Book Review: Nomad

It takes nerves of steel for a Muslim woman from Somalia to escape a bad marriage, to lie to get refugee status in the Netherlands and then migrate to post- 9/11 America. But it takes more than just steely nerves to write two books – Infidel and Nomad – which are a scathing condemnation of conservative Muslim society. In Infidel, Ali exposed the world to her harrowing personal journey. In Nomad, the former Dutch MP writes about how orthodox Islam devastates the lives of its followers.

Hirsi Ali’s memoir-manifesto is about the journey of a Muslim woman cross-countrying Somalia, Holland and America. But it’s the people she encounters during the journey – family, politicians, college students – and the manner in which Islam has dictated their life choices which provides her fodder for her indictment of the religion. The anger in her writing stems from her family’s obsession with the Quranic dictat. In one passage Ali describes how, when she fell ill as a kid, her mother spent all her time praying for her recovery instead of giving her medicines. She blames the illnesses of her depressed half-brother and AIDS-stricken sister on her father’s polygamy, and laments the fact that her half-sister Sahra chose to marry in her early twenties in accordance with her family’s wishes.

As Nomad’s narrative races ahead, Ali makes provocative points that are bound to polarise the opinions of both Islamists and Islamophobes (both of whom have made the error of treating conservative Somalian society as a generalisation for Muslim life). She minces no words in writing that she supported the war on Iraq as an MP, and that she believes the political and legal infrastructure imported by European colonisers to Muslim countries improved the situation of women there. Ali demands that Muslim immigrants to America not stunt their children’s growth by keeping them “culturally illiterate”. These blunt arguments are anything but politically correct, but they draw on a lived experience that makes them impossible to dismiss.


A version of this review appeared in the TimeOut Delhi magazine.

Musings on Soumya Bhattacharya's 'You Must Like Cricket'

One of my many grouses about the mainstream media (and, to a lesser extent, Indian literature) is that it is devoid of quality memoir writing; particularly essays on personal experiences about cricket. Thanks to the advent and spread of TV and the internet, my guess is that cricket buffs would watch a riveting game of cricket rather than read stimulating and enjoyable memoirs about the game. Not only has that lead to the near-death of cricket writing, but, I reckon, made the experience of being a cricket buff distant and sterile. I am no exception; the first and last time I saw a game of cricket was in 1998 when India played Pakistan in Delhi and Kumble took 10 wickets in an innings. 

So on a balmy Saturday morning, I was delighted to find in the mail, Soumya Bhattacharya’s excellent cricket book You Must Like Cricket? Memoirs of an Indian Cricket Fan. It’s a book I’ve been keen on reading since I’ve read it’s (sort-of) sequel All That You Must Leave Behind and interviewed Soumya about it.

Essentially, You Must Like Cricket is about Soumya’s 30-year obsession with the gentleman’s game; nearly everything he does, experiences, thinks or observes has to do with the game of cricket. And, sometimes, this obsession makes him do slightly strange things. For instance, the book informs us, that after a getting sloshed during a junkette in Mauritius, Soumya went up to Kapil Dev and asked whether he could “touch the hand that had bowled the best outswinger in the history of Indian cricket”. On another occasion, he bought an air ticket from London to Calcutta just so that he could watch the final match of a tournament at the Eden Gardens. And, when asked by friends about the year of his daughter’s birth, Soumya nonchalantly replied ‘the same in which Laxman scored a historic double ton against the Aussies in Calcutta’.

These humorous vignettes aside, You Must Like Cricket is a quirky, irreverent and poignant account of the evolution of cricket as seen through the eyes of an enthusiastic cricket fan. Most importantly it gives words to those thoughts and emotions which get drowned under victorious cries of “Indi-yaaaaaahhhhh” and cuss-filled rants which evoke the misery of defeat. You Must Like Cricket, therefore, is a book which wants you to enjoy a fan’s experiences of the game as much as you enjoy the game itself.

