At age twenty-one, I was given a copy of my grandfather’s poems. It was a blue book, with flames dancing on the cover. Those flames stood for aatish, fire in Urdu. The book’s title – and the origin of my name – was aatish kada, fire temple.

The picture of the flames was all I could make sense of at the time – the poems were in Urdu script, of which I knew too little to read even my name. How was it that I, having grown up in Delhi, could not read my paternal grandfather’s poems? ‘They stole it! And we also let it go,’ Zafar Moradabadi said mournfully, speaking of Pakistan and Urdu respectively.

Zafar was the man with whom I sat down to conquer the book’s mysteries. I said I didn’t want to learn to write, only to read. His face bloomed with concern. ‘You know you have a responsibility. You’re a poet’s grandson; what’s been done is there, for you to read and know. You say you want just to read; even that will only come when you can write.’ He was the first to admit that Urdu in India hadn’t really sunk as a language; it dominated television and cinema. He confessed that it was a question of script: what stood between me and my grandfather’s poetry. Using the word mizaaj, which is disposition, temperament and taste, he confessed ‘one’s mizaaj is contained in one’s script’.

Six months into my lessons with Zafar, I’d mastered the script’s meaningful single and double dots and mysterious elisions and I read my first Manto story about Bombay. Manto could evoke his world with a single detail. I was reading to see how he engaged his material so that a narrative seemed to spring naturally from it, a narrative that not only didn’t rely on ornate writing and description, but would have been obscured by it. So affecting was the experience that I wondered why I hadn’t grown up reading Manto. The answer was that he wasn’t taught widely in schools; he was locked into Urdu curriculum; Devanagari editions of his stories were hard to come by and English translations of his writing dense and bland – he had either been forgotten in India, or disowned. Feeling that India had too few writers of his caliber – either with the richness and breadth of his material or the simplicity of his prose – I sat down to do the first translation.

The challenges of translating Manto are considerable. What is rich, fluent prose in Urdu can appear florid in English. Translations are often criticized for being too literal, but in the case of Manto’s translators, I feel they haven’t been literal enough, that they have tried to rewrite the stories. My translations became a way for me to limit the effects of the intellectual partition Manto feared. Partition had left the subcontinent’s intellectual past fenced up with no-go zones. It has to be sorted through, excavated and reclaimed.

Manto: Selected Stories, translated by Aatish Taseer; 136 pp; Random House India; MRP 295. Buy or Rent books by Manto or Aatish Taseer now!!!!

Read an excerpt from the book at Aatish Taseer’s website

Review by Abhilasha Kumar

You know this book signifies much more than a few stories strung together, right at the onset. Tania James has achieved an emotional connect with the reader by penning down some truly heart rending pieces. They strike a chord somewhere. At some specific junctures in the book, you get the odd feeling that James is deliberately touching a soft spot; digging through your iron clad flesh, and reviving the heart that you have safely hidden someplace deep. You’ve never really taken short stories seriously – not even the ones you’ve crafted yourself. For how much could a few pages possibly convey? What order of words, what string of sentences could possibly compare to the power of a novel? But you have to confess,  you’re rethinking it all.

The beauty of James’ writing lies in the fact that her characters don’t fit in your world – not a single thread of commonality can be detected – and yet, you feel a compelling connection to each of them. Perhaps, by constructing realities contrasting to yours, she is driving home the realisation that we’re all the same, across countries, continents and the world at large. We spend too much time in our comfortable cocoons, wallowing in self pity, making mountains out of molehills. We continuously try to validate our uniqueness, asserting by reason or by force that we’re different. Our struggles are different, our emotions are different. But are they? James answers this question in her own humbling, poignant way. So when you suddenly feel the pangs of jealousy, as Imam, the younger sibling witnesses the rise of his brother Gama, you’re wonderstruck. Surely, you’re too different from two wrestlers yearning for a title to find any common ground with them? But that’s where James’ genius probably lies– her stories do not seem to rely on characters or even plots. They’re relying on something much more powerful – the sentiment – an angle she has mastered brilliantly.

Her stories tell you that the bond between siblings is complicated. Yet, despite all odds, jealousies and rivalries, it is a bond that nature has nurtured. And you can’t mess with nature, can you?

The key to every story in the book is relationships, and James has understood their fragility well. You may have laughed uncontrollably at Ross Geller’s monkey comedy, but James’ Henry is anything but an object of ridicule. Henry represents the pet you gave up, if you ever did. There are passages in the book that make you smile like a child. Your feelings are mixed– there is a hint of nostalgia, combined with a massive amount of guilt. Sometimes you let go simply because you have no choice. Maybe some bonds are meant to break. Maybe they have a life span. And maybe if you went back, there won’t be anything left to go back to. Maybe your very own Henry has forgotten too. Her sentences are lovely, some of them more than the others. She writes in ‘Aerogrammes’, ‘Sometimes the accumulation of his silence seemed to heap upon him, as slowly as snow, until he felt he could no longer be seen.’ In that one line, she sums up every mild introvert’s constant dilemma.

