Inspector Singh investigates : A curious Indian cadaver by Shamini Flint

Inspector Singh, of the Singapore police force, might just have to look to his laurels.  Courtesy, of all unlikely people, his wife, Mrs. Singh.

In this funny, laugh-out-loud 6th instalment of the Inspector Singh series, we see the Malaysian-Singaporean Sikh going to India for the first time, to attend, of all unlikely things for such an anti-family man, a family wedding.

His wife’s family, of course.

Still on enforced sick leave after his Cambodian escapades, the good detective has no excuse for not attending the wedding of his wife’s first cousin’s daughter.

This is a high-society arranged marriage, a concept alien to Inspector Singh, but not to his good wife:




Soon after their arrival in Mumbai, there is a suspicious death, and Inspector Singh is plunged headlong into an investigation that includes questioning many of his wife’s family.  As he tramps the dirty streets of Mumbai, lamenting the damage being done to his trademark white sneakers, Mrs. Singh stays close in the bosom of her traumatised family – and becomes, de facto, her husband’s source on the inside.

In her earlier Inspector Singh books, Ms Flint has always used the clever device of an assistant/sidekick/translator who helps the Singaporean policeman on his foreign jaunts.  This local assistant provides the detective (and we the readers) with an insight into a different society, and is the foil against which Inspector Singh views and judges the new country.

Enter Mrs. Singh, a regular visitor to India, a recent convert to the internet and the joys of Google, and now an expert on all things Indian.  She explains the country of which she is uncritically proud to her sceptical, querulous husband, who realises pretty early on that although he may look the part, he is actually 100% foreign.



Mrs. Singh wants only to prove to her husband that India is modern.  And better than China.



It is a masterstroke making this thin, sharp-tongued woman her husband’s assistant, for not only does it make for great humour, it also allows us to get to know Mrs. Singh better.

She finally steps out from her husband’s shadow, and becomes a brilliant character in her own right.IMG_9407

Like any first time visitor to Mumbai, the good Inspector is taken aback at the smell, the dirt, the crowds, the noise.




Other than eating good authentic Indian food, Inspector Singh has very few desiderata.  Avoid Delhi belly and have a ride in an Ambassador car, basically.


Ambassadors, alas, are not to be part of his Mumbai experience :IMG_9401

The plot is a clever one, keeping us guessing until the very last pages, and the ending is unexpected.  But then, Ms Flint’s endings always are.  What a clever writer she is.

I happen to know Mumbai pretty well, having lived there for several years, and so can attest to the veracity of the writer’s observations and descriptions.

What an accomplished story teller Ms Flint is, putting her finger so easily and yet so firmly on the pulse of India :



The matching turbans and Nehru jackets are not unique to Mumbai, and up here in Delhi (where I live) they are very much a definite “statement” way of dressing.  Ms Flint is spot on.


Another great read, an exciting whodunnit, an exuberant foray into India and weddings and religion and progress and poverty.

And, of course, we get to spend more time with Mrs. Singh.

As I said at the outset, the good Inspector might just have to look to his laurels.


If you would like to buy the book, you can do so now, by clicking on the link below:

The Ambassador’s Wife by Jake Needham

I might just have a bit of a crush on Inspector Samuel Tay, of the Singapore CID.

Not because he’s tall dark and handsome, or any of that clichéd nonsense.

On the contrary, Inspector Tay is a slightly overweight, late-middle-aged smoker, and  – if the truth be known –  probably Singapore’s home grown version of a Grumpy Old Man.  Hates mobile phones.  Hates immediate familiarity.  Bit of a Luddite, if the truth be known.  But he makes me laugh out loud as he stomps around his island state, and that is a wonderful thing, to smile and laugh as you read.

So, yes. I am already a huge Inspector Tay fan after reading the first in what I hope will be an endless series of novels.

The Inspector grumbles a lot – about not being able to smoke, about technology he doesn’t understand, about the ruthless razing of the old Singapore and the imposition of a sanitised version, about how boring this pristine little city state it…it’s just that he doesn’t grumble out loud too much, since he hardly talks to anyone.  Being a bit of a loner, you understand.  So he just grumbles to us, the complicit reader.

Sam Tay has all the makings of a brilliant hero – almost an anti-hero in fact –  since he can’t shoot to save his life, doesn’t think much of most of his colleagues, loathes most Americans, is inarticulate around women…yup, a regular grumpy old man.  And what a fabulous character he is.