Hence, what you’ll come across in this vivid, conversational memoir are not gushing accounts of historic victories but about how strong the memory of that victory is. Nor are there long winding essays on the shabbiness of some of our cricket grounds; instead, there’s poignant account about food and the importance of sharing it with fellow members of the audience. Most importantly, even though this a book of memories, cricket never seems to be on the periphery in this book, nor, I suspect, in Soumya’s life (possible, to the chagrin of his wife). Such is the writer’s craft that he places the sport as the skeleton and his memories of it as the flesh and blood of this book.

Since this is a collection of essays, I’m sure some of you are bound to ask about a favorite (or two). But, to be honest, I have none. After all, how can you say that one memory is better than another? That you enjoyed watching Sachin score a match-winning blistering century in Sharjah than a century at, say, Wankhede. Just like the sport which it reminisces about, You Must Like Cricket is best enjoyed as a whole and not in parts.

To be frank, You Must Like Cricket, has left me, well, stumped. For, as I wrote earlier, Soumya Bhattacharya has managed to give drowned emotions and thoughts words, sentences and paragraphs. He has written about India’s (and his) beloved sport with sparse prose and without being voluble or verbose (can any of you describe an innings or a memorable cricket win without using an adverb or an adjective? I bet not). Most importantly, he’s made the experience of cricket loving writable in an era which has seen the decline of cricket writing. That alone is reason enough to read this book.

Hence, I’m going back to re-read it and I suggest you do the same. At least once.

Short Review: Unlikely Hero by Nandita Puri

At the start of her book, Nandita Puri has published an endearing picture of her husband and her son, Ishaan, playing with each other. The photographed is captioned "For Ishaan: A legacy you will cherish". Sadly, however, the author chooses to ignore Om Puri's cinematic legacy focusing on his personal life instead. And what could've made for a riveting read is just a collection of anecdotes and incidents from Om Puri's personal life which has been full of hardships and tribulations. 


Om Puri found his bearings at his birthplace Ambala,  where we are informed that Puri had no clue about his actual date of birth, was the youngest child of his parents, didn't go to school and had briefly contracted smallpox. Financial constraints meant that he had to do odd jobs (washing utensils at a dhaba being one of them) and move to Patiala to finish his higher studies. It was there that Puri experienced his first brush with cinema. Soon, stints at the National School of Drama (NSD) and the Film and Television Institute of India (FTII) followed. Om Puri went unnoticed in his first six films until Aakrosh happened followed by Ardh Satya.


In between all of this, there was Om Puri the womaniser and philanderer. To be fair, his biographer wife Nandita has boldly written about the actor’s womanising ways (his affair with Santi, the domestic help, his crush on actresses Seema Sawhni and Rohini Hattangadi and his failed first marriage to a woman named Mala). At one level, all these might seem like salacious bits of gossip which were included to sell the book. However, these incidents help to demonstrate how a successful, good-looking young man from a small town can get carried away by attention and glamour. But that's not what makes this a mediocre book. 


An actor as accomplished as Om Puri surely deserves a biography where his body of work is analysed thoroughly. How does he straddle the worlds of popular and 'offbeat' cinema with such ease? Why aren't movies,  which evoke the anger of Ardh Satya or the humour of Jaane Bhi Do Yaaron, not made any more? What did he make of his brush with television? Does he enjoy doing Western cinema? And what makes him do movies as horrible as Singh Is King, Victoria No. 203 and King of Bollywood?


Instead, what does the reader get in this book? A short overview by Om of his favorite films and a 'Tips To Aspiring Actors' manual at the end. Clearly, Nandita Puri could've written a much better biography of her talented husband. Sadly, she chooses not to.


Did this for Businessworld Online


P.S. Part-2 of Niall Ferguson's session at Jaipur will be uploaded once my current crop of assignments is over. Also, expect a super exclusive piece about Sidin Vadukut and his debut novel Dork. But for now, I'm busy reading Shahriar Mandanipour's Censoring An Iranian Love Story. As always, review will be posted once it's published in print


Ciao!

Interlude: A Review of Amitava Kumar's latest book, Evidence of Suspicion

Taking a break from filing a Jaipur diary today. Have typed too much in the past week so I think I'm taking it easy today. In the meanwhile, here's my review of Amitava Kumar's Evidence of Suspicion which appeared in today's Business Standard.


