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). My Santa got me a French mystery book, that is bilingual! What a PERFECT gift keeping in with where I am in life. Even I couldn’t have gotten myself a better gift. 
One thing that was very clear at the onset of this book was that Meeran Borwankar didn’t want to write this memoir as a woman police officer, even though she was the only woman in the 1981 batch of IPS during her training at Hyderabad. While she does mention her experiences where clearly she did suffer for her gender, she mentions them matter-of-factly like a day-in-life of a woman and moves on. However, she did have those odd bit of experiences: Be it an unwanted advances from the married man during her training at Hyderabad who wanted to live together, her boss at CID who would tell her that “you look beautiful when angry”; or being questioned by DG’s office that why would she want an independent district again after having been first woman district police commissioner of Aurangabad. Where she retorted, why such questions are not asked of other male officers who often lead two to three districts. In each of these cases, Meeran did what she believed in; she didn’t keep quiet to keep peace as was the advice at the time for any woman. And it is evident that she did pay the price, but it’s likely she did it knowing the consequences anyway because it was important to her to be authentic. Afterall how could be expected to stand up for any justice if she couldn’t stand up for herself?
Read more: Book Review: Madam Commissioner by Meeran Chadha BorwankarBorwankar is also very conscientious about acknowledging everyone, including those in her team, who contributed to her growth and justice: she warmly acknowledges the training by her Ustad Yadav (Ustads are often not appreciated as much due to the low rank), Ganeshi, her grooming lady, who helped her prepare for her gruelling training when she was only woman trainee. Often in all the assignments, she counts as success, she often names her team and the prosecutors who contributed to the justice. I love this; because in the world of collaboration, people we work with matters immensely. I also related to her how she found it frustrating that any difference in opinion or conflict was seen as disobedience even when meant well. Since she is used to speaking her mind, once a rumor was spread about her and it was believed that of course, she must have said it. Since the world has these bizarre expectations from women leaders in a period of internalised patriarchy, a woman who speaks her mind is scary.
But, while Meeran refused to be treated differently as a woman police officer, she retained her compassion for women and minors, who were victims of human trafficking and sexual crimes compared to her fellow male colleagues. She dedicated a good part of her career working for them and getting justice to the victims with sensitivity. She publicly apologized when one of the stations in her command failed to protect a victim (Jyotsna Bagul) who was being stalked by a relative, who would go on to publicly murder her. She acknowledged if police had taken the case seriously, the murder could be prevented.
Borwankar frequently laments how several police postings are political postings. It’s normal for all political parties to have Station House Officers and other leadership positions to the one who would march for them first. Accomplished police officers are brought in only when they are really needed to solve something and it is the dire need of the hour. But, if it looks like they won’t easily be “yes, person”, they are not preferred. Reading between the lines, Borwankar did have some punishment postings, which also was in keeping with her need to live in Pune with her family: her posting in YASHDA (policy institute), head of prisons, head of forensics, prosecution (where Director of Prosecution refused to support her) and that she retired as the Director General of Bureau of Police Research and Development seem odd since she had, after all, been the first woman Commissioner of Police in Pune.
She mentions that the police-politics nexus is so deep that junior officers have influence over the postings of senior officers. There is also a police-organised crime nexus and writes about her experiences of stopping thrifts and catching an arms catchment during her time as DCP Port Zone. She admits to recommending a few dismissals for corruption but in general seemed pessimistic about the nexus. As a reader, you keep wondering despite such a nexus, how do police get any justice at all? How do any honest officers even survive?
Yet this gloomy reflection doesn’t take away the thrill from reading about her experiences of getting convictions for rapes in Kolhapur, Jalgaon sex scandal and Parbhani scandal. Time and again, you get that police work is a lot about getting procedures and paperwork right to get the convictions. She was in charge of the prisons when Kasab had to be hanged in secrecy and later when Yakub Memon was hanged amid all the media buzz. There are stories of investigations of catching interstate highway bus robbers, thieves of Joyalukkas Hyderabad who, like Louvre museum, carried away gold and diamond worth 9 crores. These were the cases where she did get the convictions; her strategy to win a case in the courts has been to request a Special Prosecutor to escape systemic apathy and corruption.
Meeran started the book with how her height and voice didn’t match the personality of other male officers but she changed her mind with wisdom. During a tough law and order situation, when she stood on her own in a dangerous situation against a volatile crowd while the more taller officer had absconded (a common occurrence on ground it seems), she realized that the courage wasn’t really about height, voice and personality. She laments there are officers who flee difficult scenes when faced with difficult crowds and there are those whose stress ends with them using excessive force against the crowd. Meeran’s book is full of such growth and insights; for example, she realizes that prostitution isn’t a problem of bad women with low morals but of exploited, trafficked women who even when rescued have nowhere to go as their families and society won’t accept them.