The ever inventive creator of Inspector Tay, the oh-so-clever Jake Needham, has written a marvellous whodunnit, but with lots of twists.

I love the way Mr. Needham seamlessly blends fact and fiction.  His fictional detectives and diplomats and victims inhabit the real identifiable world of Singapore, and despite his jibes at the expense of the Lion City, it’s clear that Mr. Needham knows the city like the back of his hand.  Sam wanders in and out of bookshops and coffee shops and the subway and the 5 star hotels, all of which exist for real, and he lives in Emerald Hill, which is real, and as I read the book, I realised that on my next trip to Singapore I shall probably laugh out loud when I see the Marriott, the scene of a horrific crime in the opening pages of the novel :


sam2See what I mean?

Obviously I then googled the Marriott (which I thought I had remembered correctly, and I had) and voila, here it is:

images (1)

And of all the curious things –  out of all the dozens of images online for the Marriott, the one I chose (above) was, without realising it, from Jake Needham’s blog – coincidence, coincidence.  Naturally, I then read the newsletter, and what fun it is too.  Since Mr. Needham explains his story way better than I can ever do, here you go, the link to a very wry piece of writing about the locales used in the book.  Good fun.

Yes, you’re right.  Back to the book.

A woman has been brutally murdered  –  very, very brutally murdered and disfigured –  and it will come as no surprise to you that Sam Tay is squeamish and hates the sight of blood.  What a man.

I am not going to spoil the plot of this great book, obviously.

It’s a fascinating whodunnit.

And even more than that, perhaps, it’s an amazing insight into whatever still remains of the heart and soul of Singapore, through the jaundiced eyes of Sam Tay, who is all set to become my favourite detective as he grumbles and cusses his way through Singapore, smoking where he’s not allowed to, deliberately dropping his cigarette butts on the ground, battling technology as well as murder, kicking against the system…



Anyway, enough from me.

Read this book and meet the best Grumpy Old man in Asia.

You can buy the book right now by clicking on the link below.  Couldn’t be easier.



Bonsai Kitten by Lakshmi Narayan

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The first day of a new year deserves something nice and new, and so the first novel by my friend Lakshmi Narayan fits the bill totally.  Since I have known Lakshmi from our far-off Mumbai days, her début book “Bonsai Kitten” resonated on a personal level, but all readers will enjoy her Singapore story with a twist.

The twist is that the main protagonist, the gutsy Divya, is Indian, and so Singapore and its hectic, international lifestyle is seen through the eyes of an outsider.

It is not a plot spoiler to tell you that “Bonsai Kitten” charts Divya’s evolution from ignored, unloved, cheated-upon wife to a happy, independent career woman.

The author clearly has great affection for Singapore and it shows.  There is much detail about the food and the customs and the eclectic mix of foreigners who make up Divya’s happy, noisy, friendly support network, faced as she is with her husband’s cold, unloving betrayal of her.  We move through Singapore learning as we go, very much as our heroine does.  We also learn much about Divya’s south Indian heritage, something she finds both comforting and paradoxically wearying.

We all feel for Divya, and empathise with her from start to finish, and I for one never lost the faith.  I just knew, deep down, that she would prevail.  My heart warmed to her from the beginning, when we learn that she lost a much loved daughter, and those pages of the book are written with a raw emotion that is moving.

The author tells Divya’s story from 2 perspectives, a clever idea that is cleverly done, and these differing perspectives add extra dimensions to the story.  Never has the Cosmic Jester been as centre stage as in this fun read.

Published in 2012 by Jufic Books, the paperback costs Rs 195.

If you would like to start the New Year with this new book, it couldn’t be easier.
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THE FISHING FLEET Husband-Hunting in the Raj by Anne de Courcy

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Anne de Courcy’s book is a delightful account of that well-known colonial sport, husband-hunting in India.


In a book that is well-written, informative, poignant and often times sad, Ms de Courcy tells us some of the stories of generations of young British women who went out to India to marry.  Or not marry, as the case may be.

During the height of British colonial rule, there were very many more (British) men than there were (British) women in India.  Generations of young men went out to India in search of adventure, of a prestigious career, and also in search of money (though that was often less of a motivator than prestige and a sense of duty, it must be said).

And generations of young women subsequently went out to India, in search of their own version of a career, i.e. a husband.