Amitava Kumar’s latest book truly lives up to its title. And I don’t mean this in a negative way. On the contrary, it is remarkable that a work of non-fiction on a subject like terrorism — one which evokes extreme reactions, views, opinions and images — can be written in a manner where the writer has ensured that these elements do not impinge on the narrative. Indeed, Kumar performs a riveting yet erudite examination of a very complex phenomenon using a very methodical approach.


Essentially, Evidence of Suspicion examines the social and moral consequences of the war on terror through the prisms of literature, art and journalistic reportage. Kumar’s approach is a slightly dangerous one because — such is the nature of these prisms — he could easily have been lured into using just one angle. Instead, his methodical approach is what saves him, and what ultimately emerges is an even, structured narrative.


The book starts with Kumar meeting Iqbal Haspatel, a retired working-class man who was falsely arrested in the 1993 Mumbai bomb blasts case and brutally tortured by the police. Kumar’s narration of the journey to Haspatel’s house, the story of his arrest and torture and his subsequent release is an example of journalistic writing of a quality rarely seen these days.


Using the example of Hemant Lakhani, an FBI informant standing trial for selling fake missiles, Kumar presents a powerful argument on how US authorities used a person’s habits, personality traits and behavioural patterns to build a case against him. This is one striking feature of this book. There are two more: Kumar’s interaction with numerous American artists who examine terrorism through their works, and his analysis of the “literature of 9/11”, which is a module Kumar taught at Vassar College in New York state.


The artists suggest that, since they are not bound by an “argumentative logic”, they can therefore express themselves more freely than, say, journalists, who are bound by editorial conventions. In fact, one of the artists, Donna Golden, created a documentary which mixed radio voices and TV images to tell a story that was devoid of editorial commentary. Nevertheless, it seems that some of that argumentative logic has found its way into literature on and about the 9/11 attacks — an area in which Kumar’s own academic interests feed into this book.


This bespectacled professor of English analyses contemporary literature, detainee logs, newspaper reports and the US 9/11 commission report, among other things, to give a 360-degree perspective on the war on terror. At the risk of blasphemy, Kumar says he considers Pakistani writer Mohsin Hamid’s The Reluctant Fundamentalist better than John Updike’s Terrorist. Reason? The absence of a dialogue with the “Other”, as Kumar puts it.


About the 9/11 commission report, he exposes its duplicitous nature by questioning America’s silence about its role in supporting Afghan jihadis even as it held up Al Qaeda as the prime accused. Kumar’s analysis is best exemplified by an Arundhati Roy quote: “Bin Laden has the distinction of being created by the CIA and wanted by the FBI.” Only towards the end of Evidence of Suspicion does Kumar bring in an element of poignancy. Nowhere is this reflected better than in his account of his travels in Kashmir and Punjab — where he is reminded of Srinagar while reading Orhan Pamuk’s Istanbul and meeting with Tabassum Guru, wife of the main accused in the 2001 Parliament attack case. For a book which is self-professedly a “report”,  such poignancy might seem out of place, but perhaps it is Kumar’s background as a literature professor which ensures that such literary touches blend in with the reportage.


Overall, Evidence of Suspicion is an important book, and not just because it deals with a subject like terrorism. The book is important because it proves that no matter how passionately one may feel about terrorism, it is entirely possible to distance oneself from one’s own emotions while writing about it. Kumar is able to combine painstaking research, taut pacing and thought-provoking analysis to produce an outstanding work of non-fiction.


Postscript: The only, slight cause for disappointment is that, at the Delhi launch of the book, Kumar was in conversation with Lawrence Wright, author of an acclaimed book on Al Qaeda and the lead-up to 9/11, The Looming Tower. The attendee should be forgiven for having expected a discussion on terrorism. Instead, what transpired was a discussion and reading of the contents of Kumar’s book, much of which this reviewer had already read.

