Turning the page

What happens when an old favourite doesn't appeal any more?

When it comes to reading, I am very much a creature of habit. I have my favourite authors who I go back to time and again and whose new releases I look forward to with keen anticipation. 

So you can imagine my excitement when I read that one of my favourite writers was coming out with a new book. David Nicholls (of One Day fame) was releasing a new novel, You Are Here, which had been universally well-reviewed by the critics. I faithfully downloaded it as soon as it became available on Kindle and in a state of heightened anticipation sat down to read it. 

But only 15 minutes into that exercise I realised that a strange feeling was creeping over me. Could it possibly be boredom? Surely not! This was one of my favourite authors writing a book in one of my favourite genres (romance, for want of a better term). And yet I was finding it hard proceeding beyond the first few chapters. How was this possible? 

I persisted with the book for a couple of weeks, forcing myself to read a few chapters at a time before finally deciding that life was too short to hold myself ransom to a book that really didn’t speak to me at all. So, I turned to another old favourite of mine to repair matters. Daniel Silva had just come out with the latest Gabriel Allon thriller, A Death In Cornwall, and I thought this would do the trick nicely. 

So, I started the book, fingers crossed, hoping that this one would give me more joy. But no such luck. Even though all my favourite characters were in attendance and all the tropes that make an Allon thriller were present and accounted for, I found this book heavy going as well. 

It was when I found myself struggling with Daniel Silva, my perennial go-to when it comes to spy thrillers, that an alarm went off in my head. What exactly was the problem here? Was it the book (or books)? Or was it me? What accounted for the fact that I simply wasn’t enjoying reading the authors that I had always sworn by. 

Could it be that my attention span had been destroyed by too much social media? Had scrolling through Twitter rewired my brain in such a way that I no longer appreciated writing  that was longer than byte-sized? Had the Internet finally fried my head so badly that I could not immerse myself in reading, one of the great joys of my life. 

You may laugh, but I was so perturbed by this state of affairs that I decided I had to investigate deeper. And what better way to do that than to go back to the books that had introduced me to these writers and made me a life-long fan. So I duly dug out my well-thumbed copy of One Day and, much to my joy, managed to get through it in a couple of days, enjoying every second. Then, it was time to delve into Silva’s first book in the Allon Series, The Kill Artist, to check if the magic still worked — and yes, it did. 

So maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t me, after all. It was the books. And I can’t tell you what a relief that realisation was! 

The author as rock star

It only ever happens at the Jaipur Literary Festival

A literary festival is where authors come to feel like stars. But when they want to feel like rock stars, they come to the JLF. And if you have ever attended the Jaipur Literary Festival (JLF) you will know why. This is where you will find authors of every ilk (historians, scientists, economists) encompassing every genre (spy thrillers, literary novels, biographies, autobiographies) from all over the globe coming together in the Pink City to paint it (entirely metaphorically) red. 

Last year, I attended as an author-speaker to talk about my novel, Madam Prime Minister, and moderated a few sessions. This year, I was there with my Spectator hat on. And so, for the benefit of those of you who weren’t in attendance, here are some of my impressions. 

• When you are at the JLF, it is hard to feel pessimistic about the future of reading. The place is crawling with young people (some of them still in their school uniforms) who don’t just love books; they live and breathe them. They crowd the bookshop, looking for titles and authors they admire and for those that they have yet to discover. They line up with patient good humour to get their books signed at the end of every session. And they have intelligent conversations about books with everyone who is willing to engage. 

• Actually, truth be told, at the JLF, it is easy to feel optimistic about the future in general. This is a place where the right wing and the liberal wing can debate in a civilised manner; where there is space for every opinion across the political spectrum, so long as it is expressed with respect and decorum. And where disagreements are treated not as mortal threats but as an inevitable part of life, to be both embraced and examined. The JLF proves that civility can and does exist in political debate - even if it is missing in our TV studios. 