Some of the stories hit too close to your heart. As you read through ‘The Gulf’, you realise that the title does not only signify what it pretends to. Distances in relationships are not merely geographical. You’re suddenly the little girl, curious, almost desperate to unravel the mystery about her father. Do you need to pay attention to the details? More importantly, did the author even want you to? In my opinion, her sole intention was to force you to smudge the details. Her book is not thriving on them, and frankly, with the quality of emotion it carries, it doesn’t even need to.

The farther you delve into the book’s pages, the more you realise that James has attempted to word the subtle undercurrents of many relationships; her writing is powerful, her stories heartfelt; her themes universal. She words the complications of familial ties. She lays out the subtle layers of insecurity more than once. She demonstrates the innocence of childhood, deftly entwined with the complexity of adulthood. She presents to you a collage that seems unfamiliar at first, but eventually, you realize that you know all the colours. You know the glue that sticks them together too. You know every piece of the puzzle she’s presenting. This is your territory. And eventually, we’re all born with territorial instincts, aren’t we?

You’ll like the book. Probably because you’ll find yourself in a little girl, or an old man, or a widow, or an insecure child or maybe in all of them. You won’t have to squeeze in. You’ll simply fit, even if only for a few lines or paragraphs. Nevertheless, you’ll find yourself!

Aerogrammes & Other Stories by Tania James

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Book Review: Toke by Jugal Mody

Review by Reshmy Pillai

Rating: 4 out of 5 stars

Three facts I bet you did not know about marijuana and getting stoned!

1. We know Lord Shiva enjoys marijuana and loves getting stoned, but Lord Vishnu enjoys it too!!
2. In fact the probability of meeting Vishnu face to face is most when you are at your high’s highest – he has a whole secret cult called BoV or Boys of Vishnu, comprising only of stoners!
3. Marijuana smoke can help you identify maggots with naked eyes – no microscope needed, and it is also your shield against turning into zombies. Who needs another medicine, eh?

You learn all this and more as you wade through Jugal Mody’s terrific debut work – a book that is part satire, part religious reconstruction and part fantasy. Jugal takes us on an unconventional, out-of-this-world ride, one that could well have been a dramatic, action induced dream. Actually, by the end of the book, that seems like a distinct possibility. Toke, in a subtle manner, breaks some myths that we, the majority in the country – Hindus – have grown up with: most importantly, the one about Hinduism being a religion. The story suggests that it is anything but a religion; it is a way of life, the way of the universe. Toke brings together a most unusual group of people to sort out the biggest problem facing the human race – extinction; and Lord Vishnu – the creator himself is not very hopeful that Nikhil, the protagonist, will save his beloved creation, not that it matters much to him.

Toke takes us on a ride which starts with Nikhil – not much of a son, ‘loser’ type employee and extremely average human being – having one of his worst days at work. His project is behind schedule, his computer acting up, his project manager glaring down on him every few hours and his cubicle neighbor, ‘perfect employee’ Alok popping over the wall with very helpful remarks, specifically timed with the project manager’s rounds. Eventually, by half day, he ends up at his best friends – Aman & Danny – flat, who live to get stoned with the best weed procurable out there and the easiest way to enrage them is by calling ganja a drug. Fancy that! After this most appreciative day at work all Nikhil wants is to get stoned, and stoned he gets after his friends dig out their best stuff for his initiation. Herein the action begins. The following morning while his friends are still stoned, Nikhil encounters a talking crow who claims to be a Hollywood celebrity, and then Lord Vishnu himself. Plopped on his throne of clouds, smoking a joint, the Creator is relaxed and smiling. He had come looking for Aman and Danny but since they were out cold, he assigns Nikhil with a mission. Vishnu tells him that demons are taking over the world and the human race is in real danger of turning undead; demons will be attacking in a most technological manner and humans will become extinct in their current form and only exist as controlled zombies. So Nikhil needs to save the world because Vishnu is in no mood to take his tenth incarnation of Kalki. The only divine support that Vishnu can provide is a red button that is to be used when in panic; it will transport them to the happy place of the one who pressed it.

A troubled Nikhil and his cool-in-everything stoner friends eventually figure out that everything around them is turning green and that maggots are being fed to people through food. These vile creatures then take control of their brains and turn them into zombies. The whole world is turning into a zombie-land and the group is being hunted down everywhere they flee with the help of the panic button. Amidst all this, Nikhil’s crush from office who is now partly a zombie, is tagging along with him; two Japanese girls who believe that Aman and Danny are martial arts masters have also joined the motley group and are cutting down people with their martial arts skills. Alok, Nikhil’s favorite colleague, has also joined the adventure and Vishnu keeps video conferencing to call Nikhil a loser, give him time mandates to save the world and inform him of his vacation plans. Thus while God is on his side, he is away on vacation!

Jugal makes one of the most confident literary debuts in recent times with Toke. The narration is crisp and well edited, the story unconventional and well detailed; and the concept, mind boggling. The book is entertaining, intelligent and engaging. I have not read many books that engage you with the deeper concepts of philosophy and religion as effortlessly as this one does, that too without compromising on the entertainment factor. A definitely recommended read for the year.

Toke by Jugal Mody; HarperCollins Publishers India; 2012

Buy or rent from INDIAreads Online Library and Bookstore!

If you’re in Lanka on business, pleasure or cricket, chances are you’ll be served arrack, an amber coloured intoxicant, favoured by the gentle and not-so-gentle islanders next door. Here are 10 things you didn’t know about it.

