Well. You certainly have to hand it to him for his ambition, and the sweep of the story. I read most of it in about 36 hours and finished a few minutes ago, so am still reeling from it. But it is amateurish, not a real novel with a wholeness. It was disjointed, badly written in parts, lots of loose ends, and the exoticisation is jarring. But on the whole, I enjoyed it a lot more than the usual pretentious shit we get to read.
However, it is way too big to be Worth Consuming. Should certianly have been pared down.

Vikram Chandra’s “tapestry of stories” falls flat on its face so many times, I am amazed at the laudatory reviews it has received so far.

While the story within a story is definitely a feat, it’s hard work for the reader to track the story the monkey Parasher tells of Sandeep, who tells of the Sanyasi, who tells of Jahaj Jung and the Begum Sumroo… The story beside the story-Abhay’s story-just doesn’t work.

The set up is hokey; the dialogue even more so. The biggest problem is that Vikram Chandra can’t shake off Vikram Chandra. Abhay is Vikram Chandra, Sanjay is Vikram Chandra, Sikander is Vikram…you get the point.

Consequently we have characters spouting lines that make the reader cringe. Thus, we find the unconvincing Abhay recovering from a fright and a drug haze but, in a flash of omniscience, observing:
“Outside, the edge of sunlight raced over the valley” (p 58.)

After an encounter with a dog, he says
”...He followed me for a while and then veered off, running easily through the water arcing up from the sprinklers.”
I always narrate anecdotes just like that, don’t you?

And how many Indians can you visualize, however “modernized” or estranged, disclosing stories of one-night stands and coke habits to the entire mohullah with parents close at hand?

Of course, there are saving graces to this book. In it are some exceedingly well crafted parts (Sanjay and the iron letters, the death of Sikander’s mother.) I found Sanjay’s attainment of immortality absolutely riveting; I couldn’t have put the book down at that juncture if someone had paid me.

Other times, oh, gladly would I have succumbed… The whole aside about Dr. Sarthey and his green ink is extraneous. So, he had a traumatic childhood. Big deal.

Finally, the grand finale, the journey to London, is strongly reminiscent of those Hindi movies wherein the entire cast jets off to Switzerland or Singapore using some vague excuse (think Akshay Kumar and Karishma Kapoor in “Dil to paagal hai”) just for the hell of it.

A disappointing read; But, to be nice, I’ll add that this may have been because of the hype it generated. :-(