• There are all kinds of literary stars  in attendance at the JLF. And then, there is Shashi Tharoor. It would be no exaggeration to say that Shashi is the Shah Rukh Khan of the literary world. And nowhere is this more obvious than here, where Tharoor is surrounded by a ring of over-muscled bouncers wherever he goes, such is the hysteria of the selfie-seekers who hound him. His sessions are always standing room only. And woe betide the author who is unfortunate enough to have a session scheduled the same time as Tharoor. He or she will have to sit in a half-empty hall, while the audiences surges to listen to Shashi. (I should know; last year, I was one of these unfortunate authors!)

• Books are the main attraction here, for sure. But people-watching comes a close second. There is such a cross-section of humanity here that you can be entertained for hours just watching the crowds. There are the grey-haired worthies, who always sit in the front rows and clamour to ask questions at the end of every session. There are the young girls who have turned out in their Sunday best, teetering along on heels that were not made for walking on lawns. There are the journalists, scurrying after ‘celebrities’, trying to coax a ‘quote’ out of them for their papers and digital outlets. And then, there are the authors themselves, trying gamely to navigate the kind of attention they hardly ever get in the real world. It’s as good as watching a show. 

• And then, there are the parties: held in one impossibly glamorous Jaipur location after another every night, culminating in the Writers Ball, which ends the Festival. There is music; there is dance; and so much fun is had by all. And then, it’s time to pack away those glittering outfits, until it’s time to play at being rock stars again the following year. 

One year of Covid

Here’s what has kept me going these past 12 months

 

As I sit down to write this column, it is exactly one year since we first went into a Covid-induced lockdown. As anniversaries go, this one is pretty grim, mostly because the virus is still alive and well and kicking our ass. After a brief period during which cases went down – inducing hope and optimism among us all – the counts are going up every day, thanks to the various variants that are spreading rapidly among the population. 

 

But even as we struggle to see light at the end of this particular tunnel, I think it makes sense to pause and give thanks to what sustained us as we lived through a pandemic. So, here, in no particular order of importance, is a list of all that I am thankful for this past year.

 

·       My book project: If I hadn’t had a writing project to focus on, I think the enforced isolation of the past year would have driven me mad. But, as luck would have it, I was halfway through the sequel to my political thriller, Race Course Road, when Covid struck. So, I could use the time that I was sequestered at home to concentrate on finishing my book. And that’s exactly what I did, spending every afternoon hunched over my laptop, furiously writing and revising. I am happy to report that I am all done now, and my new novel will be out by the end of the year – by when, with luck, Covid will have run its course, and I can actually promote it in person rather than on Zoom. Well, here’s hoping, anyway.

 

·       My Kindle: If writing sustained one part of me, reading kept the other half stimulated. And I couldn’t have done that without my trusty Kindle during those dark months when bookshops were shut and the only way to access new releases was to download them on an e-reader. Once I was done with new titles, I fell back on my comfort reads, scouring for old titles that had kept me entertained during my school and college days. That meant everything from Enid Blyton’s Mallory Towers series (yes, really!) to some of my favourite Georgette Heyers to such classics as Nora Ephron’s Heartburn.

 

·       Mini-breaks: After many months spent in lockdown, it felt like a special treat to head out for a mini-break, even if it was to destinations that were a few hours’ drive away. Even cities like Jaipur and Agra that we tend to take for granted in normal times, took on an exotic hue in my travel-starved eyes, as we ventured forth from home after being cooped up for what felt like forever. And it didn’t seem to matter that we spent our days within the confines of our hotel; it still felt like a lucky escape to an alternate universe so that we could return refreshed to our normal, humdrum lives.