1.     Arrack predates Scotch and Vodka by centuries. Marco Polo apparently had a tipple in the 13^th century.

2.     It is not the same as raki from the Middle East, which tastes like liquorice. Or arkhi from Mongolia, which smells like fermented milk.

3.     It’s made from the juice of the coconut flower, plucked by crazy men in loin cloths, walking on 40 foot high tightropes.

4.     Arrack is consumed at Sri Lankan cricket matches, dodgy bars, nightclubs, office parties by everyone from hipsters to hip replacement patients.

5.     It’s best enjoyed with Ginger Ale and a plate of devilled meat. Some have it with coke. No one we know has tried it with tofu.

6.    Everyone agrees that frog tastes like chicken. And that arrack isn’t as bitter as whisky, or as sweet as rum. Everyone.

7.     There are 791 references to arrack in the novel Chinaman: The Legend of Pradeep Mathew. You can count them.

8.    The 1771 recipe for Swedish Punch includes half a pint of arrack. A classic Arrack Sour contains lime juice, ice cubes and a ton of sugar.

9.    There are many types of arrack: Double Distilled, VSOA, Old Reserve, Blue and Pol. But the strongest and meanest is Extra Special Gal, a cross between paint thinner and cough syrup.

10.  After 2 drinks, you will be eloquent on the subjects of cricket and politics. After 5, you will develop an ear for baila music and will laugh at everything. If still awake after 10, you are most likely get beaten up.

Sri Lankan writer Shehan Karunatilaka is the author of the Chinaman: The Legend of Pradeep Mathew, which won the 2012 Commonwealth Book Prize.

(To buy this interesting read that gives you a flavour of cricket, Sri Lanka and arrack, log on to www.indiareads.com)

Move over Monica and Chandler – Y and Vijay are here, the quintessential metro couple walking the thin line between life in a metropolis and values of a small town. They are crazy, they are fun, they are you and me and that’s perhaps why blogger Yashodhara Lal’s debut novel Just Married, Please excuse strikes such a chord. There is nothing remarkable about the plot apart from the fact that it is so real that in Yasho’s daily struggles you see yourself. And reading about one’s life, when the narrative is laced with humour, is always fun.  Think Sex and the City or Marian Keyes!

Y is the tempestuous 21st century, sarcasm-sprouting IIM graduate who after much trepidation takes the plunge with steady, laid back, still-trying-to-get-over-his-small-town ways Vijay. Her reluctance is understandable – ask any 23 year old, independent metro girl who’s had the question popped. Living together is cool but marriage to a person who, in many ways is the antithesis of you? Absolutely not. Why they even think in different languages! She can’t remember what namaste is called in hindi (!!!) and he loses his tenacious command over English every time he gets agitated. Tough decision but our dear author knows it is the right one when said guy holds her head over the toilet seat without a wince. And thus the drama begins. Suddenly trousers and tee girl Y finds herself struggling to get into a saree to please her mom-in-law or plying pa-in-law with innumerable cups of tea and rhombus shaped rotis to win him over. Not that Mummyji and Papaji are the dreaded monsters-in-law portrayed in Ektaa Kapoor soaps. No, they are the sweet, cute, slightly conservative couple who recognize that while their bahu maybe a complete disaster in the kitchen, drink alcohol and wear short pants, their son finds her to be a great person and that, is enough. They don’t pop a vein, not even when said daughter-in-law throws a fit at 2 in the morning and stalks out of the house. Instead, mummyji calmly explains, “ Ladne ki kya baat hain? Arrey, kabhi main maan jaati hoon, kabhi wo maan jaate hain.” How profound!

And how very difficult to implement. Y and V discover that the real challenge is to get used to each other’s idiosyncrasies - his penchant for all things alu gobhi and her tendency to blow a fuse at the drop of a hat. You breeze through the first 120 pages with a smile on your face as you encounter their efforts to buy a house and witness Y’s driving lessons. And just as you think that this crazy but adorable couple has found their equilibrium, princess peanut decides to make an entry. Thus begins a whole new set of this-is-the-way-to-it battles when internet based wisdom finds itself at odds with good old tradition . Yashodhara portrays with ease and remarkable wit the struggles of a newly wed working couple as they learn to handle their pregnancy. However, it is after baby Anoushka is born that the book loses its pace and charm. The flow, realism and hey-that-could-be-me feel of the earlier chapters that compelled you to keep turning the pages is lost and the embellishments become more glaring. Some encounters, like the one when Y’s househelp raises a false alarm and has the entire locality on the streets at 2 am seem a little too far fetched. Hey, they could still be real but pardon me, if I find them a tad difficult to swallow.

Like most books by Indian authors, Just Married, Please Excuse has a fairly liberal dose of Hinglish sprinkled across it’s pages but Yashodhara’s colloquial style of writing ensures that it does not jar. Her language is contemporary, and yet thankfully it does not make a mockery of English, unlike a lot of new publications. For that alone, the author deserves our gratitude.

