.

Even this goddess is but a representation of the greater, untapped power within Han herself: in the epilogue of the book the reader discovers that numerous miracles have taken place near the pond where Han saw her demise. As further proof of her immortality, in a tiny shack on the property, the Master Wu awaits the day when the "Goddess with Eyes and Ears" will return to him.

The mythical feel of the novel is not without its problems, however. Lim often intersperses Han's dream sequences with the more direct prose of the remainder of the novel, presumably because these visions help to chronicle Han's transition, even within her lifetime, from a mortal to a goddess. This technique also results in a great deal of befuddlement for the reader; the line between a stylistic intent and a confused style becomes unclear. Events may occur rather believably in one chapter, before being contradicted when reality is revealed in the next.

At one point, the birth of Han's child is recorded twice, in almost identical prose, with only the sex of the child different in each account. Only pages later is the reader able to separate Han's hallucinations from reality. But meanwhile, as Han rants to everyone who will listen, "I gave birth to a son. I saw him. I touched him," the reader does not know whether to believe her claims or dismiss her delirium as does everyone else. But Lim may just intend to make the reader empathize with Han's own confusion at the admittedly odd circumstances of the delivery.

The reader, moreover, loses interest very quickly in Han's unabating devotion to Wu, especially when she overdramatizes every kind word he says to her and seems on the brink of death when he leaves to study abroad. Perhaps it is liberal feminist indoctrination, perhaps inadequate character development, that makes an American reader wonder, "Is he really worth all this?" Whatever its cause, weariness is perhaps the one feeling a reader should not have towards the protagonist of a novel of this caliber. But Lim's Han arouses not only weariness but also impatience--of the sort one feels towards a roommate who talks just a little too much about the man she's been dating. You want to say "enough already."

The Bondmaid is most certainly not light reading, with its thought-provoking discussion of immortality and its depiction of the extremes to which the poorest of the poor will venture in order to escape their misery. It is difficult to determine, however, whether the book remains in America as disturbing or as graphic as the publishers in Singapore predicted. This is partly because the marketing here has involved a removal from the original cultural context, without which the story is significantly less earth-shattering.

But it's also because, when an author promises controversy, and indeed advertises on the premise of disturbing and shocking her audience, an extraordinarily daring and unique story is needed to live up to expectations. Although she offers her readers a worthy and challenging story, Lim falls short on fulfilling these very much self-prescribed goals.