Ever eager to learn, Borwankar learned wherever she was sent to do a job: be it forensics, prisons, etc. In most cases, she got these departments upgraded with tech starting with a website. She even took a creative writing course at University of Minnesota when she was a Hubert H Humphrey fellow. Something she put good use to by writing books and columns in several publications. All in all, a succinct, inspiring and interesting read!
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I have long since enjoyed reading people telling their own stories. While there have been so many heartwarming books written about their wonderful parents (What We Carry by Maya Shanbag Lang) or dealing with loss of a parent (H for Hawk by Helen MacDonald); I soon realized that there was also a sub-genre in the memoir genre which is dedicated a lot about traumatic childhood, parenting, and so on.
Not every child has overtly neglecting parents like the ones who are drug / alcohol addicts, physically abusive, too poor, those who abandon, or are mentally / physically incapable of taking care of themselves or their kids. Even the ones with normal childhood can retain scars from good parents. In some cases, these scars aren’t very obvious nor do they linger in your memory particularly. You genuinely believe with good reason that you had a normal, happy childhood. And for most part, it probably was. But yet, you may grow up thinking you need to earn love by being a good girl / boy or by performing and overachieving. You may have witnessed emotional neglect from your parents where they did take care of all your needs but you were emotionally lonely because they were busy or unavailable emotionally. You may have grown up with exceedingly critical parents, which happens to a lot of girls, that your self-esteem takes a hit. You become extremely sensitive to feedback as you grow up. Your parents were loud or always shouting at you that your partner raising their voice causes panic. Your parents were your early role models and perhaps they were pretty bad with their boundaries such as saying no when they should have. And perhaps you too have a problem saying no as an adult. The list is endless; how little things from a normal, happy childhood can manifest in your adult life in how you show up in your relationships and workplaces. All parents aren’t bad parents but all parents do manage to screw up their kids in some way. I say this with all the love and acceptance of the good parents.
I am grateful for my parents and today we have a very healthy relationship. They are my rock and I know that they are proud of me. I know I am loved, because they tell me. But, it wasn’t always so. There was a time I was very resentful of the fact that my parents had controlled my childhood so: no TV, conditional sports, no visitations to friends, birthday parties and no staying out beyond sunset. Once when I was ranting with resentment to my mum about this, probably for the umpteenth time, she quietly asked me how old are you now. I, perplexed, mumble 25. So, mum says, so have you figured out your life now that you are 25? I warily respond, of course not. My mum then delivers her repartee: Well, I had you before I was 25. So I did my best based on what I knew at the time. Touche! Believe it not, I understood in that moment, somehow my resentment dissolved away. Today I, of course, remain a work in progress to work on my personal patterns/triggers.
Parenting doesn’t come with any manual or SOP. There are no eligibility criteria or qualifications or training when adults become parents. Most parents do the best they can. So, to me, the best way is to forgive (or not) your parents, accept and acknowledge that you may have picked up some unhealthy patterns / triggers from childhood and you work on it. But there are those who find refuge in writing about it. Only when my book club was reading Arundhati Roy’s memoir, I realized many aren’t aware of this sub-genre that I call: My Parents Screwed Me Up.
Here is a curated list of some of the best in this sub-genre.
Parents with repressed gender Identity and emotional neglect
Fun Home & Are You My Mother? Alison Bechdel is the writer of two memoirs in graphic memoir format about her relationship with her repressed gay father and an emotionally unavailable mother. Alison is the famous creator of the Bechdel test (if a movie fairly represents gender) and has a long-running comic strip called Dykes to Watch Out For.
Parents who were impacted by holocaust and generational impact on their children
Maus by Art Spiegelman This is one of the first best known graphic novels outside superhero league. First serialized in the 1980s, it was almost a pioneer of the graphic novel genre. Until then, it was believed comics are for children and about super heroes. But that they can be used to tell complex, searing adult stories was new. The book chronicles two stories: the story of Art’s father who survived the Nazis and his increasingly difficult relationship with his father.
Can’t We Talk About Something Pleasant by Roz Chast. Chast is a staff cartoonist for The New Yorker. So naturally she wrote a graphic novel memoir, where she, tinged with humor, talks about her intellectual, neurotic parents who suffered historic trauma and her relationship with them. It is also an incisively honest story about love and frustrations of transitioning from daughter to caregiver to her elderly parents.
Parents who were overbearing in pursuit of their children building a career
Open by Andre Agassi The short theme of this book is that Andre hates tennis because his overbearing father pushed him so much. Ever the victim, Agassi, first his father’s, then of a normal machine that threw balls, then media, his dates, asserts that despite all that he has always loved his father. Having said that, it is one of the best written, curated memoirs!