Fitzgerald of the Great Gatsby fame once said that to write a good book “you have to sell your heart” because when you begin you only have your emotions to offer. And that is exactly what Yashodhara does. Her candor evokes a sense of déjà vu. (Makes you wonder if this book truely is a work of fiction as the cover states or is it a memoir? Y, are you listening? ) If you are trying to find your niche in the big urban jungle, every page of the book, barring the last few chapters perhaps, is likely to remind you of an instance in your life or of someone around you. And if you are still enjoying the relative coziness of small town India as it races to meet the metros, you’ll get a glimpse of what life has in store for you. Relax, it’s not bad; just insane! A little bit like Marriage

Title: Just Married, Please Excuse; By: Yashodhara Lal; ISBN: 9789350292273
Cover price: INR 199;  Format: Paperback; Genre: Fiction; Published by: HarperCollins Publishers India

Available for rent/sale @ INDIAreads Online Library and Bookstore!

Most of our reviews are straight from the heart, but this one’s different – it’s straight from the stomach. No seriously, it is.

For long, we kept mulling over the recipe for that perfect cookbook review. But try as we might, the result was never particularly delicious and then one fine day, we identified the missing ingredient, thanks to our very own in house gourmand and food enthusiast – our Operations Manager. He simply took home a cookbook from our growing list and the next day came back with a verdict: 3.5 stars. It’s neat!!!

Staggered, we rushed with our list of questions- Why do you say that? On what basis did you decide and most importantly, where is the review?

Well, here’s the review that he submitted!!!!

Well actually, an image of the review. He just tried one of the recipes from the book and the result had us all clamouring for more.

So, this is the review of Adita Bal’s Chakh Le India, a cookbook that comes recommended highly by everyone who tasted the Rogan Josh. Here’s what Bal had to say about the dish - “One of Kashmir’s most popular meat dishes, this robust, spicy and intensely flavoured curry in incredible when made correctly.”

And Bal, incidentally has something to say about every dish in the book- so yes, you have the ingredients and procedures like every other cookbook, but you also have that extra something – that tangy flavour that makes it different. In fact the first few segments of the book are designed for beginners and the uninitiated, introducing them to various ingredients, techniques and terms that define the Indian kitchen. So you meet the holy trinity of the Indian rasoi – garlic, ginger and onions, learn of Baghar and Yakhni, among other things.

The recipes in the book have been collected from across India and have featured on Bal’s popular Cookery show (which goes by the same name as the book) on NDTV Good Times.

So here’s what we would say about the book:

Concept: Cool. Want to impress your guests or in-laws but have no idea about cooking? Well here’s a book that takes you through the basics and ensures that you bowl ‘em over.

Presentation: Average. The illustrations accompanying the recipes are neat, though the author seems to have forgotten that ‘a picture is worth a  thousand words’, especially when it comes to cookbooks. The final dish has to look  appetizing. That is not the case here. They need to find a better food photographer. Take a cue from the international cookbooks.

Recipes: Now this one gets full marks from us. The couple we tried were lip smacking!!!! They author has also explained them well; the instructions are adequate. However, a warning. Vegetarians might be disappointed. Most of the recipes here are for non-veggies.

What’s missing: We would have liked to read a little more info about the recipes. Some anecdotes, some regional beliefs. Garnishing, after all is important!!!

If you have tried any recipe from Bal’s Chakh Le India or from any other cookbook, do send us your review. Our foodies will eagerly await them.

Meanwhile, Happy Eating!!!!

For more cookbooks, check out the Cookery section in our catalogue!!!

They say you stumble upon inspiration exactly when you’re not looking for it, and how right they are. Life has not been the same ever since my unexpected encounter of two hundred pages of absolute brilliance with Clarissa Dalloway and Peter Walsh and of course, the essential Richard Dalloway.

Until I read Mrs. Dalloway, I was capable of imparting only a very practical and literary opinion on most books. Books were either trash or not trash. They could either interest you in their well worded pages, or distress you with their poorly framed sentences. But a walk across London in the shoes of, and with Clarissa Dalloway completely blew me away. Sometimes you connect with a book to unimaginable extents. You are able to invest yourself in it, emotionally and mentally. You see yourself in its splendidly crafted characters, and not superficially, but intrinsically. The resemblance is so uncanny that you sometimes think you’ve changed, after having read the book, to fit into the identity of Clarissa Dalloway. That’s the kind of book that you call powerful and overwhelming. You cannot simply gather every strand of emotion it has managed to bring to the surface, and collectively stuff it inside the label of ‘not trash’. This book is not merely the complement of trash. It is a separate space altogether. This book defines you, or maybe, you have finally allowed a book to define you.

Virginia Woolf starts with a sentence so simple and unassuming that you will make nothing of it the first, or even the second time you read it. But when you have obsessively pored over her sentences a number of times, you will see them in a new light. Perhaps in the light she wanted you to see them, perhaps not. Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself. Yes, she did, because this is exactly what Mrs. Dalloway would say. This is not Clarissa. Mrs. Dalloway is the person you are afraid you will become one day. You like her, because you can telepathically identify with her – you empathize with her reason and unreason. You can magically understand the significance of introducing Peter Walsh in the second paragraph of the book. You would have done the same, had you possessed the genius of Virginia Woolf. You smile with wisdom at the sheer beauty of the lines, ‘…and he could be intolerable; he could be impossible; but adorable to walk with on a morning like this.’ Because you know someone exactly like Peter Walsh; you know what it feels like to walk alongside someone like him, someone whose presence is comforting and suffocating, all at the same time. You know why Clarissa had to let go of Peter, ‘…she had to break with him, or they would have been destroyed, both of them ruined, she was convinced.’ You also know how she couldn’t, even after all these years.

