Page-turners

As the year comes to a close, here's a list of the best books I read in 2017

Yes, it's that time of year again. When newspapers and magazines begin doing their year-end round-ups. The political highlights of the year. The top ten people of the year. The twenty best places to eat at. The highest-rated holiday destinations. And so on and so forth.

So, in that same spirit of year-end nostalgia, I present to you my own list: the top five books I have read through the year. Needless to say, this is an entirely subjective list, far from comprehensive, and does not include many superb books that came out in 2017. But it is stuff that I read and loved -- and I hope you will read and love too. 

* Little Fires Everywhere: This is Celeste Ng's second novel and it is even more assured than her first, Everything I Never Told You. Set in American suburbia, the story starts with a fire that burns down the home of Richardson family. But the fire is not at the heart of the book, family is. Or rather, families. There are the Richardsons with their picture-perfect house, home to four teenagers. There is peripatetic single mother Mia Warren and her 15-year-old daughter Mia who have a mystery at the centre of their lives. And then, there is a third plot line that involves a custody battle for a baby whose birth mother returns to claim her. It's takes a rare talent to sew all these multiple strands together without losing control of the plot. But Ng is that rare talent, so you are in safe hands.

* Ties: I have to confess that I downloaded this book by Domenico Starnone for ulterior motives. No, not because it has been translated from the Italian by Jhumpa Lahiri (who has also written a foreword). But because Starnone is married to Anita Raja who was recently 'outed' as Elena Ferrante, one of my favorite writers and there had been some speculation that the Neapolitan Novels I so loved were actually the work of Starnone. Well, having read Ties, I have my doubts about that theory. But that said, this book stands up on its own merits, sketching out the life of an ageing couple, with all the indignities of growing old, juxtaposed brilliantly with flashbacks of their young selves. 

* A Legacy of Spies: All the pre-release publicity revolved around how John Le Carre was bringing back George Smiley in this book. But frankly, that was a bit of a red herring. Smiley is referenced constantly through the book but remains offstage, emerging for a cameo at the very end. But that doesn't make this spy thriller (in the loosest sense of the term) any less enjoyable. You have to be a Le Carre aficionado to truly appreciate how the back story is woven in. But even if you are coming to Le Carre for the first time ever, you will be caught up in the sheer skill with which he swings from past to present. Speaking for myself, I was a bit disappointed with the end, but you can read and make up your own mind.

* What Happened: The title doesn't have a question mark at the end but I always hear one as I imagine Hillary Clinton saying in plaintive tones, What the (expletive deleted) Happened? Maybe that's because the author's voice comes through so strongly and clearly as she dissects all that went wrong in her 2016 presidential bid. Many critics have scoffed at the fact that Clinton blames everyone but herself for her electoral loss in this book. But that wasn't how I read it. To me, the book portrayed a woman, who had nothing more to lose, coming clean on how the mistakes she and her campaign made changed the course of American history even as she acknowledged the damage misogyny and sexism had done to her cause. In another decade or so, this will be essential reading for all students of politics. 

* House Of Spies: If you haven't read The Black Widow by Daniel Silva, then drop everything you are doing and read it now. Because Silva's latest, House of Spies, takes off from where The Black Widow left off. The central character is, as always, the legendary Israeli spy, Gabriel Allon, now ensconced at the head of his country's secret service. But even the demands of that job can't keep the intrepid Allon off the field, as he tries to track down and destroy the lynchpin of ISIS, a shadowy character who goes by the name of Saladin. After a momentary dip, when his novels became a tad formulaic, Silva is on top form again, weaving suspenseful stories that will have you up till the early hours of the morning, telling yourself, "Okay, just one more chapter!" Remember, you have been warned. 

Winter is coming

But this time around, I’m not among those celebrating its arrival

Winter has always been my favourite time of year. The moment the temperatures begin to dip in the early morning and the darkness sets in early, my heart starts to soar. Winter is coming, I tell myself excitedly. Though not in a George RR Martin way, thank God!

This year, however, the start of winter has begun to feel a little apocalyptic. I came back from a short break to find Delhi engulfed in a smog so polluted that just breathing that air, I was reliably informed, was equivalent to smoking 50 cigarettes a day. For an asthmatic non-smoker like myself, that sounded like the kiss of death (quite literally).

So, suffice it to say, my reaction to the arrival of winter this time around had been a little bit different. Instead of celebrating the season by taking long walks in Lodhi Gardens, I have retreated to the sanctuary of my bedroom with three air-purifiers going at the same time, anxiously checking the counters to see if the PM 2.5 count was going any lower.

The only time I ventured out was to attend the wedding of one of my close friend’s daughter. And after every single function, I staggered back wheezing to my room, puffing away at my Asthalin inhaler as if my life depended on it (spoiler alert: it really does).

The good bit about all this is that I caught up on my reading, devouring Little Fires Everywhere by Celeste Ng and Ties by Domenico Starnone in double quick time (excellent books both, I could not recommend them more highly – but that’s the subject of an entirely different column). I also binge-watched the American TV series, This Is Us, weeping copiously all the way through (don’t let that put you off; it is a fabulous show). And I managed to get in a little exercise as well, working out on my cross-trainer to get my mandatory 30 active minutes every day.

So, compared to those who had to brave the streets and the dust and smoke of Delhi traffic, I didn’t do badly at all. And yet, through it all I was plagued by a vague sense of dissatisfaction, a nagging feeling of missing out on my favourite season of the year, as I sat barricaded in my room, breathing in the best air that money could buy.

My mind went back to winters past, to those halcyon days when Delhi was not a gas chamber, slowly but surely killing us all. I flashed back to my first years in the capital, when I lived in a barsati in Defence Colony, with tiny little rooms but a vast terrace that was transformed into party central the moment the cold set in. My friends and I would sit around a bonfire late into the night, drinking our poison of choice, eating whatever takeaway we had ordered in, talking, laughing, singing, and of course, in due course, dancing, the air crisp against our flushed faces. Good times.

Sunday afternoons were invariably spent in the homes of friends who were prosperous enough to have houses with gardens and backyards. The barbeque would be going, rustling up everything from kebabs to hot dogs, there would be pitchers of beer, sangria and margaritas at the ready (and mulled wine once the cold really set in), someone would be strumming on a guitar while the rest of us drifted along making desultory conversation, as we basked in the balmy sunlight. Soon the drinks would kick in and the lawn would be littered with people in varying degrees of wakefulness, until the soporific effect of the sun made most of us nod off. Siesta after fiesta, we used to call it.

Then, there were the weekend girly lunches my friends and I used to organize around this time of year at some open-air restaurant or the other. Though to be honest, these were less lunches and more gossip sessions, where a hundred reputations died a thousand deaths as we exchanged stories about the worlds of journalism, advertising and PR, which we all belonged to, our tongues suitably lubricated by lashings of Chardonnay. (Now that you mention it, I am beginning to see a pattern here…and yes, it involves alcohol!)

But my best memories are of spending lazy afternoons alone on my terrace, curled up on my wrought-iron sofa with a good book, with just a couple of oranges for company. No matter how carefully I peeled the oranges, a few drops of the juice always spilled on the book I was reading. And now, when I re-read one of them and see that tell-tale stain, it takes me back to that lovely sun-filled terrace where I spent so many happy hours breathing in that cold winter air.

It is these memories that keep me going now, as I huddle inside my air-purified room, fearing that venturing into the open will trigger yet another asthma attack. And with every puff of my inhaler I send up a prayer that one day soon, I will be able to relive these moments for real instead of just in my imagination.