The Woman in Me by Britney Spears This story is now well known thanks to a Netflix documentary. How her father James Spears took advantage of her by controlling her empire and her life even when she was an adult.
I’m Glad My Mom Died by Jenmette McCurdy. McCurdy was a child star and had an overbearing mother who controlled every aspect of her life, leading to eating disorders and addictions. She could quit acting and take charge of her own life only after her mother died.
The Test of My Life by Yuvraj Singh, a successful Indian ex-cricketer, recounts an uncomfortably raw story of how his father ’s harsh training methods and fraught relationship with his mother had a detrimental impact on his life. Yuvraj remains estranged with his father even today.
Parents who were bullies, abusive or alcoholics
Not My Son’s Father by Alan Cumming Alan Cumming, a Scottish actor, director and producer writes openly about his devastating family secrets (won’t reveal them here, of course), his exceedingly cruel father and the impact of his psychological and physical abuse on him and his elder brother.
Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt McCourt’s Pulitzer-prize winning memoir, also considered a pioneer of the genre, writes about his impoverished childhood with a charismatic yet irresponsible, alcoholic father. Conflicted between his love and loathing for this father, he is forced to grow up early. His mother who resiliently always stood by him eventually took some actions to survive that young McCourt couldn’t accept and ultimately left home.
Parents who had mental health issues
My Son’s Father by Dom Moreas Dom Moreas never tires of uncharitably telling the story of his mother who was going through a mental illness. All of his memoirs ad nauseum mention the incident of his mum who slapped him because he won’t show her any affection. On the spectrum is another memoir called Em and the Big Hoom heartwarmingly written by Jerry Pinto about his mentally ill mother and their relationship. This memoir is an ode to our capability to love and hope.
Parents who fed lies to their children
The Imposter’s Daughter: A True Memoir by Laurie Sandell. In her memoir in graphic novel format, Laurie Sandell writes about her life as the daughter of a man who lived a life of deception, and her subsequent struggle to understand her own identity. Of this list, I probably liked this book the least, but it was a totally unique grievance.
Celebrity but yet a bad parent
How to Lose a Mother: A Daughter’s Memoir by Molly Jong-Fast This is book was published this year (2025). Molly is daughter of Erica Jong who in 70s wrote a famous novel called Fear of Flying about a woman’s journey of personal and sexual liberation. Molly writes how her Mom engulfed her childhood by not letting her be a kid; she grew up in an unconventional household and she was exposed early to all the adults, partners in her mother’s life at an early age. Her mother was self-absorbed and emotionally distant. She found herself competing for her mother’s attention and affection with her many partners, intellectual pursuits, and so on. Ultimately she could find her own identity only by detaching herself from her mother. Therefore, the title How to Lose a Mother.
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Our book club chose to read Arundhati Roy’s Mother Mary Comes to Me. Unexpectedly, the book turned out to be one of the most contentious that we read this year. And it was the same for the rest of the Indians. It dawned on me that several of these gushes of praises and brickbats were simply based on which side of political views you flaunted. Roy had always gone out of the way to let her left leanings be well known. While some in Amrit Kaal might insist, it’s akin to a crime, it isn’t but then it’s hard to reason with the right-wing proletariat.
A friend of mine told me that in her social media post about the book, someone commented, It’s shameful that you even read the book. As if reading is a criminal activity or this was a banned book. The fervour Roy inspires is not only because she is not only a Booker-prize winning successful writer but also she is a woman and a left-leaning liberal.
I am pretty sure Arundhati Roy doesn’t care and she has always written what she wanted to write. But not everyone has the privilege of Roy to be able to say what they want to say. Often lesser authors first face pushback from the gatekeepers such as agents, publishers, etc and then by modern, irate readers. It’s absolutely common these days for an illiterate right wing brigade to suddenly discover some “disrespectful” , “obscene” or “blasphemous” stuff written by an illustrious writer of whom they had never even heard of until the moment of discovery. Distressed, Tamil writer Perumal Murugan was famously forced to declare himself “dead” as an author in 2015 due to protests against his novel Madhorubhagan (One Part Woman). His book had been out for 4 years and been translated in English for about 2 years before it was discovered by the miscreants.
But lot of vapid yet hateful criticism for Roy’s book has also come from so-called literate and liberal readers who, I believe, don’t burn the books usually. These voices pretty much seemed to be questioning why she even wrote it. However, exact triggers this group had to the book/Roy revealed who they are. There emerged hidden misogyny, patriarchy, repressed emotions, internalized conflict, and so on amongst the so-called woke people. In short, how you reacted to the book was nothing to do with Arundhati but with who you are. As someone who can always see both sides of the argument, it mainly led me to wonder that while readers have ALL the right to criticize the books as they please, do they have any moral or cultural right to tell a writer what they should write, how they should write and when they should write.