On Dilip D Souza's Roadrunner

In 2009, two travelogues - Nine Lives: In Search Of The Sacred In Modern India by William Dalrymple and My Friend The Fanatic by Sadanand Dhume - came in for high praise from a lot of quarters. Although both of them explored different themes, the one common thread between them was the beauty of their prose - sweeping, engaging, descriptive and engrossing. Of these, Dilip D'Souza'sRoadrunner succeeds in only being descriptive. I'm not even trying to compare Roadrunner with either William's or Sadanand's books but just trying to underline a few features which were missing from Roadrunner. But that isn't to state that D'Souza's American sojourn falls flat on its face. Instead, it offers very interesting insights into American culture and asks some though-provoking questions 

D'Souza, who spent a decade in America before returning to India in 1992, goes on this road trip primarily to understand the idea of patriotism in a country which has been divided along several lines ever since 9/11. This road trip - or "quest"- according to D'Souza, is also to see the changes which have taken place in America since the 80's. It is also a quest to look beyond stereotypical constructions of the average American citizen.  Ultimately, while most of the questions thrown up by D'Souza's observations and commentary are slightly cliched, they assume a different meaning when looked at with an American perspective 

For instance, How would an Indian audience react if an American were to sing Vande Mataram in a Mumbai restaurant? Should Indian Muslims proves their patriotism by singing this one song? Why do some Americans go Asalaam-Waleikum whenever they see a brown-skinned man? These are just a few of the many questions that the book throws up.

But just when you think that this travelogue would be a riveting read, the book starts to disappoint; even though D'Souza uses conversation as a narrative tool. 

It is an excruciatingly slow read and you'll probably find yourself yawning after a 100 odd pages. Statistical figures and movie song lyrics are interspersed with the prose to validate arguments but they're really not needed. D'Souza's prose maybe slow but it is descriptive enough for the reader to do without lyrics from Lage Raho Munnabhai. More often than not, D'Souza goes into a ramble about his American journey and you start wondering why the editors of the book never bothered to cut out the flab. Roadrunner is a little over 300 pages but its languid pace and poorly edited prose make it seem like a 600-page magnum opus which refuses to end. 

Despite Dilip D'Souza's descriptive writing and quirky observations, Roadrunner is a promising book but one that fails to keep the reader engaged. Yes, D'Souza possesses an observant eye, has a very descriptive writing style and even tries to be conversational but sadly, it just doesn't work.

A slightly different version of this piece appears in this week's Open magazine

Frontier fast-food

A review of Imran Khan: The Cricketer, The Celebrity, The Politician- The Biography

In the introduction to this book, author Christopher Sandford writes that after working on a biography of acclaimed Hollywood director Roman Polanski, writing this exhaustive tome seemed like "drinking sparkling mineral water after eating heavily salted peanuts." But to me, it seemed like eating a lavish Lucknowi or the North-West Frontier cuisine accompanied by potent red wine; Khan's cricketing career - be it the initial trials and tribulations or the subsequent superstardom - reminded of soft, juicy but robustly tasteful galouti kebabs; their taste lingers on the palette even after I'm done with my meal. His frequent run-ins with the Pakistani cricket board (or the BCCP as the author writes), altercations with team members (most notably Javed Miandad) and his later political career is reminscient of the burra kebab;grilled, boney, chunks of mutton which are hard to chew with the meat often getting stuck between your teeth. His liaisons with beautiful women is the perfect metaphor for a full-bodied, potent red wine while his obsession with the Shaukat Khanum Memorial Cancer Hospital and Research Center in Lahore - which he built in memory of his late mother - reveals the softer side of this pathan; just like a delicately delicious Lucknowi Biryani. And to round off this delicious fare, nothing better than a phirni would suffice; the soft, sweet, slightly imperfect semi-liquid dessert - a reminder of Khan the doting father but a failed husband.

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Born as Imran Khan Niazi in a well-to-do family, Khan was the only male sibling in his family and, consequently, the apple of his mother's eye. He had a privileged - but rigorous - childhood; while he studied at the prestigious Aitchison College in Lahore, he was made to run innumerable rounds of his Zaman Park locality - sometimes with a backpack filled with rocks in order to build some muscle in his skinny body. And soon after he was done with Aitchison, young 'Immy' as he was called by friends and foes was packed off to Oxford - the start of what would soon be a roller-coaster cricket career. 

