Page-turners

What better way to spend your summer break than with some cracking good reads?

Like most dedicated Game of Thrones (GOT) fans, I must confess that I felt completely let down by the finale of the series. I mean, seriously, what was up with that?

Daenerys, the ‘Breaker of Chains’ transforms into a ‘Destroyer of Cities’ quicker than you can say ‘Dracarys’? The big reveal that Jon Snow is actually Aegon Targaryen, the true heir to the Iron Throne, is all for nothing as the poor man is again shunted off to the Wall (maybe he really did ‘know nothing’). Arya Stark is sent off on a Columbus-like quest to discover what is west of Westeros (couldn’t she just have asked Bran to warg into a raven and find out for all of us).

And Bran – honestly, Bran?! – is made the King of Six Kingdoms (Sansa Stark becomes Queen in the north, after announcing her decision to secede as if she were giving her order for lunch) even though we were assured earlier that he couldn’t even become Lord of Winterfell because he was now the Three Eyed Raven. So, presumably, he was just holding out for a better job, or maybe the Three Eyed Raven gig became a bit tedious after a while. You know, teenagers…

Anyhow, the TV series is done and dusted. And as you can probably tell, I am a tad disappointed at how things turned out. So now my hopes are pinned on George R.R. Martin giving us a better denouement in the two final books in the series than what we were served up on television. And while I wait – and wait, and wait, Martin is taking his time about writing the damn thing – I have decided to go back and re-read the first five Game of Thrones (A Song of Fire and Ice) books. I am now nearly at the end of the first book (which came out in 1996) and am looking forward to making my way through the next four volumes over the next few weeks.

So, that’s my summer reading sorted out then. But if, unlike me, you don’t fancy ploughing your way through a series of books you have already read before, then here are some recommendations that should take you through your summer vacations and maybe even a month or so beyond.

Here, in no particular order of preference, are my top summer reads:

The Lost Man by Jane Harper

I fell in love with Harper’s writing when I read her first book, The Dry. Set in the Australian outback, it was ostensibly a murder mystery, but as the layers peeled away, you realized it was so much more. Much the same is true of Harper’s latest novel, The Lost Man. It begins with the discovery of a dead body in mysterious circumstances but the investigation reveals much more than the name of the murderer. It also lays bare the inner lives of the family at the heart of the story and the community that surrounds it. An atmospheric novel, it brings the landscape alive as much as it does its characters. Clear the day in advance when you begin reading – you won’t want to put down the book any time soon.

The Winters by Lisa Gabriele

This is a marvelous re-working of Daphne Du Maurier’s novel, Rebecca, which turns the original story on its head by the time it is finished with it. The parallels with Du Maurier’s tale are all too clear. Rebecca is the dead wife who haunts the life of the new Mrs Winter. And yes, we never find out what the second Mrs Winter is called in this book either. The Mrs Danvers character in this book is played by the Winter daughter, called Dani. But just when you think this is just a re-telling of a story you are all too familiar with, Gabriele turns things around with a flourish you will never see coming. Don’t say you weren’t warned.

Salt Fat Acid Heat by Samin Nosrat

If you have some time off and want to experiment in the kitchen over your summer break, look no further than this book. Most cookbooks focus on cuisines or sell on the basis of some celebrity chef’s reputation. Rare is the book that is cuisine-neutral and concentrates on technique. The great thing about Samin Nosrat’s book is that it has something for both accomplished chefs and beginners because it focuses on the basis of all cooking. If you understand the effect of heat on ingredients, for instance, you can cook pretty much anything. When the book came out, Nosrat, an Iranian who cooks in California, was largely unknown. But after its spectacular success and the Netflix series of the same name, she has now become a celebrity chef in her own right. Don’t let that put you off, though. This is really the only cookbook you need, as you potter around in your kitchen. After all, technique is everything.

If you are anything like me, though, and long for some comfort reads to tide you over the holidays, then you can’t go wrong by falling back on some classics. My own personal favourites are such Jane Austen novels as Pride and Prejudice or even Emma, or any of the Regency Romances of Georgette Heyer, which I can read over and over again. Some of my friends swear by the delights of P.G. Wodehouse. Others fall back on such spy novelists as John Le Carre.