Irony is this book is Roy’s memoir, her own story. Morally she is the only person who has the right to tell her own story in her own way. You may not like it but that’s her undisputed right. And there is nothing “disrespectful” or “obscene” or “blasphemous” to tell your own story. Having an opinion, I re-assert, is fine. But when it goes to asking why you write or when you should write, then I think the opinions are open to scrutiny, introspection and criticism too. Fair deal, isn’t it?
All criticism that I’ve come across from urban populace fall into the following three categories: (I’ve chosen to ignore the ones related to politics.)
- Her book is so sensational or pretentious or tawdry.
This particular bit of criticism came largely from men and women who had internalized misogyny and patriarchy themselves. Before reading the book, I was given the impression that Roy was apparently sharing too many sensuous details of her life , perhaps even in graphic detail, of her loves, hot nights and affairs. One of the comments was a revealing, Freudian slip: Roy’s self-joke “Hooker gets a Book” in the book has a smidgeon of truth in it. My mistake was that I believed in that judgement. So, I was naturally very surprised when I didn’t find a single word of promised sensational details. All Roy had narrated facts of her life and her two relationships. I would think that if you were writing a personal memoir, it would be basic to mention your key relationships in life. If there is anyone who has the right to talk about tawdry details of their life, it’s the writer herself. And yet Arundhati, she didn’t do tawdry merely told the facts of her story with love and gratitude. Is the judgement because of internalized misogyny for having had a relationship with more than one man or that there was pre-marital sex that resulted in pregnancy. Frankly, you need to grow up and check your biases. Because no men has encountered such criticism for kissing and telling their tawdry tales.
- She is washing dirty laundry in the air by talking about her mother. Why did she write the book after her mother’s death?
This is the most interesting one. Readers actually feel entitled to tell the author what they should write about and when. Wow.
On closer look, however, the reasons they feel so entitled vary because of their own internalized trauma, psychological masochism, and inability to accept someone else’s story without judgment. Frankly, in Roy’s generation and generations before in India, it has been a norm for Indian parents to beat up their children badly. Also, would Mrs Roy be the only parent in the world to criticize and manipulate and scorn her children? I only need to knock a few doors in my neighbourhood to find stories of bad parenting that has led to inter-generational trauma. Ask the therapists!
Parental abuse is complex; it follows us in adulthood and shows up in every respect of our life: our ability to attract healthy relationships, our ability to keep jobs that work for us, our ability to live healthy without debilitating anxiety, phobias and other mental health disorders. It’s the most damaging kind of abuse where the one who is supposed to protect you is the one abusing you. If it is the single parent who abuses you, and there is no other adult to protect you ever, it’s the most terrifying thing imaginable for the child.
Once you point this out, scores of these critics will start explaining how their own parents were critical of them, and yes, they did bash them sometimes, stories pour out. My response is Bingo! What triggers you is a mirror into your inner self. Just because you endured abuse and accepted it or coped with it in your own way, doesn’t mean it is the only way someone else should cope. Telling your story is cathartic, and everyone has a right to tell their own. Roy was actually very very fair to draw a very just portrait of Mrs Roy. She described her mother to be a visionary and how she got out of the dumps and created a legacy. How she was a victim of violence herself. But to her own children, she was a terror. It comes across so many passages that despite this Roy loved her mother and yet knew that she was the source of that moth fluttering in her heart.
The last argument is oh, but she should have given her mother a chance to respond. I believe this judgement doesn’t come out of empathy. Most abuse victims, especially those abused as children, never actually confront their abuser their whole lives. If it’s a parent, where love and psychological warfare is involved, it’s the hardest thing to do. There are conflicting feelings about shaming your parents in public, or worse you might fall apart again in the public confrontation. You tell your story when it is safe.
So, if you judge someone because they talked about parental abuse, please check your inner trauma and get help. It’s never too late. If you think, the book should have been written when Mrs Roy was alive: a) it’s not your call; no one cares. b) you lack basic empathy for the victims. This is victim blaming with implication the victim is lying. Or, making a demand that “perpetrator” should be given a chance to explain. Victims can choose when they tell their stories. That’s what we told the #MeToo victims that it is okay to tell their stories when they are ready. Even if decades after the crime.
- Oh her book is full of lies. They were not poor. Roy did not earn that much to pay for her husband and step daughters. Her mother isn’t like that; she was great.