 

·       Walks in the parks: Mini-breaks are well and good, but a girl also needs something to break the tedium of the normal workday. And if that girl is lucky enough to live in Delhi, then a walk in the park is just the ticket. Over the last few months, I have marked the end of my writing time by slipping on my sneakers, pulling on my mask and heading out to one of the many parks that litter Delhi. There are about four on my list and I alternate my walks between them, varying my route every day so that I have fresh vistas to gaze on, varied flowers to smell, and different monuments to marvel at. Without that blast of fresh air to blow my workday woes away, I don’t think I could have coped. 

 

There was much else that sustained me, of course. The companionship of my husband; the love and embrace of family; the supportiveness of friends. But most of all, it was the hope that we would all see better days soon.   

 

Page-turners

There’s nothing quite like a good book to get you through these trying times; so here are some recommendations

As the days go by and I remain confined at home for the most part, I seek solace in other worlds. Sometimes it is through travel and food shows that take me to destinations I can’t visit. At others, it is by scrolling through the Instagram feeds of friends who share my passion for travel, and revisiting their old posts. But more often than not, I venture into different worlds by simply picking up a book and reading.

Okay, make that picking up my Kindle and reading. Over the past couple of months, when bookshops and physical books have not been available to us, I have taken to downloading the latest titles and reading them on my devices (I even have the Kindle app downloaded on my phone). And unlike book snobs who insist that they need the actual feel, touch, smell and whatever else of a book, the printed word on a screen serves me just fine.

As I have written earlier, I started off the lockdown by trying to read worthy books, which required oodles of concentration, so that I could make best use of the stretches of empty time that I now had to negotiate. That didn’t last long. As my anxiety about the pandemic grew, so did my inability to digest new and complicated information. So, I fell back on my comfort reads, the books that have sustained me for years now, seeking refuge in the words of my favourite authors.

Well, that phase – lovely though it was while it lasted – ended a few weeks back, once I realized that lockdown was going to be a way of life now. And slowly and cautiously, I dipped my toes into the waters of new releases, starting off with some light fiction, graduating to memoirs, and taking in biographies along the way.

So here, based on my own recent reading, is a list of books that I enjoyed reading – and that you may want to read as well.

Rodham: A Novel by Curtis Sittenfeld

What if Hillary Rodham had turned down Bill Clinton when he asked her to marry him? How would her life and career have developed if she hadn’t been weighed down by her husband’s serial infidelities? Would Bill Clinton still have become President of the United States if he didn’t have Hillary by his side? This book tries to answer these questions, retelling the story of Hillary from the time she met Bill in college. The first half of the book can get a bit tedious because it goes over events we know all too well. But the second half, in which Sittenfeld’s imagination takes flight, more than makes up for it.

The Art Of Her Deal: The Untold Story of Melania Trump by Mary Jordan

Melania Trump, the First Lady of the United States of America, has often been described as the most famous unknown person in the world. Mary Jordan, in this painstakingly researched biography, tried to fill in the portrait of Melania with details from her childhood in Slovenia, her modeling days in Milan, her arrival in America as a little-known model, and how she finally made it to the White House, on the arm of her husband. Even if you’re no fan of the Trumps, this insightful book, written in a relaxed, easy style, should keep you entertained.

The Mirror And The Light by Hilary Mantel

Okay, it pains me to say this but say it I must. This last installment of Mantel’s trilogy – after Wolf Hall and Bring Up The Bodies – is not a patch on the two earlier books. Unlike the two others, which were sparkling and effervescent, this one seems stodgy in parts and entirely too weighed under by extraneous details about the Tudor court. But don’t give up after a couple of chapters. If you persist, you will be rewarded by a book that not only brings Oliver Cromwell to life but takes him to his death as well.

Lady In Waiting: My Extraordinary Life In The Shadow of the Crown by Anne Glenconner

I picked up this book thinking it would be a light and easy read, written as it was by the lady in waiting to Princess Margaret, Anne Glenconner, whose husband, Colin Tennant was the man behind the development of the island of Mustique. But what I found was a searing tale of love and loss, written by a woman who has endured more adversity and bereavement in her world of privilege than you could possibly imagine. That she remains optimistic and upbeat despite all she has gone through, and that she has managed to write a book that sings and soars is a remarkable achievement.