The British colonial authorities had strict rules on the age at which its servants could marry, and affairs, let alone marriage with Indian women, were severely frowned upon, and so when the ships arrived in India, with their precious cargoes of carefully chaperoned unmarried young women, there was something of a feeding frenzy.  The prize was a bride.  Or a husband, depending which way you look at it.

Through letters and diaries, and accompanied by many glorious old black and white photographs, the adventures, loves and lives of these intrepid young women are told.  They were young, ready to be romanced, and amazingly resilient. Some girls married and settled in cities, but some fell in love with planters or military men in far-flung corners of the country, so off they went to live lives off isolation, adventure and – seen from our cosseted perspective – often downright hardship.

Most of these fishing fleet girls loved their husbands, their lives and loved India.  The biggest sadness in their lives usually centred around their children.  In the early days, babies died so tragically easily, in the unhealthy climate, and lacking as they did medical facilities in the “mofussil” or countryside.

Those children who survived spent their early years cossetted and pampered, until that dreadful day when they were shipped back Home to school.  These are the saddest moments of this lovely book.  Little children are torn from their parents and the sunny, colourful, cherishing country of their birth to be sent away for years to a cold, grey, unfamiliar place called Home.  Except that home is India.

Of course, many children of the fishing fleet couldn’t wait for their miserable English school days to be over, so they could head straight back Home, and thus the long love story with India continued.

A happy, upbeat read, which certainly made this Indian resident slightly ashamed of herself for her occasional moans about Delhi power cuts or poor internet connections.  Most un-fishing-fleet-y.


Published in 2012 by Hachette, the hardback costs Rs 750

 If, after reading this review, you wish to buy the book, it couldn’t be simpler.  Simply click on the link below :



The blurb on the cover of  Ravi Subramanian’s 5th book “The Bankster” talks of “the John Grisham of banking”.

Like John Grisham, Mr. Subramanian certainly knows his facts and figures in his appointed area of expertise, that’s for sure. So there is that much in common with Mr. Grisham.

But what Mr. Subramanian desperately needs is a better editor.

Shoddy, sloppy editing marred what is otherwise a deeply researched, complex tale of banking skullduggery on a massive scale.

I didn’t count, but  (and I think I’m correct) every time the author wrote “at least,” this is what we got :


That is just downright poor editing, and unworthy of someone of Mr. Subramanian’s obvious intelligence.

The novel ranges between Mumbai, Vienna, Kerala and Africa, with 3 stories running parallel. The Mumbai sections are far and away the strongest, which is hardly surprising, since the author was a banker for 20 years and lives in Mumbai, so there was an intensity and authenticity about the Mumbai sections.  The Mumbai voices rang true.

Mr. Subramanian’s attention to banking detail is impressive, and you never for a moment doubt the accuracy and the authenticity of the plot.  Banking scams happen the world over, that we all know, and the plot of “The Bankster” unravels a complex tale of financial deceit on a truly massive, deeply embedded scale.

The Kerala story, about a nuclear power station and the manipulative politics of protest, is touching, but it was only in the final paragraphs that I joined the dots.  Perhaps I am a little dim, but a few pointers would certainly have helped me.  As it was, I spent most of the book wondering why and when and where Kerala and Mumbai would intertwine.  It ultimately makes total, satisfying sense, but only in the dying seconds of the book.

The same can be said of the African section, though those dots were joined for me in the Vienna part of the story – I obviously can’t tell you the ins and outs of the plot, otherwise the intricate storyline of “The Bankster” will be spoiled for you.  Suffice it to say that, once again, I could have wished for the African section to be a tad stronger.

But the Mumbai sections can’t be faulted for their painstaking attention to detail, which is why they are faster-paced and dominate the book.  There is something enthralling about reading a novel that purportedly took place earlier this year –  all those dates and times at the beginning of the chapters bringing the action ever closer certainly make things exciting.

Technology plays a large part in the book, which is only natural given the way banking has evolved, and so most of the young bankers in the story use their mobiles and laptops and iPads and iPhones and Blackberries and voice mails as seamlessly as we, the readers, do.

And I also fully understand that the author needs to make sure all his readers are up to (technological speed) especially when technology is vital to the plot, but just occasionally the otherwise natural style of writing faltered :



This sounds more like a technical note, rather than a natural dialogue, which is a shame.