I am not a fact checker. Frankly I don’t care. Of course, I did wonder if authors, even best selling ones, ever earn that much. Memoirs can often be embellishments. It is okay as there are many sides to every story. A memoir is an author’s version. Also, don’t we all embellish a little every time we tell our stories? But, there is an essence of every story. I felt I was able to capture that for myself in this book despite any embellishments. Roy is a complex person, and inspires complex feelings. It is okay to feel whatever but if you feel compelled to call it all lies without material evidence, then check your bias. Your love or hate is a reflection of your own inner self.
I found it a bit heartbreaking that so many pithy things Roy said in her memoir didn’t get the attention they deserved in book reviews or discussions. Imagine the pain of a girl looked down by a whole community just because her father abandoned them, imagine a parent trying to fleece his own love-deprived children of little money they had for his drinks, passages in the book that tell a story of persistent sexual harassment in our society, how Bandit Queen shattered a woman on large screen under the guise of feminism, how parental abuse can cause inter-generational trauma, and so on. None of these stories were discussed.
There wasn’t even any research or attempt at genuine criticisms or clarifications: Did Roy think her activism actually helped? There are unflattering mentions of Roy’s time on sets of her movies in Leela Naidu’s memoir. Did she really think she was self-made or was there privileges she enjoyed for her caste/mother’s later status in society? Was it meaningful being such a provocateur that you got booked in court for contempt? I could ask many more.
I enjoyed the book very much for its writing. Do I like all of it? I don’t. For example, the political activism part of the book was quite uninspiring to me. But I don’t have to trash someone or their book because they talked about childhood trauma and relationships. If you do for merely these reasons, I repeat, look inside.
P.S: It is also ignorance to assume that Roy is first one to “shame” her parents. There is long healthy history and sub-genre of book about traumatic childhood and bad parenting even in India. But, I assure you, I have never heard anyone as much as Roy getting hate for the same.
P.P.S: This is one of the most humane reviews of the book that I have comes across, written by a student of Mrs Roy. To my mind, this complements the Mrs Roy’s personality we read in her daughter’s book. That rage, dictatorship (even benevolent), and the fear she inspired sounds like same person. How such people full of rage behave in their private life is only anyone’s guess. Only thing that this review gets wrong is that no one owes their abuser (even if abuser thinks it wasn’t intended) any opportunity to explain. Only thing an abuse victim owes is recovery and hope for themselves. So, here’s to humanity and faith!
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I believe I should honestly start with how much I loved Rollo Romig’s I am on the Hit List: Murder and Myth-making in South India. I decided to read just one chapter before sleeping one night. The idea was to just start the book and mark it as the next one to be read amongst a tall pile of TBR books I’ve at any given day. Boy, I couldn’t stop, the narrative was fluid and storytelling compelling; I finished the entire part one, right before the Interlude in the book in single sitting while the night and my bed awaited me.
I had a déjà vu feeling, like I had felt exactly like this when I read City of Djinns by William Dalrymple. A non-Indian telling Indian stories and history and so well.
I am on the Hit List is on the surface about the murder of Gauri Lankesh, a journalist / editor of a small, Kannada weekly tabloid, whose murder would catapult her into national consciousness leading to widespread protests. But deep down, it’s about the Indian history of secularism, rise of Hindutva, and delicious detours such as the stories of local reformed dons, interesting local debates if Lingayat is a separate religion than Hinduism, a memory down the lane tracing the origin of Lankesh Patrike founded by P. Lankesh, Gauri Lankesh’s fiery journalist, writer and film-maker father, and so much more.
By all accounts, Gauri Lankesh was an average journalist or writer with very limited, local influence. She was the sole proprietor of eponymous Kannada weekly tabloid Gauri Lankesh Patrike with very low circulation (few thousands) and was perpetually in debt. She also had shoddy journalistic ethics: she published, self-confessedly, biased articles without fact-checking (her devoted, admirable lawyer B. T. Venkatesh vainly kept insisting that she fact-check) and even went ahead blatantly to re-publish works of others without permission in her tabloid while managing to misquote them in the translation. She scoffed at the neutrality or balanced view taught in a journalism school because her journalism was pure activism. She was also convicted of defamation, a charge she had planned to appeal in the higher court but she was killed before that.
If Gauri were alive today, she would likely be bashing non-Kannada speaking ‘outsider’ folks who live in Bangalore in her tabloid. And that’s okay; she exercised her freedom of speech well to broadcast all her beliefs honestly. However, her Kannada chauvinism ironically was also newly acquired; because the Wodehouse-loving, Delhi-dwelling editor that Gauri was, she had started to learn her mother tongue Kannada only when she took over her dad’s influential tabloid Lankesh Patrike in 2000. She had herself self-deprecatingly lamented her Kannada wasn’t that great still, and that perception lingered till the end. And yet, she was an emblem of something that Hindutva brigade hated, and she undeservedly, unjustly paid the price for it. She was a symbol of something bigger that led to a massive, nationwide outrage after her death: people from all walks of life came out to protest, writers, academicians, returned their awards, and so on.