One of the most striking features of Imran Khan is the amount of paper devoted to his cricket career in England's domestic circuit. It seems to suggest that Sandford wrote these chapters keeping in mind a British audience populated by a large number of Pakistani immigrants. Every aspect of his life in England - the racial abuse hurled at him, the low match fee, his poor communication skills and his inability to get along with his British teammates due to cultural differences - is interesting but only up to a point. Simply because Imran Khan is known as a Pakistani cricket legend and not an English county cricketer.

Khan's cricket career in Pakistan was marred by frequent run-ins with the cricket board, a rebellious stint with Kerry Packer's World Series of Cricket and a career-threatening shin injury. It is the last of these aspects and Imran's handling of the injury which makes for fascinating reading. To be able to make a comeback aged 31 - and that too as a fast bowler - is testament to the man's determination. Throughout his years as a Pakistani cricketer, 'Immy' had to deal with a high-handed cricket board, an equally arrogant selection committee and a frequently rotating captaincy. But that isn't to say that Khan was a holier-than-thou figure. Sandford writes, rather dramatically, that if the cricket board was haughty, so was Imran; giving credence to speculation that Imran was a one-man cricket board himself. And his image of a lothario certainly didn't endear him to the board.

To Sandford's credit, he doesn't portray Khan as someone who chased women all the time; in a lot of cases it was the women too who were smitten by his good looks. For instance, there was an incident in an English pub where a young woman plonked herself on Imran's lap so he could "explore" her. Yes, his dalliances with British socialites and girls at Oxford (including a certain Benazir Bhutto) did make him a playboy and an "international sex symbol". However, Sanford his careful not to let this aspect of Khan's overshadow the others. Instead, he timidly takes back his statement about the Bhutto-Khan affair saying the friendship was "platonic". Bhutto would later remark that Khan would make for a "valued" public servant.

And that's exactly what Khan did soon after retiring from international cricket. In 1996, he formed the political outfit Tehreek-E-Insaaf but didn't have much electoral success initially. Did this lower Khan's morale? Doubtful. Instead, Khan is said to have remarked emphatically that his party was the "fastest growing movement" in Pakistan. Going by sheer numbers, the movement is still in its infancy as the party shares just 0.8% of the parliamentary seats. But going by Khan's personality and Sandford's slightly naive assessment, the 'Lion of Lahore' will get the country's top job one day. What the writer forgets is that it's one thing to be a cult figure, support a lawyers' agitation, make grandiose statements on television but quite another to translate all of these into votes. Yes, Khan remains a glimmer of hope for an otherwise failed democracy but it'll take a while before he can make a significant impact  in his country's polity.

So what does this exhaustive and meticulously researched biography say about Pakistan's most colorful personality? Simply put he's a complex figure who's been a victim of circumstances and, conversely, used circumstances to his advantage as well. As Sandford rightly suggests, Imran Khan has provided his deprived Pakistani citizens some hope and joy through his political and cricketing career. And as far as the biography is concerned, it may not be tautly paced but is certainly very enjoyable. Remember, its a lucknowi and North-West Frontier fare you're eating. Not a McDonald's burger!

A slightly different and edited version of this review can be read in today's Business Standard Weekend supplement 



Picture Courtesy: www.livemint.com

Book Review: Case Of The Missing Servant

Witty, hilarious, pacey, engaging and totally Delhi. If there's one book that does justice to all these terms it is this. Hall's latest novel, though aimed at a Western audience, is an enjoyable detective novel which starts in Delhi, travels through the corridors of Delhi's posh Gymkhana Club, Jharkhand's uranium mines before ending up in Jaipur.

Vish "Chubby" Puri, a portly, pakora-loving Punjabi detective and managing director of Most Private Investigator Ltd.is your stereotypical middle-aged Delhiite who operates from above Bahrisons booksellers in Delhi's tony Khan Market. He earns his bread and butter by succesfuly spying on prospective bridegrooms with shady pasts, business rivals and straying spouses. "Chubby" prides himself on being able to crack the most difficult of cases while remaining absolutely faithful to his clients "Confidentiality is our watchword" is his motto.

