There's the Scotland-returned economics-educated Putul who will have to take up his uncle's business as soon as he can shake off his languorous ways; Meena, budding poet, idealistic yet unable to conceal her excitement when her cultured Sen parivar shortlists her dada's marriage potentials; Scotsman John Stewart who wanders into India in search of, what else, his roots; and Choto, the para bekar (unemployed) who obviously ends up with the local mastaan Nawabda.
Lyrical in parts, images of Calcutta fleet past as the narrative delves into, well, everything—politics of both the Left and the rising rightwing (the Hindu Sangh), lib-eralisation, class anxiety, corruption, club culture, Emergency, the Naxal era. One of the more delightful exchanges is when Meena and growing love interest Ranjan talk about their childhood, experiences, Calcutta. Ranjan about his schooldays in Darjeeling—"Kanchenjunga suspended above the clouds. Everest isn't a touch on it. Someday I'll go back. Don't think I could live there though. I'm too much a city person now." But then things start going out of hand. Once Putul's uncle forces him to go to Delhi, the easy pace is forgotten. Suddenly, the apathetic Putul, John, Meena, Choto hurtle towards the denouement.
This is clearly a first novel, raw, rushed, parroting stereotypes and, in the end, saying nothing original—"nothing in this country works". To be fair, the evocation of Calcutta superbly conveys the flavours of the city, but alas, a book surely can't stand on nostalgia and idle chatter?