First, she was an irreverent single woman who wrote simply from her heart: she called Narendra Modi Busi Basaya i.e. Bluff Master in her columns and RSS as chaddis, a reference to their old dress of khakhi shorts. She exercised her right to express her opinions freely, ferociously about everything and everyone irrespective of if they were her friends or foes . Second, she actually understood Indian spirit of debate way better than we do in our current climate, and held no grudges to the folks she sparred with. There are so many instances in her life including her brother and friends whom she attacked personally or in her tabloid, but remained genuinely affectionate and lifelong friends to them. There is an humane honesty in being that kind of person. Gauri’s killers, that SIT did a great job of catching, their nameless organization and parent or affiliated organizations knowingly first celebrated her death in uncouth ways, then used it to create fear for others, especially woman journalists some of whom didn’t even report on politics, and then maliciously spread lies about Gauri’s character, life and her politics. They insinuated that she was killed by Naxals with whom she sympathized (it was much more nuanced – she condemned Naxal violence and had mediated successfully with the state to have some of them rehabilitated). It is a mockery of our justice system that has gone on since her death back in September 2017.
Back to Rollo Romig’s book, in addition to the fantastic research into the story of Gauri Lankesh’s murder, investigation and trial, I loved how Rollo got the spirit of India so right. That India is a melting pot of so many cultures, religions, customs and today in an undeclared emergency, malicious elements and organizations are working to kill exactly that spirit nation-wide. I loved, how he as a non-Hindu got the essence of Hinduism so right that none of these illiterate Hindutva proponents know about or appreciate. Isn’t it ironical but also so fitting that none of the Hindutva creatures have ever read the scriptures or even understand anything about the religion to actually perpetuate violence in its name. On page 180 of the hard cover edition of his book, he writes:
I have, for long, shouted at rooftops to anyone would care to listen that Hinduism isn’t uniform: no two Hindus pray the same deity nor in the same way or even at the same time. These shouts of one nation, one religion, one language are toxic that are aimed at breaking us up, diminishing minorities and our identities and curtailing our freedom to our way of life. This is something Gauri understood too; she gave an obscure (at least to me) speech about Hinduism not having father or mother (I haven’t heard the whole speech, but I still don’t understand what is wrong with this statement). It was this speech that made the illiterate Hindutva think that she deserved to die. So, they killed a defenseless, frail, 51yo woman, senselessly, brutally at her own doorstep. It’s heartbreaking.
Gauri, for all her journalistic faults, was clearly fighting for justice and fairness, a very elusive concept in today’s world; she lived and acted with a fierce desire to protect the secular India, for all the marginalized, the minorities, LGBTs, and so on. She was a true martyr who lived a life true to herself and her beliefs. Thank you, Rollo Romig, for telling her story and then the story of modern India. It has been very hard to first live through the sheer unjust intolerance climate and then even more heartbreaking to read about its quick summary in the pages of this book because we remain helpless to face this tsunami of illiteracy and injustice with no light at the end of this long, narrowing tunnel. Especially since there are a very few of fighters like Gauri left. It’s little perverse but I still thought it was sweet when the police told Kavitha Lankesh, Gauri’s sister, that Gauri was ‘a great soul’ because her death had prevented all those people on the hit lists from being killed. Her sister, who is still deeply grieving, said that made her feel like that her death didn’t go in vain. Indeed it didn’t.
P.S: While I enjoyed reading the two interludes in the book about Doubting Thomas and his visit to India and P. Rajagopal, the founder & proprietor of the multi-national Sarvana Bhavan – while they served great lessons in myth-making and moral licensing but they didn’t quite gel with the overall narrative of the book. They should have been separate essays. However, that didn’t take away anything from the fantastic book that this is. My review, alas, is very inadequate to cover the huge expanse of ideas and topics and quirks this book covers.
P.P.S: Here is an interview with Rollo Romig by Karthik Venkatesh which is an interesting, insightful read.
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Book opens with a reference to an honor killing like that of Qandeel Balooch’s – while it does set the cultural backdrop it really has nothing to do with the story. Story is set in a Lahore summer when it is burning hot. It is set in upper echelons of Pakistani political society and revolves around the lives of privileged 20-somethings, progeny of some influential and rich politicians or army men. Their lifestyles, funded by their fathers, are essentially a series of unending drug-fueled parties followed by sex.
The story is narrated from the viewpoints of the two of the saner protagonists whose different worlds overlap with each other for a bit.