But no matter what the genre or who the author, do be sure to read a book or two over the summer. I will be waiting for your recommendations.

  

Big Little Bestsellers

And can they make a seamless transition to our TV screens?

I discovered Liane Moriarty (what a splendid surname for a writer of murder – well, sort of – mysteries to have, by the way) rather late in the day. Somehow, her major breakthrough novel, The Husband’s Secret, passed me by when it released in 2013. It was only after I read her 2014 book, Big Little Lies, that I was intrigued enough to go back and see what else she had written. Suffice to say, I was not disappointed. And then, last year Moriarty released her latest novel, Truly Madly Guilty (yes, she is rather prolific that way) and I was well and truly hooked. And like most newly-converted people, I went around recommending her to all my friends and acquaintances (“Yes, yes, I know, you’ve never heard of her; but believe me, she’s fantastic!”).

Well, it now turns out that Liane Moriarty will no longer be such a tough sell in these parts. And that’s because Little Big Lies, far and away her best book so far, has been made into a television series starring such A-list stars as Nicole Kidman and Reese Witherspoon, with a cast that includes Shailene Woodley, Laura Dern, Alexander Skarsgard and Zoe Kravtiz, and is playing on a TV screen right in your living room every week.

Of course, it’s much more fun to watch if you haven’t read the book – and don’t worry, this piece contains no spoilers at all. But even those of us who know how it all ends, can’t help but get caught up with the twists and turns of the plot. And it doesn’t hurt that both Witherspoon and Kidman are rather easy on the eye, as are all the lush shots of rolling beaches, with their full complement of sun, sea and surf.

So, how does the TV series compare with the book? Well, I was prepared to be all sniffy about it, but as it turns out, the TV version captures the novel rather well, with its mixture of domestic drama, dark comedy, schoolyard (yes, I kid you not!) politics, sexual tension and, of course, suspense thriller. There is a murder at the heart of it, but that’s just the hook on which to hang a great story on. And the story survives the transition to a different medium rather well.

As I watched the latest episode this week, I started to wonder which other book had made the transition to TV series quite so successfully. And here, just off the top of my head, is my entirely subjective list of the top three:

Pride and Prejudice: The BBC adaptation of the Jane Austen novel aired more than 20 years ago, with Colin Firth playing Mr Darcy to Jennifer Ehle’s Elizabeth Bennet. But even two decades on, the show lives on in our collective memory thanks to that one scene of Firth emerging from a lake in a wet white shirt and bumping into Elizabeth. It is a tribute to Andrew Davies, who wrote the screenplay, that even though this scene never occurs in Austen’s book, it has become a seminal moment in popular culture.

But leaving wet shirts aside for a moment, this was a show that captured the intelligence and spark of Elizabeth Bennet, the constrained lives of women of that era, and raised an elegant brow at the snobbery and elitism that prevailed in the England of that day. Quite brilliant.

Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy: Anyone who has seen the TV series that came out in 1979 (do get a box set if you haven’t) will remember this because of Sir Alec Guinness’ star turn as legendary spymaster, George Smiley, who is brought out of retirement to hunt for a mole buried deep into the heart of the British secret services. Guinness was brilliant in this adaptation of John Le Carre’s novel of the same name, so much so that the author admitted that, “If I were to keep one filmed version of my work, this would be it.”

And it is easy to understand why. The plot unravels with the same stately pace that Le Carre brings to his own writing. Each character is fleshed out into three dimensions. The mechanics of spycraft are brought to light in intricate detail. And then, there is the quiet but unmistakable presence of Guinness’ Smiley, all repressed passion and suppressed feelings. An absolute masterpiece.

Game of Thrones: My chronology is a little off when it comes to the Game of Thrones books by George RR Martin. I was introduced to him by the first two seasons of the TV show, which I binge-watched while on vacation. Appetite appropriately whetted, I came back home to download all his books and devoured all five of them in one greedy gulp. So, when season three launched, I was prepared to be disappointed. After all, I knew what was going to happen, so how much fun could it be? Short answer: a lot!