Ditto the supposed conversation below :


 A good read.

A clever, intricate plot.

But a plea to the publishers, Rupa – please, don’t let poor editing mar good writing.

Published in 2012 by Rupa, the paperback of “The Bankster” costs Rs 250.

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RED JIHAD by Sami Ahmad Khan

“Red Jihad”  is a good story in need of a good editor,

A clever, futuristic plot set in 2014, that sees India and Pakistan almost at war against each other, and then coming together to fight a common enemy, is marred by poor editing.

A writer like Mr. Khan who is a PhD scholar student from JNU and a Fulbright scholar would not – I’d stake my life on it – make the sloppy grammatical errors that pepper this book.

You don’t have to be a linguistic purist to be irritated by these errors, which any decent editor should have picked up :

…pick up cudgels…

He had learned that one should never let a neta not blame people around him, for it was the neta’s pet alibi.  (I have no idea what that means)

Sonar was all he knew, rest everything puzzled him.

The silo was lighted and ready for action.

Grapevine had it that India was…

He knew a lieutenant general who did not make it to a full general only because he had given many under his command. Cardiac arrests.

His biggest achievement in the field of defence was on the verge of biting dust.  “What  else do we know?” the defence minister asked, trying to put the shock behind.  (2 errors in as many sentences –  careless)

The storyline does, thank goodness. carry the reader along, and towards the end of the book I became less irritated by the editing, choosing to ignore it, and much more involved in the unfolding Indo-Pak drama.

The premise is a clever one.

Pakistani Islamic extremists join forces with Indian Naxalites, and together they try and set the 2 traditional enemies at each others throats by launching a nuclear missile.  I won’t spoil too much of the plot for you, as there are many twists and turns along the way – literal as well as metaphorical – as the terrifyingly powerful Pralay (India’s imagined intercontinental ballistic missile) is programmed to jink and twist and turn as it flies across the subcontinent making its lethal target impossible to predict.

You see the drama in that ?

Will it hit an Indian city (Delhi) or a Pakistani one (Lahore) ?

Will India unwittingly nuke its own capital ?

Or will India start a war by unwittingly nuking a Pakistani city ?

And who has programmed Pralay anyway ?  Who has unleashed this weapon on truly terrifying magnitude ?

Should old enemies trust each other as they both try to handle this disastrously explosive situation ?

Living in Delhi as I do, I enjoyed the futuristic touch, peeking into how my city and government will look in 2 years. We will have a new PM (and it is NOT whom you think, which is reason enough to cheer!)  and we will have learned how to queue.  This, I have to admit, I found fantastic in every sense of the word.

A disaster has been declared in Delhi.  Evacuation orders have been issued, and I quote :

“There were long but well-managed queues as hastily recalled DTC bus drivers came running in their pyjamas, and sped the jam-packed buses away…”

Hmm…well-managed queues in Delhi, just 2 years from now…page 137 if you don’t believe me.

Joking aside, “Red Jihad” is interesting, it’s a good page-turning read –  though I could have wished for a less complicated timeline, jumping back and forth as it does between India and Pakistan, minute by minute.  And watch out for the underlined dates which, as the writer explains in a footnote, “imply action having taken place in the past rather than during the linear timeline of events.’

Combining the forces of Jihadis and Nazalites is clever and thought-provoking.

I look forward to Mr. Khan’s next book.

Published by Rupa, the paperback costs Rs 295.

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The Householder by Amitabha Bagchi

Reading Amitabha Bagchi’s “The Householder” against the backdrop of the ongoing India Against Corruption protests taking place in Delhi at the moment made the book doubly enjoyable.

While we are all being subjected to daily revelations of the levels of loot and corruption at the top echelons of power in India, this book acts almost as a prelude.  As a prequel, to use that ugly but useful word.

We are not dealing with the Robert Vadra stratosphere here, but we do see that right down at the bottom of the food chain, corruption and bribery are all part and parcel of doing business in India.

The book tells the story of one Mr. Naresh Kumar, a lower-middle-class government employee in Delhi.   He lives in simple government-provided accommodation, as befits a lowly civil servant.  Mr. Kumar is the “gatekeeper” for a bureaucrat, Mr. Asthana.  Naresh Kumar sits literally outside his boss’s plush office, deciding who can and cannot get access to the great man.  As such, Mr. Kumar needs to be sweetened and persuaded by the supplicants, and so, slowly and steadily over the years, Mr. Kumar has feathered his own little nest.  Nothing on the lavish scale of his boss, of course, but for a simple man, Naresh Kumar has done well by himself and his family.