Bugsy is son of an influential Brigadier and is friends with Omer, son of Iftikar Ali, right hand to current PM Salim Chaudhry. Bugsy is an RJ in a local radio station and predictably keeps getting asked when is he getting a real job. Not that he needs to work. Since he is a rock aficionado, obviously story, whenever told from his viewpoint, is peppered with music references. (It is in one of these references Bugsy says Freddie Mercury was born to ‘dal-eating, finger-flicking desi parents just like yours and mine’.)
Nida, a grieving middle-class girl wanders into this circle as Omer’s, son of an influential person in current Pakistani government, erstwhile girlfriends. She is introduced as ‘girlfriend of the hour’ who is bound to be replaced by a more latest flavor. However, every boy in the book tells us Nida is not like others and she is very cool. (Only way I can tell that the boys think she is cool must be because of how she looks? Not sure how she distinguishes herself from other Omer’s past girlfriends though.) Nida’s perspective is also that is of an outsider to this privileged circle. Her boyfriend has a way of treating her like an inane plaything who he keeps calling fatuous nicknames and it is her inner monologue that makes her perspective slightly interesting. However, I wish there was more of her inner world.
Pakistan is riding on an anti-corruption wave fanned by new rising star of politics, Mian Tariq or MT. So much that one of the cynical, youngish characters in the book comments: ‘If we don’t have hope, if we don’t at least want a better nation, then what’s the point of being here at all? We might as well all be Indian or Persian or Saudi Arabian’. Soon this ‘hope for better nation’ serves as a key plot point in story of the two protagonists.
Language by Pakistani-American writer Nadia Akbar is peppered with Pakistani-Punjabi words including gaalis and pejorative slangs such as paindu. It is reflective of conversation of how young in Lahore speak. Or, a North-Indian will speak. Writing is good with enough details to let you visualize the scene and a writing style that makes reading very easy. I was very hooked into story of these two protagonists and I looked forward to seeing it end with hope. However, it is the climax where the book peters out. Much pain has been taken to craft the story with details, but the end is very rushed making it feel slightly dissatisfying.
Yet for the sheer pleasure of enjoying the writing about how rich, Lahori society works (reminded me lot of Moni Mohsin’s The Diary of a Social Butterfly minus the USP tone), I would recommend reading this book.
Lastly, a shout out to Samya Arif for the bright cover illustration and Devangana Dash for the cover design. I love it! 
Disclaimer: I received a review copy of this book in lieu for writing an honest review.
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Kitty is a clichéd heroine of those romcoms we read and watch: clumsy, make fool of themselves when drunk, with shit job and clichéd shit life with a ‘scum’ ex and dysfunctional family. However, as a blessing, she does have two things: she is a fantastic baker and has three good even if eccentric friends who hang out together through thick and thin. Her job takes her to an opportunity where she gets to write a piece about recently demised celebrity actress, called Roxanne Merchant. :eye roll:
I am not sure whether this book belongs to a mystery or romance genre. Until the 80th page, there is no sign of a mystery and until 120th page there is no sign of any cause for any investigation either. Even when the hints are dropped in the book, it is so outlandish and puerile that you know right away you shouldn’t expect much by way of a mystery solving. Then, we come to the love interest of Kitty: an obviously dashing character with intellect and kindness is included, only you are not sure how they grow so close in span of four dates. It felt too rushed and unrealistic. This romantic angle could be the weakest link of the book.
Book is quite quick-paced and easy to read. It is written in Kitty’s own voice. Only writing style reminds of writer’s diarrhea. There are too many verbose thoughts to read through. At times, trivia is doled out as if to show that writer is trying to show off her knowledge. It would have been okay if only one character did it as their USP, but couple of times even Kitty and her love interest seem to slip into the same mode.
So, should you read this book? I am ambiguous in my recommendation. If you are bored and are looking for a fast read for some fun and escapism, go ahead and read it. (I think I maybe partial because the book is set in Delhi) But, don’t expect anything meaningful by way of mystery or love, it isn’t meant to be that kind of book. It’s made more for one-time fun-ride.
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Bond remembers fondly his time with his father, an Englishman who worked with ciphers for RAF. His father spent all his spare time taking young Bond to movies, reading books, making breakfast and sorting through their rare stamp collection. Bond tells this story as if he was with his father only yesterday even though it was the time of second war war. The story has a sweet old world charm: a world without ACs where bhishtis sprayed water from their goatskin bags on the khus-khus matting on the doors and windows.It was also a strange time for Bond as he was a lot on his own and had to take care of himself as a young boy when his father was recovering in hospital. He made friends with kids from streets, one of whom, Raju, who told as wondrous as his books.
The second part of the book describes life in boarding school, the teachers, their quirks and the eccentric couple who run the school. There are reminisces about boyhood friends, happy moments and small joys of childhood.