The TV series brought the fantasy to life with such panache that it mattered little that I knew how things were going to turn out. I knew what was coming in the Red Wedding, how the dragons would save the fireproof Daenerys Targaryen, and how Arya Stark would hit rock-bottom. But seeing it on screen still brought a fresh thrill. It helped, of course, that as the series moved along, Martin and the screenplay writers shook things up by varying the endings of various storylines, to give us smug readers a bit of a jolt.

Winter is coming...

And I, for one, can’t wait to make the most of it

There is something magical about this time of year. The mornings start off with a mysterious mist, the evenings get a bit nippy, and basking in the sun becomes a real option rather than an ordeal to be endured. As George RR Martin would say, “Winter is coming.” But unlike Sansa Stark, I could not be happier about its arrival.

This has always been my favourite part of the year. Growing up in Calcutta, we didn’t have much of a winter to look forward to. Yes, the days turned pleasant and a few nights were chilly enough to warrant the annual airing of our sweaters and shawls. But we still prepared for the season on a war footing.

Trunks of winterwear would be disgorged to awaken from their deep hibernation in the afternoon sun. Velvet coats, wool sweaters, pashmina shawls would be piled high on top of satin quilts on a sheet laid out on the verandah. And I still have vivid memories of rolling around on the pile, inhaling the smell of mothballs and marveling at how soft and sensuous (even though I didn’t know the word yet) the velvets and silks felt.

Winter would announce its arrival in other areas of the house as well. Pears glycerine soap would appear in place of Cinthol bars in the bathroom. The enticing smell of sarson ka saag would start emanating from the kitchen. White butter would make its appearance on our plates along with the mandatory makki di roti. And every morning, the gannawallah would stop by to sell us neatly-sliced sticks of sugarcane, and we would sit in the sunshine contentedly chewing cud all day long.

But I never really got a taste of real winter until I moved to Delhi as an adult. Working for a newspaper, all my budget ran to was a barsati, but much to my delight it came with a sprawling terrace, where I set up some wrought-iron furniture in the fond hope that I would spend my winter afternoons sunning myself like a cat that had had all the cream (or, in my case, desi ghee).

And yes, I did spend some splendid afternoons, curled up with a book, a steaming cup of coffee close at hand, enjoying the crisp beauty of a Delhi winter. But what I hadn’t bargained for was the cold.

The moment the sun went down and the wind started up, the thin roof of the barsati wasn’t much of a defence against the searing cold. And no matter how many layers I wore to bed or how many quilts I piled up on the bed, I was never really warm despite the heater valiantly dispensing a steady stream of hot air in one corner. And thus began my habit – that persists to this day; despite the fact that my bedroom is now warm and toasty thanks to an oil-based radiator – of going to bed with a hot-water bottle (which had the added advantage of making me feel like a character in an Agatha Christie murder mystery).

But despite all these minor inconveniences, I loved the Delhi winter. And I loved Delhi in the winter. The central roundabouts ablaze with purple petunias, red salvia, and chrysanthemums that covered the entire range of the colour spectrum. The subtle beauty of the flowering Alstonia tree. The smell of freshly-roasted peanuts being sold at street-side stalls. The sweetly-astringent taste of the first oranges of the season. The festive barbeques my friends set up in their backyards and front lawns. The bonfires around which we gathered as the temperatures dropped even further. I loved it all.

And yes, decades later, my love for the Delhi winter remains undimmed. In a recreation of long-gone childhood rituals, I still tip out all my winterwear to give it a good airing in the sun (though I stop my inner child from rolling around in it). I change my skincare regime in a nod to the season of chapped lips and cracked heels. I start my annual hunt for the tights and stockings put away after the last winter, before giving up the chase and buying a new lot – which I know I will inevitably lose by the next winter. And I carefully stagger my travel plans so that I don’t miss too many days of Delhi winter, because sadly, it is over in the blink of an eye.

How do I make the most of the season, you ask?