He keeps his head down, hides his wealth, which is why that Rs 30,000 sofa from a shop in Ghitorni is a bone of contention.  His wife Arti is unduly proud of it and likes to boast a little about how expensive it was. Naresh warns her that telling her friends and envious neighbours how much is cost will only invite speculation.

Naresh’s late colleague, Harkirat, on the other hand was scrupulously honest and was known never to take a bribe.  Naresh helped his widow Pinki get a job in his office and the two of them lead a close companionable working life.  Naresh is possibly a little too fond of Pinki, but keeps his thoughts and feelings to himslef.

There are several stories interwoven in the novel.

We meet Naresh’s newly married daughter Seema, whose mother-in-law frets increasingly about her inability to produce a grandchild, and takes her frustration out on the poor girl.  Her son Ashok, already a more powerful man than his father-in-law is caught between his mother and his young wife, and his attitude to the latter makes him one of the book’s more interesting secondary characters.

Naresh’s son Praveen gets way out of his depth in the world of Delhi sleaze, but he survives, and we see how even a little bit player like him can work the system.  Some poor innocent will take the rap for his boss’s crime and Praveen sees no problem with this.

Pinki, the level-headed loyal widow, steers a clear, moral path through the book, kindly rejecting two men who love her, out of loyalty for her late husband, Harkirat, who is a minor character in his own (absent) way, his inflexible honesty serving as a foil to everyone else’s behaviour.

Corruption is the leitmotiv for this book which brings vividly to life the world of lower middle class Delhi colonies, with their cheek-by-jowl flats, their dusty communal gardens, and the endless hanging around and waiting on people that is necessary to get anything done.


Published in 2012 by Fourth Estate, the hardback costs Rs 399.

A good read.


After reading this review, should you wish to buy the book, nothing could be simpler. 

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Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn

Oh dear.

I am going to have to use hoary old cliches like “gripping”, “unputdownable” and “a terrific page turner”, but for want of better words, this is exactly what Gillian Flynn’s latest novel, “Gone Girl” is.

A book such as this is rare – utterly brilliant and clever and full of twists and turns and so well written that it is, well, gripping, unputdownable and a terrific page turner.

This is also the kind of book whose plot I cannot really discuss in a review, because that would be verging on immoral.

You have to read it, be hooked, be dazzled, be baffled.

I am not going to spoil one second of this extraordinary book for you.

The author has you hooked from the word go, as she takes you to the very heart of the extraordinary marriage of the beautiful, clever Amy Elliott (as in “Amazing Amy”) and handsome, winsome Nick Dunne.

And that is all I can honestly tell you, because to spoil one page, one surprise, one twist in this book would be so wrong.

Published by Weidenfeld & Nicholson, the hardback costs £12.99 and, I know you should never judge a book by its cover etc etc, but this is a really smashing looking book. From the word go, I loved the literal feel of it.


Cannot recommend this book too highly.

I am going with 10/10 for a great read.

 If you want to buy the book, after reading this review (and seriously, do yourself a favour and read it) then you can always click on the link below.


The Krishna Key by Ashwin Sanghi

Is it wrong and/or patronising to compare one writer to another (more famous) one ?  I hope Mr.  Sanghi won’t take it amiss if I say that his novel reads rather like a desi Dan Brown.

History meets crime, ancient texts meet technology, with lots of chase scenes and action and drama and rushing at great speed from one end of India to the other.  Attractive history buff becomes reluctant super hero.

And everyone is super clever, super knowledgeable about subjects like mythology and numerology and Sanskrit shlokas and religion and ancient history.

I began the book on a long flight, and reading well over half of it in one long, uninterrupted go was good.  You get into the rhythm of the book, and the rather complicated plot is easier to follow.  Resuming the book once I was back home was more difficult, all that remembering what had happened and where we were in the plot.  You see, like a Dan Brown novel, you get swept away by the story, and the speed and the drama, and only question the logic afterwards.