The Mothers: Five Women. Five Secrets. One Missing Husband by Sarah J Naughton

If you are looking for a nice, light read, that delivers a few surprises along the line, then you can’t go wrong with this one. The Mothers refers to five women who meet in their antenatal group but remain good friends even three years later, catching up with each other’s lives during boozy evenings. Everything falls apart, however, when one of their husbands goes missing and the police are called in. The ladies band together as the investigation begins but cracks soon start showing up as the book builds up to a surprising reveal. If you liked Big Little Lies, you will love this (as will Reese Witherspoon, if she hasn’t already bought the film rights!)

  

Comfort reading

Trust me, it’s the best way of keeping calm and carrying on in the midst of a lockdown

Whenever I am going through a period of stress – and it will surprise precisely no one that this lockdown period has been a unique stressor – I always seek succor in my comfort reads. 

You know what I mean, right? Comfort reads are those books that transport me to better worlds, minutely imagined parallel universes, where all problems have resolutions, and every loose end can be niftily tied at the end of the narrative. These are books I have re-read so often that I know some of the dialogue by heart and yet the punchlines leave me chuckling each time. And these are the books that I have been turning to, to keep my spirits up, during this enforced stay-at-home period.

I am happy to report that they have done the trick quite nicely. I usually spend about an hour or so with them in the late afternoon after I have done my writing for the day and need to decompress. And I turn to them last thing at night, when I read myself to sleep. And they soothe and calm me much more than actual meditation ever does.

So, on the off chance that you may benefit from this remedy too, here’s my list of go-to books and authors. I hope they bring you the same comfort they do to me.

• I have always been a fan of Margaret Atwood, but it had been a long time since I read her seminal work, The Handmaid’s Tale. But after bingeing on the three seasons of the TV show on Amazon Prime, I had this irresistible urge to go back and re-read the book the series was based on. And I am ever so glad that I did. The sparse prose, the easy cadences, and the effortless grace of Atwood’s writing left me in awe yet again. To read this book is to see the author at the height of her powers. And marvel once more at the imagination from which the dystopian world of Gilead sprung, fully-formed and full of horror.

• The other TV series that sent me scurrying back to the book it was based on was Little Fires Everywhere on Hotstar. I had read Celeste Ng’s bestseller when it was first published but given that my memory is like a sieve these days, going back to it was like reading a new book. So, I could appreciate afresh the universe that Ng had created, with two intertwined families at the centre of the narrative, which spooled in a direction that was entirely unexpected. The show has deviated at many seminal points from the book, so even if you have seen the series, the book will still provide you with many surprises.

• I had mentioned in my last column that I intended to explore the entire oeuvre of Elizabeth George, to chart the progress of Inspector Lynley and Barbara Havers’ careers as they went about solving murders across the decades. I have since begun reading A Great Deliverance, the very first Inspector Lynley mystery, which came out way back in 1988, and I am astonished to see just how much the characters have evolved since then. In this book, for instance, Lynley is portrayed as a dashing ladies man, who has slept with most of the women in his department, and Lady Helen Clyde is described as his ‘longest-running mistress’. As someone who rejoiced at their wedding and (spoiler alert coming up!) and cried tears at Helen’s passing, this throwback was startling to say the least.

• As regular readers will know, whenever I need cheering up, my go-to author is Georgette Heyer. Her Regency romances have been a staple of my comfort reading list ever since my teenage years – and that hasn’t changed even though I am now well into my middle age. This time round, I first sought refuge in Venetia, in which the heroine of the title falls prey to the charms of a well-practiced rake, only to win his heart – and his hand – in the end. And then, I dived right into The Grand Sophy, in which the redoubtable heroine re-arranges the lives of all those around her, much to their consternation and my delight. 