But his real challenge comes when Ajay Kasliwal, a well known Jaipur-based lawyer's maidservant Mary, goes missing. Puri is hired to locate her and the only clue he has is her name. Soon, news of Mary's murder breaks out and Kasliwal is implicated in the case. But, is Mary really dead? Is Kasliwal the real murderer? Puri questions himself as he tries cracking - along with associates Tubelight, Facecream, Flush and Handbrake - the most complex case of his life.

In between, Chubby is attacked by a red-booted man as he waters his terrace garden. Since India's most private investigator doesn't care much about himself, his widowed "Mummyji" starts her own parallel investgations into the incident - much to the chagrin of Chubby.

What follows is a roller-coaster ride which gives an insight into the lives of detectives, middle class India accompanied with a dash of dilliwaalon ki bhasha. The language is far from literary, the narrative engaging but shallow. Well-etched, fringe characters like Puri's fretful wife Rumpi, the eccentric Brigadier Kapoor, and Mummyji provide the humour as does his new servant, Sweetu.

But the most striking feature of Hall's India-inspired detective novel is the manner in which he captures the behaviour of Delhiites. Indeed this is a city where your best friend will say 'Sab Changa' when asked about his health. Its a city which prides itself on its wealth and connections as Puri's childhood buddy Rinku shows. So whether its getting Puri a club membership or boasting about his money-minting strategies, Rinku personifies the stereotypical Delhiite.

Overall, The Case of the Missing Servant is a 'social thriller' much like Vikas Swarup's Six Suspects and meant to be enjoyed while you're flying between Delhi and Mumbai. Don't go looking for the literary and you, like Rinku, will also be very changa

A slightly different version of this review can be found here

Thoughts on Meghnad Desai's foray into fiction

What do you get when you mix British political history, a megalomaniacal media baron, dollops of sex and a football match with tabloidesque gossip and a motley cast of characters written in a dull, insipid manner? Dead On Time, Lord Meghnad Desai’s first foray into fiction. The novel’s insipidness is hardly surprising considering the author’s expertise about a subject, which is as bland as the novel itself – economics.

The blurb on the cover jacket states that the book is “a delightful mix of humour, action and realpolitik.” But well within the first 100 pages you feel the absence of humour, sexual overtones overcast whatever little action is visible and realpolitik is defined in terms of how skilfully the Prime Minister, Harry White, dodges his secretaries Christine and Sarah. In between, Desai informs the reader – in his trademark uninspired writing – about how Downing Street got its name and the importance of being interviewed by John Humphrys. But the most dominant features of the book are sexual escapades of politicians and political hoodwinking. The plotline, humour and language be damned.

So there’s Harry White, a good ol’ British Prime Minister obeying orders from Uncle Sam, trying to solve the Middle East peace crisis while being charismatic and politically savvy. He also falls for his diary secretary, Sarah, has to prevent a bloodbath between the Protestants and the Catholics and deal with the political moves of megalomaniacal media baron Matt Drummond. And the success of these endeavours depends upon a football match which he cannot avoid at any cost. Even if it means cancelling a lunch meeting with the powerful Archbishop of Canterbury, head of the English church. If there ever was an award for the most bizzare plotline, Dead On Time would’ve won it hands down.

Not only is the writing ordinary, the characterisation is weak and underwhelming. What makes Dead On Time even more confusing is its overdose on motley characters. There’s Christine, the PM’s ex-flame and now his secretary, Terence Harcourt, White’s bête noir and Secretary of State for Europe, Andrew, a drug addict-turned-tabloid journalist always snooping around for political gossip and lewd photographs. A half-Indian, half-Malaysian woman, Asha Chan, also finds her way in as a cunning tax lawyer who fulfils Drummond’s sexual needs. And finally there’s Alan, Sarah’s ex-boyfriend who’s realised his feelings lay for Jo, his best friend from Cambridge. You can’t be blamed for getting distracted with such a rainbow cast of characters around.