The book tells the tale of a mystery surrounding the legend/history of Krishna, and the author, parallels the historical texts with his modern story, with each chapter opening with an extract from the Mahabharata.  Initially this was a clever device but I must confess to tiring of it after a while.  Since I am not familiar enough with the detail of the Mahabharata, I sometimes skipped the longer passages, but always for an ostensibly good reason, I assure you –  namely, to get back to the modern action-packed drama.

Because action there certainly is.

This is an India I have never seen or experienced.

A world of brilliant academics, of professional divers exploring lost cities off the Gujarat coast, of people who can fight and run and hire planes and escape from the police and it’s all jolly exciting.

The author is obviously hugely learned, and very passionate about his research, and wishes to share as much knowledge with us as possible.  This is admirable, but it does – oh dear, I do so hate to sound churlish –  but it does all get a bit too much at times.

There is simply just too much information.

Too many Vedic reference and mathematical puzzles that everyone seems able to solve.  Riddles and codes and ancient texts that everyone seems able to understand instinctively.  Perhaps it’s sour grapes on my part but much of the time, I felt distinctly stupid reading this book, because I know I would have been useless at helping the handsome historian Ravi Mohan Saini solve his pan-India mystery.

The downside of trying to give his readers so much information is that oftentimes Mr. Sanghi’s characters speak in less than authentic sounding voices.

Take a conversation like the one below, for example…


Still, it’s a gripping plot, with one very clever twist half-way through which I am absolutely not going to tell you, as it will ruin the book for you.

I enjoyed the book, I truly did, and wanted to know what happened, but at times there was just too much information to absorb.

Published in 2102 by Westland, the paperback costs Rs 250.

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It took me a while to settle into this book, but once I did – what a treat.

“Tamarind City” is the story of a man’s discovery of the southern Indian city of Chennai (though lots of people still know it by its older name of Madras).

Bishwanath Ghosh is a journalist, a Bengali, raised in the north of the country, and at the age of 30  – “single and commitment-phobic” as he describes himself – he decides to move down south to Chennai.  He initially plans to be there for just a few years, to discover the south of the country about which he admits he knew very little.  Ten years on, he is still in Chennai, happy, content, married and by now “an honorary Madrasi”.

“Tamarind City” is the story of this decade of discovery, and is an unabashed love song to his new home.

For Mr. Ghosh is clearly very much in love with a city that moves and speaks and eats and plays to a different rhythm than the harsher, colder, more impersonal north.

He opens his story with his long train ride across India, travelling down south from a freezing foggy Delhi, gripped by miserable wintery weather, to the heat of Chennai :



I said at the outset that I found it a little difficult to get into the book.  It was really just the opening chapter or two, as Mr. Ghosh settles into his otherwise lovely narrative.  Some of his reflections on the train are at stylistic odds with his otherwise well-written and easy-to-read prose :


As are his reflections on the mobile phone, of all things :

After this, the narrative flows.

Mr. Ghosh’s approach to his story is to take the reader along with him, as he walks and rambles through his new home.  As he gradually gets to grips with the city, so do we.  His time line is ours.  His narrative is not linear, but follows his own voyage of discovery.

We do, however, start with a necessay chapter on the history of this city, which is fascinating and bolsters the claim on the book cover – “Where modern India began.”  Armed with this background and perspective on a city that has never quite glowed with the popular brilliance of Delhi, Mumbai or the johnny-come-lately Banaglore, we learn about Carnatic music and the food of Tamil Nadu.  We learn about temples and factories and slums and the beach, about the close intertwining of politics and films, but all at a delightfully relaxed pace.

By the end of the book, you can almost feel yourself slowing down to a Chennai rhythm, one where tradition and progress sit side by side.  Although that sounds like the ultimate cliché about a city, Mr.Ghosh discovers that is the truth.  Modernisation may have changed much of his beloved Chennai even during his time there, but this is still a city where classical singers have the status of rockstars.

I thoroughly enjoyed the book, and learned a lot about a city that I have visited, but a long time ago.  Whenever I go there again, as well as packing this delightful book, I shall also join one of the Sunday morning heritage walks, as the author does.

I love the way he puts the Chennai/Madras equation in perspective :


When the guide on that early walk around the historic heart of Chennai speaks ruefully about the lack of heritage conservation, you feel the author’s approbation :



Madras, Chennai –  call it what you will, this city is the star of the book, and a very loveable star it is too.



Published by Tranquebar in 2102, the paperback costs Rs 295 and if you wish to buy it, simply click on the link below :



A good read.  Recommended.

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