• Now that I am cooking more than ever, given that there is no other way to put food on the table, I keep dipping into food books to find inspiration (not recipe books, I am afraid, because I like to make things up as I go along, rather than follow in well-trodden paths). Some of the books that have provided food for thought in this period are Salt Fat Acid Heat by Samin Nosrat (she has a show by the same name on Netflix, which you could check out), Pasta Pane Vino by Matt Goulding, and closer home, The Flavour of Spice by my old friend Marryam H. Reshii. I like to think that the information I have gleaned from these worthy tomes has made me a better cook – the botched experiments, needless to say, are entirely of my own making.

If you too want to read yourself out of a lockdown-induced depression, then I can’t recommend comfort reading enough. Start with some of the books I have recommended, or find your own. But do read for a couple of hours every day – and no peeking at your phone while you do it. Believe me, it will make a world of difference to your day.

Story time

Here’s a list of my best reads of 2018 – happy reading!

This is the last time I get to talk to you this year. The next time I appear on these pages, we will be into 2019. But before I wish you a Happy New Year, I would like to share some of my happier moments of 2018 with you. And – as some of you may have guessed – they revolved around reading.

So here, in no particular order of importance, are some of my best reads of 2018. If you haven’t read them already, pick up a copy and enjoy them over the holiday season. And Happy Reading to all of you!

Becoming, Michelle Obama

This is, quite simply, a brilliant book. By now, everyone knows the highlights of Michelle Obama’s life. But what this elegant, evocative, and extremely frank autobiography gives us is the real woman behind the image. The young girl who grew up with so little and yet managed to go to Princeton and Harvard. The high-flying lawyer who gave up her big-bucks job to do something more meaningful. And then there is her love story with Barack Obama, the man who would change the course of her life, told with a sometimes startling honesty.

The Other Woman, Daniel Silva

Gabriel Allon, one of my favourite fictional spies, is back in the centre of action in this new thriller. The plot will seem familiar to dedicated readers of spy fiction. There is a mole (a double agent) ensconced in the higher ranks of the British intelligence service. And the only way to identify this mole is by raiding the memories of an old woman who is the key to the mystery. But Allon is more than equal to the task, though it does take its toll on his tired and ageing bones.

Lethal White, Robert Galbraith

While this book could have done with a little editing given that it runs to some 600-odd pages (but then, who would dare take a pencil to the work of the great JK Rowling, writing here as Robert Galbraith?), it still qualifies as a great read. The novel-like spread allows the characters of Cormoran Strike and his partner Robin Ellacott to develop in complexity and scope. So much so that you don’t really mind that the murder mystery at the heart of the story takes a long time coming.

Lullaby, Leila Slimani

This is not an easy read. The book opens on a murder scene. Two children are dead, at the hand of their nanny, their bodies discovered by the mother. The novel then goes back in time, tracing the events that led to this bloody, macabre scene. How did a nanny who seemed devoted to her charges end up killing them? What were the petty humiliations and snubs that turned her against those she was meant to love and protect? You will be chilled to the core as you read on, but this is not a book you can put down no matter how much it breaks your heart.

The Wife Between Us, Greer Hendrcks and Sarah Pekkanen

On the face of it, this is a book about a jealous ex-wife who is obsessed with the fact that her ex-husband is in love with and about to marry a much younger women. But as you read on – and I will post no spoilers here – you will discover that nothing is quite as it seems. And the twist in the tale is guaranteed to take your breath away.

Ladder of Years, Anne Tyler

Delia Grinstead seems to have a great life with a doctor husband, three children, and a lovely home (even though it is being rather noisily renovated). And the family is going off for a beach holiday, along with her sisters and nieces. So, why does Delia walk away from the beach – wearing just a swimsuit and robe, carrying a tote bag with 500 dollars in it – and keep going till she reaches a small town where she can start a new life? You are going to have to read this one to find out.