Clarissa represents a side of you that has been overshadowed or maybe even forgotten. She lacks the consistency you do, and she has made the compromise she tries to justify every waking minute of the day, the compromise you sometimes fear you will settle for someday. In a class that had literarily examined Mrs. Dalloway, of which you were a part, everyone had come to the conclusion that Clarissa possessed a fear of intimacy. But not all of them knew why, which you did. Perhaps you have to meet a Peter Walsh, to understand why. You can almost cringe as much as she did at the word ‘hostess’, because although you don’t throw lavish parties yourself, you understand her need to, most perfectly. So when Woolf writes, ‘Her only gift was knowing people almost by instinct, she thought, walking on. If you put her in a room with someone, up went her back like a cat’s; or she purred’, you get the spooky idea that she is writing about you. Haven’t you filled pages and pages about people? Don’t you indulge yourself in them? As a matter of fact, you do. It follows logically then that this book is about you. So much so that you can even understand the unavoidable need for Richard Dalloway.

Clarissa is not easy to understand, but her actions and reactions have some strange kind of natural appeal to you. You identify with her insecurities. You can feel her hatred for Mrs. Kilman in your own veins, because you know it stems out of her sense of ownership, a sentiment you recognize so well. Her idea of happiness perfectly resonates with your own, for you know that yours was contained in its one, isolated, defining moment, too. ‘And she felt she had been given a present, wrapped up and told just to keep it, not to look at it – a diamond, something infinitely precious, wrapped up, which, as they walked (up and down, up and down), she uncovered, or the radiance burnt through, the revelation, the religious feeling!’ You too have worshipped that matchless, precious moment repeatedly, and it has come to give you the kind of hope only love, for lack of a better word, can impart. Then of course, you smile wryly at the lines, ‘Had not that, after all, been love?’

You cannot ignore the understated, yet powerful character of Richard Dalloway. Because you know him too, or maybe you know him like Clarissa does. You need him like Clarissa does. For in some twisted moral framework, Richard Dalloway happens to validate the existence of Peter Walsh in Clarissa’s routine of twenty four hours. All of her life shall fall apart, without Richard. He needs to exist in her vicinity, simply to prove his presence; enough to justify why not marrying Peter Walsh was the right decision. Richard signifies a relationship she can fathom and live with, a relationship you can live with.

If Septimus Smith has not received a mention until now, it is because he is far removed from where Clarissa is, and yet exactly who Clarissa is. Just like you relate to Clarissa, you know Septimus. You can’t imagine his insanity, but everything else you can. You know why he writes those little notes, and why he burns them away before he jumps off the window. You can understand his sense of privacy, just like Clarissa can. You know why he jumped, and like Clarissa, you too hope he ‘plunged holding his treasure.’ By knowing Septimus, you have further blurred the line between sanity and insanity, which brings us to the eternal question of whether there is a line at all. Of course there is, you would say. But have you not repeatedly crossed the line? Have you not felt like an emotional wreck every now and then? Have you not felt incapable of feeling, at some point? Where then, is the line? Virginia Woolf has not raised these questions for nothing. You know she has written with a mind that can see the blur, the smudgy edges; a mind that can easily see the grey areas. And isn’t all of life about struggling to find yourself in the midst of innumerable grey areas?

Every time I pick up the book, which acts as comfort food for my soul, I unravel another layer, decode another level. Maybe we find meaning when and where we want to. A book makes a lasting impact only when you can find yourself inside its pages. There are many ways of reading this book, and you shall find your very own. Maybe you won’t like it as much as I did. This speaks nothing of you or the book. You both just don’t intersect. I, on the other hand, am contained in the space of Mrs. Dalloway. If you happen to get through all of its pages, and read the last line, you shall know what I mean.

Abhilasha Kumar

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by Gunjan Veda (author, Beautiful Country, Stories from Another India)

Before I begin this book review, a word of caution. Much as I love reading non fiction, reviewing them is a task I shy away from. Honestly, I am never sure if I am qualified enough to pass an opinion. After all, when you review a work of fiction – there are very tangible and easily monitorable (at least, in my case) parameters. You look at the plot, story line, language, treatment, tempo. Is it believable? Does it recreate the scene for you? Are you able to identify with the characters, their feelings? Is the fantasy fantastic enough? Is the romance sweet or forced? Did you solve the mystery by page 50 or did you sit up all night to get to the end? Was it a whodunit or a lame attempt at one? Did the words flow as one whole or did the sentences jar? Yes, I know what I am looking for and I am confident in what I pronounce. But enter the realm of non-fiction and the game changes. I can still talk about readability, language, flow, treatment. Is the topic interesting enough? Is it new? Is the information new? Has it been explained sufficiently? But here’s where I hit a bottleneck – is the information accurate? Is it neutral or does it only reflect one side of the story? Has the writer wittingly or unwittingly, hidden, manipulated or distorted facts? In a work of non-fiction, the truth counts. But truth is subjective. And there are just too many versions of it. I will never know if the information in the secret CIA files was doctored. I will never know how many “terrorists” the author actually spoke to or whether he accurately reflected their sentiments. I can do some research and figure out the political leanings of the author, but really I won’t be able to balance his or her views or provide sufficient counters. So treat this as a disclaimer of sorts. This is not a comment on the political leanings of the author or how meticulously he did his homework. I can’ t tell you if the author consulted all available sources or if he did justice to them. We will assume that he did all of that and more. This review is on the contents of the book and what the reader can expect for it.