However, the biggest flaw with Desai’s novel is its complete inability to grip the reader’s attention. One reason could be the novel’s backdrop – set in Britain – but then, that cannot be an excuse for using insipid writing, poor articulation and monologues on British political history. Far from being a political thriller, Dead On Time is an economist’s poor attempt at writing fiction. It lacks robustness, dark humour and adrenaline rush – key ingredients of a gripping political thriller.

Perhaps Desai should consider to doing what he does best – writing on economics and indulging in political commentary

(A slightly different review of the book can be found here)

Thoughts on Tania James' Atlas of Unknows

It’s difficult to describe Tania James’ debut novel. Not because it’s a complex novel filled with eccentric characters and a poignant storyline but because it’s one of the most engaging literary reads of 2009.

Spread over the lush green terrains of Kerala and the multi-faceted soul of New York, Atlas of Unknows is the story of sisters Linno and Anju, who are raised in God's own country by their father Melvin after their mother commits suicide. Soon, Linno loses her right hand in an accident while lighting fireworks on Christmas Eve – one of the many imaginatively written scenes in the book. However, that doesn’t curb or deter Linno’s talent to create beautiful pictures. But, in an act of betrayal, Anju plagiarises Linno’s works as hers and wins a scholarship to a prestigious New York arts school.

In New York, Anju’s past catches up with her thanks to Bird, a friend of her late mother and from there begins the downfall of Anju, the liar and Linno, the crippled underdog – a robust, multi-layered prose which takes you on a roller coaster ride.

But the novel’s most striking feature is multi-culturalism, best reflected in Anju’s interactions with her host family in New York, the Solankis. Mrs Solanki, her host mother, anchors a TV show, Four Corners, debating possibly every issue under the sun – from feminism to Indian politics – highlighting a hilarious disconnect between India and its diaspora. James’ descriptive and vivid writing style is best exhibited through lines such as “Mrs Solanki’s face is like the flag of a European nation, vaguely familiar, obviously important in some way, but difficult to classify”. Bits such as these and Anju’s first interaction with Bird where she mispronounces his name liven up an otherwise poignant narrative – which is visible in the first few pages of the book.

As Linno returns to school after recuperating from the fireworks accident, she is surrounded by curious classmates in the school toilet, wanting to take a peek inside the knotted sleeve. Sidestepping their curiosity, Linno tries to get out of the loo – but is pinned to the wall. At first she struggles to fight her classmates but, ultimately, “wilts under their weight.” It is an incident which would leave a person shocked. But not Linno. She re-ties the knot, smoothens her hair, splashes water in her eyes “to separate the red from the white” and moves on with life as usual. It is as poignant and moving a scene as you would’ve read anywhere. It is also a situation which is very complex to describe

With Atlas of Unknowns, Tania has made a brilliant debut, one which will be remembered for a long time. Her writing is similar to that of Kamila Shamsie – balancing emotions in a delicate yet engaging narrative - although her canvas is not as overwhelming. Overall, Atlas of Unknowns is the kind of book you’d want to read sitting in your balcony, enjoying the pleasant weather and reflectiong on a journey called life

(A slightly different version of this review can be read here)

Book Review: Salim Must Die

Been caught up with a lot of stuff on the studying front off late and so, blogging has taken a hit. It's become a lot more erratic than I thought it would and I'm trying my best to ensure the blog doesn't get neglected. So while there won't be blog-exclusive content for a few weeks, I'll be reproducing my book reviews. Here's a short review of Mukul Deva's Salim Must Die which appeared in this week's Businessworld magazine

The storyline of Mukul Deva’s Salim Must Die — sequel to the bestseller Lashkar — is strikingly similar to today’s geopolitical scenarios vis-à-vis terrorism. A beleaguered American president wanting to create a legacy, a Pakistani dictator trying to save his government and his life, and an ISI brigadier plotting against the kafir (non-believers) are the main protagonists of the book. Iraq and Afghanistan are burning, and a “clash of civilisations” is looming large. And caught in the eye of this impending storm is an Indian prime minister — already battling allegations of being “soft” on terrorism— who has to save his country from this storm.