Broken Ground, Val McDermid

This book marks the return of one of my favourite female fictional detectives, DCI Karen Pirie. The book opens with Pirie still in the depths of grief about her dead lover, which she attempts to walk off every night by tramping the streets of Edinburgh. That’s before she’s drawn into a cold case, when a body is dug up in a remote spot in the Highlands. But, of course, as is usual with McDermid, things soon take an unexpected turn. And Pirie had to use all her wits to come to grips with not one but two killers.

Remnants of a Separation, Aanchal Malhotra

We have had many books that tell the story of India’s Partition through the lived memories of people. But this is the first book that tells that story through the medium of the objects that people carried with them as they made the often-bloody crossing to India from what is now Pakistan. Malhotra draws out these stories with ease and retells them with the empathy that owes something to the fact that she belongs to a Partition family herself.

I could go on but as you can see, I have run out of space. So, here are just a few honourable mentions: The Word is Murder by Anthony Horowitz; Fear by Bob Woodward; and Anatomy Of A Scandal by Sarah Vaughan.

The book's the thing

How to turn your child into a reader

Last week, my eldest niece’s daughter turned 13 (in case you’re wondering, my sister is 16 years older than I am!) and all our thoughts turned to buying her the perfect present to mark her transformation into a teenager. After being presented with a plethora of choices – Handbag? Shoes? Earrings? Clothes? – Hitee made her decision. 

All she wanted for her birthday was books. And not just the kind that you can download on Kindle. She wanted actual, physical books made of paper and glue, the ones that come with beautiful covers that you can gaze at admiringly, and the smell that transports to mythical worlds far away from your everyday reality.

So, that’s what all of us gave her: books. And her joy as she laid eyes on each one was quite something to behold.

Truth be told, it took me back to my own childhood and teenage years, when I lived for the times when I could get hold of a new book. In my case, the few books I owned were supplemented by the school library, and those in turn were supplemented by the lending library that my mother had signed me on for. So, it felt good to see that the Goswami reading gene had been transmitted to another generation, even if it had skipped one generation in the process (the only reading my niece does is Whatsapp forwards; I exaggerate, of course, but only by a bit). 

But more importantly, it made me delirious with joy to see that at least some young people were still into books and treated reading like a pleasure rather than a chore. I can only hope and pray that their tribe increases year after year.

But that increase won’t happen in the absence of effort on the part of the responsible adults in the lives of these children. The joy of reading needs to be inculcated at an early age, and then fed on a steady diet of good books if it is not to die out by adulthood. And parents and family members can play an important role in this regard.

So, what should you do if you want the child in your life to grow up to be a reader? Well, here are a few pointers that have stood me in good stead all these years. Maybe they would work for you as well.

Start them young

And by that, I mean very young indeed. Read to your baby even if it seems as if she doesn’t understand anything at all. Sing aloud to her from books of rhymes. Introduce her to the different animals in the books you read. As she grows older, this routine will be so familiar to her that she will regard books as an integral part of playtime. And she will soon be clamouring to be read to, not just at night as a bedtime ritual, but also during the day. 


Make reading fun

When your kids are younger, you can keep them amused with pop-up books, so that they can physically touch the castles they are reading about and gaze at the princesses who live within them. When they learn to read themselves, make them read one page while you read the next. As they grow older, you can involve them in the storytelling itself. Break off at an interesting point one evening and ask them to come up with their own version of what happened next by the morning. That will not just make them more invested in the stories but will also boost their imagination and enhance their creativity.

Bond over shared favourites

Half the pleasure of reading to your children stems from the joy of rediscovering your own childhood favourites – and seeing how they speak to you now that you are all grown up. There will be plenty of books from your own childhood that will not make the cut in this era of political correctness, but some perennial favourites are just the thing to bond over (as in, if Noddy seems too racist, then stick to the Five Find-Outers). There is no greater satisfaction than seeing your kids fall in love with the fictional characters that were your own best friends growing up. And in seeing them immersed in the same stories that were the staple of your childhood reading. 