On May 2, 2011 the world woke up to the news that Osama Bin Laden was dead. After a ten year long search that cost half a trillion dollars, employed hundreds of CIA and Special Service operatives and resulted in many civilian deaths in drone attacks conducted to kill the mastermind of the 9/11 attacks, Osama Bin Laden had finally been felled. What did this manhunt entail? Why did it take so long to capture him? How did the security agencies finally track down and kill the man who had eluded them for over a decade? What were Bin laden’s final days like? All this and much more forms the basis of Peter Bergen’s new book, Manhunt: the ten year search for Osama Bin Laden.

There is something strangely – almost morbidly- fascinating about propagators of violence. You may loathe them, idolize them or try to understand them, but you can’t ignore them because their actions -howsoever repulsive or brave they may be – define eras. 9/11 made Osama Bin Laden into a household name. The years that followed have seen innumerable books, TV shows and documentaries on this man who single-handedly declared war against the world’s reigning super power. Yet one week before Bin Laden became a global phenomenon, CNN’s Peter Bergen submitted a manuscript about the man and his “Holy War” against America. Bergen was the first journalist to carry Bin Laden’s hate note for America, delivered from a mud hut in the mountains of eastern Afghanistan in March 1997, to a western audience. Perhaps it is poetic justice then that the same man has now come up with a blow by blow account of how the US forces struggled and finally managed to kill Bin Laden by tracking his courier.

Manhunt begins with a brief account of the man who was Bin Laden and his “retired” life in Abbottabad. As with his previous three books, Bergen reminds the reader that Osama Bin Laden was not a spectre or a phenomenon, but a man with beliefs, ideas and a family – a man who was happiest in a mud hut high up in the mountains of Tora Bora where gas lanterns were the only source of light and a wood burning stove the only source of heat. A man who taught his family to always be prepared for life on the run because “we never know when war will strike.” Bergen talks about Osama’s day to day life, his relationship with his wives and the use of Avina syrup, a natural Viagra. Of course, there are the obvious biases when Bin Laden is compared to Hitler but to be fair, the author also documents the absolute loyalty and trust Bin Laden inspired amongst his followers. He goes on to describe Bin Laden’s reaction as he heard the news of the 9/11 attack over the BBC’s Arabic radio in the mountains of Khost in eastern Afghanistan.

To this point, the book is interesting but not exceptional. The real action begins after the attacks when Bergen transports the reader to the mountains of Tora Bora, to the CIA Counter Terrorism Centre, to White House and finally to the Abbottabad compound where Laden was killed. Being a journalist, he does not expect the reader to understand military terminology or set up. Instead he explains the entire operation and the role played by every individual and unit in simple terms, without overwhelming the reader with too many facts or jargon. As a result, the lay reader is able to appreciate the military strategy and planning that goes into an operation of this magnitude. Ferreting out one terrorist for a whole bunch of special operatives might seem like an easy enough job but in reality it is very, very tough. It requires a plethora of special skills and a whole bunch of people – from behaviour experts and commandos to cryptologists and even botanists- working together on a zero tolerance for mistake thresh hold. After all, one untapped clue can lead to a collapse of the entire mission. One may or may not agree with the War against Terror and the way it was fought, but Manhunt compels the reader to appreciate the pressures such a mission puts on those in power. They faced tough questions and mostly, it was a case of damned-if-you-do-and-damned-if-you-don’t. Pakistan was an ally, albeit one in chaos. Should the Pakistani Army be trusted? Should the Special Operatives collaborate with them? Should Osama be killed or captured? How should he be taken out – with a B2 bomber, a drone attack or a helicopter borne assault? And most importantly, should the US violate the sovereign integrity of an ally by sending in its troops on the stealth when the certainty of Osama being at the compound was at best 60 per cent? Even after the raid was carried out successfully, the questions did not end. Should pictures of his dead body be released to silence skeptics or should they be withheld to ensure he isn’t granted the status of a martyr? What should be done with his body? How should Pakistan be informed?

Yes, Manhunt makes for fascinating read – an action packed thriller, albeit one where the events, characters, stunts – everything is real. But for me the real strength of the book lies in the insight in provides into the lives of the Heads of State and their Heads of Security. Here, once again, a disclaimer is in order. I am unashamedly and avowedly anti “War on Terror.” Like most people, I abhor war and violence, but unlike many, my opposition extends to all acts of violence, irrespective of political leanings, nationality or religion of the perpetrator or the victim. I try to understand the motivations behind these acts, gruesome and inhumane as they may be, but that makes for another post. The point here is that I am not a neutral reader or reviewer. I have my biases. If I had to find a bad guy in the orgy of violence that has snuffed out – an indeed continues to do so- so many lives in Afghanistan , in Iraq and in many recognized and unrecognized battlefields across the world – it would be the man who authorized this violence and his cronies. Yes, I have been and continue to be, in many instances – decidedly anti-establishment (and in this case the US establishment). But Manhunt made me realize that I would never like to be in Obama’s shoes. Or Bush’s for that matter. (I am not getting into the Democrats vs Republicans debate here). My decided and definite antipathy to violence notwithstanding, would I have been able to do things differently? I am not sure.