Deva’s army days and the skills he learnt there are visible in the operation which sees the capture and subsequent death of a character loosely inspired by Osama bin Laden. Apart from its principal characters Col. Anbu and Brig. Salim Murad, the role of G.K. Rao — a portly, horn-rimmed intelligence expert — is bound to leave an impact on you with his sheer volume of information.

However, it is the planning, plotting and execution of operations that form the meat of the story. Deva gives an insight into the mind of a terrorist, and the deceptive mode of communication he uses. The creation of profiles on Shaadi.com and the near-anonymity of operational heads and subordinates is a brilliant example of this. Sadly, the pace and smart characters fail to hide its shortfalls; Rao drones on about his volume of information sitting at the National Intelligence Command, while Murad’s lecture on “targeting the minds of the kafir” fails to impress. The book simply makes you think about the dangerous world we live in.

Coming up in the next few weeks: Reviews of Meghnad Desai's Dead on Time, Tarquin Hall's Case of the Missing Servant and (time permitting) my thoughts on L K Advani's autobiography, My Country, My Life.

P.S. If and whenever I get Chandrahas Choudhary's debut novel, Arzee The Dwarf, I'll put that up here as well. For now, it's back to the world of studies.

Vanity Unfair

Coelho’s latest offering is set in Cannes – during the international film festival - and is the story of Igor Malev, who’s wife Ewa has deserted him for a rich Arab fashion designer, Hamid. An enraged Igor adopts a murderous streak – murdering innocent people within a 24 hour timeframe. The core aspect of this book is materialism and the ills that accompany it. Be it through characters or subtler elements like Javits’ Moet et Chandon champagne bottle, Coelho makes the objective of his book clear at the outset.

The initial pages are devoted to the wannabe models who try to catch the eye of a hot-shot Hollywood producer and the methods they employ – botox included - to look beautiful every single day. Javits – the pretentious, jet-setting Champagne drinker – also reads aloud a 46 point list about the attributes of a ‘normal’ person. It includes such bizarre points as “Wearing a scrap of coloured cloth around your neck, even though it serves no useful purpose, but which answers to the name of a ‘tie’”. Clearly Mr Coelho is very cynical about materialism.

However, as the story progresses, Coelho cuts down on the cynicism and the following pages make for an engaging read.

Igor continues with his cold murder spree - killing a street vendor using the ancient martial art of Sambo and bumps off a movie distributor using a needle at a crowded luncheon. All this, in the hope that Ewa will take notice and return to him. In between, he encounters a few people who move about Cannes’ morally corrupt beaches. There’s Cristina who chooses the “professional name” of ‘Jasmine Tiger’ in a bid to become a successful model. 25-year-old Gabriella, who - while “spreading the energy of love around me” – works an escort for superstar Hamid Hussein and gradually “learns to love him.”

Coelho is descriptive, imaginative and vivid in his writing but the basic flaw with The Winner Stands Alone is its theme of vanity. Of course, it’s an attribute that exists in every society but then so do many others. And it won’t be surprising if the number of un-vane people outnumber their vane counterparts. So is it really fair to prick on an attribute which is confined to a small section of society?

Moreover, in choosing the prestigious Cannes film festival as his backdrop, Coelho tries to emphasise rather unfairly that the only people who go there are glamour hungry and couldn’t really care about cinema. It’s as shallow as saying that people take to politics only to increase their TV appearances. I am not trying to defend the Cannes film festival but such generalisations nor am I trivialising Coelho’s book. But shouldn’t one be measured while generalising about a reputed film festival?

Overall, The Winner Stands Alone is a book that doesn’t merit a recommendation. After all, with a bizarre narrative tool like Igor’s purpose and attempts to highlight insignificant societal attributes, Coelho only harms his reputation as the writer of such bestselling books as The Alchemist and Eleven Minutes.

Read it only if you have nothing else to look forward to – or if you want a lesson or two about vanity.

(A version of this book review can be read here)