The book is as much about loss as it is about love and yet the book is warm in its tone. It is a book with fantastic design and has beautiful illustrations by Mihir Joglekar. The animal and insect illustrations were particularly beautiful. It is good edition to keep on your bookshelf and pick it up to read on that cold afternoon when you are longing to remember little joys of your childhood.
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Bloomsbury Crime Box Set is combination of three widely different books: The Hanging by Danish writer duo of brother and sister Lotte and Soren Hammer, Before We Met by Lucie Whitehouse and The Ghost Runner by Parker Bilal aka Jamal Mahjoub.
The Hanging
The book opens with two kids discovering the victims of a gruesome crime committed in the school. Chief Superintendent Konrad Simonsen is immediately called upon from his vacation to solve the murders. He is an archetypal police chief from those crime shows we watch on TV, whose personal life is in shambles but admired by his team. He won’t be stopped from solving crimes even if it means doing so by unconventional means.
The outrage about gruesome murders soon die; narrative in media and public is reshaped when it is revealed that the people murdered were pedophiles and deserved to die. The pedophiles were executed in school as they deserved. Simonsen’s team suddenly finds that public is no longer willing to help them solve murders. The public opinion is so divided that members of police team are forced to question their beliefs. The book is not so much about whodunnit but a police procedural that explores the impact of public opinion and morals on the investigation.
Before We Met
Hannah has been happily married for a few months to Mark. One day when her husband fails to come home, panicking, in search of an explanation, she looks up her husband’s study and calls around. She is intrigued by few trifle but completely baffling discoveries. The book is befitting addition to genre of sinister marriages pioneered by Gone Girl. My only grouse with this book is that it had too many details and had a very slow start. This book could have been edited to be about 100 pages less and yet would have packed a punch. For most part of reading this book, I felt tension build up and hair on my neck rising since I felt something truly sinister is going to hit Hannah from behind.
The Ghost Runner
I was very reluctant to read this book. Mostly because the book title seemed to suggest some kind of exorcist and this misconception was further backed by the synopsis which indicated the setting was an Islamic country and protagonist Makana was a Sudanese, living in exile in Egypt. I avoid reading stories from Islamic countries since stories of inequality, corruption, honor killings have a way of making you depressed. Sure enough, private investigator Makana is asked to investigate the death of a young lady shopkeeper, suspected to be an honor killing committed by her unsavory, exiled father. 
Makana travels to Siwa, an oasis-cum-small town in Sahara desert, where lawlessness and exploitation of weaker people prevails. Tormented by his past, his memories of his dead wife and daughter, Makana relentlessly investigates amidst hostility of ‘not being one of them”.His only comfort being spitfire Zahara, a women’s aid worker. But strangely, before he can solve crime, several more bodies start to fall around him in Siwa. Can he solve the mystery? Even though I eventually enjoyed reading the book, the reveal seemed hasty and some twists I couldn’t quite make sense of. If you could, let me know.
(I received a review copy of the box set courtesy of Flipkart and the publisher.)
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Pratap Pande aka Pojo is a precocious private detective (PI) who has currently come to study at The Heathcote International boarding school in Panchgani. Born to writer-detective parents, it was only natural that Pojo would turn his attention to matters of detection and mystery. So far Pojo had opened his ‘office’ in derelict corner of the boarding school where he took petty cases such as ‘case of missing tuck’, ‘case of prize winning orchid’ etc meticulously documented in his case files.
However, then comes a mystery which no self-respecting PI can resist. Mr Heathcote, the cat who has been with Heathcote International since the beginning, is found dead. Mr Heathcote is no ordinary cat, he is not only loved and revered by Heathcotians, but also considered as their mascot. The cat had been constant, silent companion to Pojo on his stealthy errands around the campus. On its death, Pojo is intrigued and convinced that there is foul play behind Heathcote’s death.
Pojo’s investigation would lead him to several twists and slips. From tracing steps of a student athlete from rival school, breaking into senior’s lockers, visiting forbidden alleys and pathways (throw in some secret pathways), facing the wrath of the seniors, recording unsuspecting villains on camera – Pojo would do it all. He would also find his two sidekicks, one his senior who he really can’t kick around and other a well-meaning, pesky junior Pops. Pojo will risk punishment and his reputation to unearth the mystery behind the death of Mr Heathcote. Will he succeed?
One can finish this mystery book by Megha Singhee in one sitting. It serves as a sweet reminiscence of life at boarding school – day trips, free days, ragging etc. It is ideal for children since it is fun mystery with sly humor and has no references to violence or sex. For this reason, I would call this contemporary Feluda. I am sure we will hear more about PI Pojo’s cases.
Instagram for the book: https://instagram.com/p/2xpoZcElVt/
(I received a review copy of the book courtesy Flipkart’s review program.)
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