To most “commoners” (read people who are not part of the government or establishment), the life of a statesman or stateswoman is grand. Foreign trips, exclusive planes, VVIP treatment, all manners of special privileges. That is true. Yet, Manhunt tells you why you and I would never wish to have those lives. “With great power (and everything that power can buy including every manner of luxury) comes great responsibility”. Uncle Ben’s wise words to Peter Parker (Spiderman, for the uninitiated) are not just an adage. What if it wasn’t been Bin Laden, but a perfectly respectable Pakistani citizen and his family staying inside the Abbottabad compound? What if it was Bin Laden hiding in the mountains of Tora Bora, planning the next 9/11? What if the handful of soldiers sent in on the chopper to the compound got apprehended or killed by Bin Laden’s associates? What if the Pakistani army hit the helicopter? What if another Somalia or Vietnam happened? What if the raid wasn’t conducted and Bin Laden and Al Qaeda continued to flourish? What if some Al Qaeda agent had infiltrated the US intelligence system and fed wrong information to further rupture the already faltering relationship between US and Pakistan? The what ifs are never ending and each time the ultimate decision lies with one man (or woman). As National Security Adviser Tom Donolin said, “Those moments still really strike me, that we ask one person in our system to make these incredibly difficult call on behalf of three hundred million Americans.” And that isn’t the end of it. You are not permitted to betray, by the slightest word, deed or gesture, the questions that plague you. You are expected to take decisions that history could forever condemn you for without batting an eyelid and often without letting anyone but your closest advisers in on the secret. So immediately after giving the go ahead (against the advise of his top advisers) for the operation, Obama flew to the tornado affected city of Tuscaloosa in Alabama, watched the launch of the space shuttle Endeavor and gave a commencement address at Miami Dade College. A few hours before Operation Neptune Spear as it was called, commenced, he took digs at Donald Trump at the Annual White House Correspondents dinner while his Director of National Counterterrorism Centre took his marriage vows. And even as the choppers flew towards Abbottabad, he went for his customary Sunday game of golf. All so that no one would scent what was afoot. Definitely not a life I want.

So read Manhunt, if current affairs, politics and the war on terror interest you. Read it if Bin Laden intrigues you and if you want to disabuse the many myths that unknowingly, we still hold dear. Read it for the intrigue, the thrill and the little known facts -did you know that women agents played a critical role in locating Bin Laden – that it brings out. Read it to understand a little more about the person and events that have and continue to shape the world as we know it today.

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BEAUTIFUL COUNTRY: Stories from Another India

by GUNJAN VEDA & SYEDA SAIYIDAIN HAMEED

HarperCollins Publishers India

Review by  Devaki Jain

Boating into the Sunderbans, with Syeda Hameed and Gunjan Veda , I could not stop.  I just had to go on reading,what next , what new encounters ?  – the kind of experience one has  when reading thrillers or what is called detective stories. You get into it and then you can’t stop reading as it grips your attention. The journey in the Sunderbans then going on to the tea  plantations and other parts of Bengal ,was sufficient initially to reveal  the value of Beautiful Country.

Beautiful Country , Stories from Another India is a  collection of the experiences of Dr  Syeda Hameed,  a scholar , who is also a member of the P C , and her former associate in the Planning Commission , Gunjan Veda , as they travel on work , to the various states of India-I counted 18, but am not sure – to understand how their efforts to serve the people of India are working out , and to learn, to know, India .

While one might expect that narratives coming out  of field visits by a policy maker such as a member of the Planning Commission,would be rounded up by ‘messages’, from development eminence, in Beautiful Country they are from Faiz Ahmed Faiz and other poets who, like the authors, are both exhilarated by India , and also grieving over its failures or frailties

Devaki Jain: The reviewer

Where I would like to take issue with the authors Syeda Hameed and Gunjan Veda is in their sub title namely Stories from Another India. No, No, this is not Another India.  The other India is where the author, and earlier, the co-author sits, – namely the Yojana Bhavan,- to design India’s public policy. This is India.  It is not that there is gross neglect and perhaps not enough change in the far flung areas of India as we see, as we travel along to the North-East and then to the South but what is striking is the accommodation and adaptation of the ‘diverse’ if not different communities, to each other and their surroundings.  Muslim and Hindu and Muslim/Hindu does not seem to matter as we hear of deities whose name changes with nothing more than a boat travel.  [Page 63] when Bon Bibi has other names as they travel.  To quote:

“We were delighted at the mixed use of Bangla-Urdu-Arabic in the poem.  We noticed that the book was written from the right to left as in an Urdu text.  The Bengali verses were, however, written from left to right like in English.  It was the strangest and most eclectic text we had ever seen.  In her photographs, the goddess with a Muslim name looks every bit a Hindu deity; her brother looks like an Arab sultan.  The universal acceptance of her power creates a bond among the people, a bond forged on the basis of a common fear, one that stretches beyond the realm of any single religion. [Pg 64]

Many myths, for example that the South is more advanced than the North are broken.  Many agonies such as their visit to Sonagachi where they found that while the women were terrified of the cops, it was the children for whom they were the most concerned [Pg 230], are recorded with eyes wide open .