Well, let me count the ways. I schedule all my lunches – business and otherwise – in open-air restaurants so that I can make the most of sunny afternoons. Instead of staying cooped up in the gym, I go for long walks in Lodi Gardens (the flowering verges are a bonus). And I stock up on all my favourite winter treats – peanut chikki is my own Kryptonite – squirrelling them away for a chilly day spent in bed.

But most of all, I long for the barsati that was my first home in Delhi. It has long since been pulled down to make way for an international bank and a fashion design outlet, as part of the commercialization of that part of Defence Colony. Nevertheless, every time I drive past, I am reminded of lazy afternoons past, and boozy dinner parties that made up my misspent youth. And that chill that never quite went away from my bones during that entire season.

And I am reminded once again why I fell in love with the Delhi winter. And I fall in love with Delhi in winter a little bit more.

The book's the thing...

And sometimes it’s even better when it is adapted for TV or a movie

If you are a fan of Elena Ferrante, and (like me) are suffering withdrawal pangs after having devoured every word she has ever written, then I have some good news for you. The Italian film and television production company, Wildside, has announced that it is working on adapting Ferrante’s Neopolitan quartert into a TV series, along with producer Fandango. The series will be shot in Italy, and in Italian.

The four novels, which trace the friendship of Lenu and Lina over half a century, will be adapted into a four-season TV series, which each novel taking in eight episodes, making it a 32-episode blockbuster. Ferrante is believed to be involved in the production, though nobody quite knows in what capacity or how closely. But then, given that nobody even knows who Ferrante is – she is still jealously clinging tight to her anonymity – that can’t be very surprising.

No release date has been announced but I am already salivating with anticipation. The story of Lenu and Lina consumed me entirely as I raced to the final book in the quartet, The Story of the Lost Child, and I can’t wait to see this tale of female friendship retold in a visual medium.

Of course, this anticipation is tinged with a dash of fear. It is the same fear that every book-lover experiences when a well-loved book is turned into a movie or a TV series. I felt that fear when the first series of Game of Thrones was released, not sure how that tale of kings and knights, love and lust, pride and passion, would work on the TV screen.

Would it all look a bit ridiculous, like some costume dramas tend to do? Would the story have the same power on TV as it did in the book? Would the characters be reduced to caricatures because of the demands of the visual medium? Would it just become yet another bodice-ripper of the kind that litter the television universe?

You can imagine my relief when the TV series proved to be as much of a triumph as the books. Of course, I felt a little miffed that I already knew what was going to happen, thus losing out on the thrill of anticipation that other viewers, who hadn’t read the book, were feeling. But then, George R.R. Martin, rather obligingly, went off script in the later seasons, and I could watch with the same edge-of-the-seat excitement that non-readers were privileged to experience.

So, yes, I am a tad nervous about how the Ferrante will survive the transition to our TV screens. Just as I am both nervous and excited about the movie adapation of Longbourn that is in the works. Random House Studios and Focus Features have acquired the film rights to Jo Baker’s novel about life below stairs in the Bennet household made famous by Jane Austen (Pride and Prejudice), and the release date is tentatively set for 2017. I just hope and pray that this adaptation remains true to the original and doesn’t go down the Downton Abbey route.

But the one author whose works I long to see on television is Georgette Heyer (just one of her books, The Reluctant Widow, has been made into a film – and a pretty bad one at that!). The prolific author of Regency Romances has given us such amazing characters as The Grand Sophy, Arabella, Frederica, Venetia, and it would be an absolute treat to see them come alive on the TV screen. But for some reason, British TV companies are too busy filming Pride and Prejudice again and again and again to pay any attention to the possibilities inherent in these Heyer heroines.

And that is an absolute pity, if you ask me. Heyer tells absolutely cracking stories, intricately-plotted and leavened with wit and humour. And her heroines are the absolute best; plucky little creatures who do their best in a society that hems them around with strict rules of etiquette.

Who else but Heyer could come up with a heroine like Sophia Stanton-Lacy who comes visiting her aunt with a little monkey to gift her young cousins, and thinks nothing of confronting an evil moneylender with an elegant but effective pistol? Or the impish Leonie de Saint-Vire, who masquerades as a young page in Parisian society, before being unveiled as an aristocratic beauty? Or even the stunningly beautiful Deborah Grantham, relegated to the fringes of polite society as Faro’s Daughter, who makes the greatest conquest of them all?