I have a particular love affair with the Ganga and identified myself with a sentence on Pg 235 with the author’s view:

As the boatman took us across a peaceful yet busy Ganga, it seemed as if time had stood still.  This eternal, static quality is a distinguishing characteristic of Benaras.

Gunjan Veda, Author

Author, Syeda Hameed

Obviously , whether  in the Sunderbans wetlands or in Barmer’s drylands,  communities had fear, uncertainty and anguish because of uncertainty of the weather.  Fortunately for us the authors do not pontificate, nor try to do an evaluation.  But peering through the lines of 357 pages one cannot help developing the view that all is not well with India’s efforts to look after its citizens.  Simultaneously we realize that India’s citizens have extraordinary capability to survive, to cope, fearless and driven by feelings of solidarity underpinned by an assortment, a huge multi-layered complex of beliefs, not religions.  This is so whether  it is in the heartland of the cities or rural areas,  wet or dry, North or South.

Perhaps, though the authors deny it, there is a message here.  There is need for inclusion of the knowledge, the stresses faced by our people and to capitalize on their strategies for coping and the detailed understanding of their needs and how then they can be met.  In other words meeting the needs of people cannot be done by out outlays and the silo system of delivery.  Meeting the needs of the people requires starting from them through investing in listening, creating the programme from that, listening, letting evaluation and accountability be constructed from them.

Amartya Sen captured exactly this view when he says in the blurb on the book cover :

“….The book may have been generated by Syeda’s frustration with distant planning….”

The imagination soars with the thought of the kind of game shift that could take place in development delivery,  if this book of narratives is made compulsory reading not only for the IAS and related cadres, not only for the policemen and civil society personnel but for Ministers and Members of Parliament , for media news hunters , and the armchair commentators on the India story.

For me personally, having travelled on similar missions to the deepest villages in all the states of, India , in the 1970’s , it was both gripping , exhilarating to visit my India again, from the arm chair where age is keeping me,  anguishing that we had left them where they were , after nearly 50 years, – but inspiring to see the rooted- ness, the grit as well as enthusiasm of our people. I love a statement that is attributed to one of the great FORTUNE formula drivers, “India is a country of happy people” , he is supposed to have said, in answer to questions on his reaction to the hair raising drive to Jaipur !

This volume, which I call a development travelogue needs to travel through corridors as well as streets and halls , and class rooms of India .

(Devaki Jain is a renowned feminist economist. She was awarded the Padma Bhushan in 2006 for her contribution to social justice and empowerment.)

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Aniruddh Hirani, a rich, madly-in-love-with-his-Ducati  Stephenian with an IQ of 153 (Einstein’s was 160, or so says Ani) finds himself  at the feet – and quite literally so -of a witty albeit poor IITian from Goa, Aparajita Pinto. Thus begins a love story that most youngsters of today would be able to identify with. Dates at Dilli Haat and House of Ming, super (pardon the gaffe, I meant uber) cool bikes, holiday in Goa, loving albeit conservative parents who can’t imagine their Hindu son marrying a Catholic girl and 26/11. Yes, debut author Abhimanyu Jha picks up everyday characters and tells us their story, a story situated in a world where bullets and bombs are no longer confined to traditional battlegrounds. You, me or the person next door- anybody can be a victim. But what happens when you discover that the person you left your home and parents for, is holed up in a hotel that has been taken over by terrorists? What happens when you can hear her fear, her terror and yet can’t reach her? What happens when her battery dies out and there is no news? When all you see are visuals of death and destruction flashing across television screens, and yet not one of them shows you the face that you desire to see most?

The strength of Jha’s novel lies both in the timeliness its plot and the commonality of its characters. Apu and Ani, are indeed the guy and the gal next door. So is their love story. There is nothing extraordinary in it. It could have been your story or mine; perhaps therein lies its charm. The style of narration is also interesting. The protagonist recounts his  love story between periodic updates on the current terror situation (current being 26/11). This to and fro provides momentum and ensures that the story does not drag.

The language is colloquial – exceedingly so. It is almost as if the author has transcribed an audio tape. There is nothing literary in here – no subtlety of language, no word play, no poetry. In their stead are the cusswords, abbreviations and “cocky” slang that characterize the vocabulary of teenagers today. So you have words like baski (basketball is way to long), senti, uncomfy, coz, phattu and crud sprinkled liberally across the book.  The facebook lingo with a heavy (at times, unbearably so) dose of Hinglish is so evident that at times it seems contrived. But then perhaps the intention of the author was to produce a book for mass consumption in the language of the masses. For like it or not, Hinglish has become the language of the masses today.

If you are looking for a contemporary Indian love story that you can identify with, pick up A Dilli-Mumbai Love Story.

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