I could go on listing the marvelous, resourceful, witty, intelligent, beautiful women who people Heyer’s stories (the headstrong Lady Serena Carlow, Judith Taverner, Mary Challoner are just some names that come to mind) but then we’d be here forever. Instead you could go over to petitionbuzz.com and sign a petition asking that Heyer’s novels be made into a movie.

Though, if you ask me, television is better suited to telling Heyer’s stories (in my view, movies are like short stories, only TV series can do justice to the sweep of a novel). Surely the BBC or ITV, which spends millions on period dramas of dubious quality, could pick up one Heyer Regency Romance – my personal favourite would be The Grand Sophy – and adapt it into a six-part series. I would bet my entire collection of tattered copies of Heyer’s novels that it would do so well that production companies would be scrambling for the rights to the books yet to be filmed.

So, come on guys, look sharp. This is a world of fiction beyond Jane Austen and Julian Fellowes that beckons.

Spoiler alert!

No matter how much you hate them, there is no avoiding spoilers in this age of social media

Like much of the rest of the world, I was hooked by the TV series, Game of Thrones, from the word go. I swallowed the entire first season in one greedy gulp, rushing back home every evening to get my fill of Ned Stark, Daenerys Targaryen, Khal Drogo and the evil Lannister twins, Cersei and Ser Jaime. The wait for the second season seemed interminable and once that was done the only thing that kept me going was the thought of season three and so on...

Only now that I have started on the original books written by George RR Martin, I am beginning to wish that I hadn't seen the TV series at all. The books are a cracking read (I have finished the first in the series and am nearly through the second) but only half as much fun as they might have been now that I already know what is coming next.

It's a bit like that old chestnut. What came first: the chicken or the egg? Only in this case, the question is which one should you dip into first: the book or the TV series based on it? And there really is no good answer. Because no matter which route you choose into the story, there will be spoilers galore.

And like the President of United States – and I am guessing, most of the free world – there is nothing I hate more. (Barack Obama famously tweeted on the day that season two of House Of Cards was released on Netflix, “'No spoilers please" to his many million followers.) So, whenever a brand new show is released, I force myself to stay off social media, avert my eyes from TV reviews and magazine articles, so that some spoilsport can't spoil my fun by giving the plot away.

But no matter how vigilant I am, there is always that one annoying idiot who reveals the big surprise and ruins it all. I remember being incandescent with rage when a friend casually let drop that Brody was hanged at the end of Homeland while I was still on the first episode. (And I don't think I have been forgiven by another friend to whom I thoughtlessly revealed that Matthew Crawley dies in the Christmas special of Downton Abbey. In my defence, I thought she had seen the episode when she said she was done with the second season.)

Even as I write this, I am trying my damnedest to stay away from every article, tweet, review, or even passing mention of Breaking Bad because I haven't seen the final season and I really do want to be surprised by what everyone assures me is a super-twisty end. (So, all of you who've already seen the damn thing, do shut up until I catch up.)

But to come back to the chicken-and-egg conundrum, what should you do? Read the book and then watch the TV series? Or vice versa?

Well, speaking for myself, I would much rather begin with the book. Every time a see a new remake of Pride and Prejudice or Emma, I am ever so grateful that I read Jane Austen's original before I came to the TV version. So it is with the Inspector Lynley mysteries on TV; the Elizabeth George books are so much more nuanced than the spin-off television series. And then, there are the endless Poirot and Miss Marple remakes, which lose none of their suspense and wonder even if you have the read the original book a hundred times over.

Sometimes of course, it is the TV series that sparks off interest in the books. I read Darkly Dreaming Dexter only after watching the series. But this was so much darker than the television version (for instance, Dexter kills off Lieutenant LaGuerta in the first book itself, whereas she survives much later in the TV series) that reading it was an entirely different experience.

Actually, come to think of it, I would never have picked up a George RR Martin book if it hadn’t been for a TV series called Game of Thrones. And the loss would have been entirely mine.