Broaden their horizons

That said, the world has now expanded far beyond Enid Blyton and Nancy Drew (yes, yes, I know, one is an author, the other a fictional character) and there is an entire new universe of children’s fiction out there. Explore that along with your child, discover new worlds together, marvel at the plethora of diverse characters that exists in kids’ fiction today. Introduce them to mythological tales from all across the world. Buy them translations of children’s books from other countries and cultures. It is never too early to teach them that we live in a big, wide world, in which people of all shapes, colours, creeds and beliefs exist. But that, no matter what their differences and however diverse their stories, they are all united by the universal themes of love, peace and acceptance.

Do not disturb

We all need some me-time to get through the day; don’t apologize for it

The hours of two to four in the afternoon were sacrosanct in my childhood home, ever since I can remember. The moment the clock struck two, my mother – having finished the lunch shift in the kitchen – would retire to her bedroom and shut the door on the world. She would emerge from her siesta at 4 pm sharp, to get tea and snacks for the whole household.

But for those two hours, she was not available for anyone or anything. That was her time. And all of us kids – and the adults – understood full well that to knock on her door during this period for any reason whatsoever would bring the wrath of the Gods upon our heads.

As a child, I lived for this interlude in the day. This was the time that I could sneak out with my neighbourhood friends for a bit of rough and tumble. And so long as I got myself back home at five minutes to four, all would be well. No matter what misadventures I got up to, my mom would be none the wiser.

So as far as I was concerned, this two-hour hiatus was the highlight of the day, when I could roam unsupervised, read books that I had expressly been forbidden from touching, and generally get up to no good at all.

It’s only now that I am all grown-up and my mother has departed from this world that I think back on how precious that time must have been for her.

This was a woman who looked after a large joint family with minimal help. She cooked three meals for the household everyday (and separate food for my grandmother, who did not eat onions or garlic). She looked after two ageing in-laws, one husband, and three kids. She ironed our uniforms, got our school lunches ready, and made sure that we had done our homework. She woke early in the morning to get us off to school and then stayed up late making us strong cups of tea so that we could study late into the night.

But in the course of each mad, maddening day, she had the good sense to carve out a moment of time for herself. To this day, I don’t know what she did during those two hours. Did she have a little nap to refresh herself for the rigors of evening kitchen duty? Did she use this time to catch up on her reading? Did she sit cross-legged on the floor and meditate? Or did she do all of this – and more? I simply don’t know.

The only thing that is clear to me, with the benefit of hindsight, that it was those two hours that enabled my mother to get through the rest of the day, where she did not have a minute to call her own. It was that tiny interlude of peace and solitude that allowed her to retain her sanity. It was that breather that gave her a second wind to carry her through to the night. It was that me-time, or as some like to call it, alone-time, that gave a still point to her ever-spinning day.

Even without realizing it, I have incorporated that same habit into my own life. Just like my mother, I crave a few hours of solitude during the day, when I can be alone with my thoughts, maybe catch up on my reading, or just go for walk and empty my mind of all the clutter and white noise of modern life.

Unlike my mother, I don’t have fixed hours in the day to do that. But then, unlike her, I don’t have the demands of in-laws or a brood of children to contend with, and nor do I have an extended family to build my schedule around. Working for myself, as I do, I have the flexibility to steal a few hours out of every day for myself alone. And it is that luxury of me-time that allows me to get through even the most stressful of days without feeling overwhelmed.

No matter how hectic the day has been, if I can steal an hour at bedtime to read a few chapters of a good book, I go to sleep quite content with my lot. Even if I have a writing deadline weighing on me (in fact, especially when I have a writing deadline weighing one me), I still take the time to step away from my desk and go for a walk. And unlike my mother – who cooked so much and so often that it turned into a chore – I often end a long day by cooking a meal for my husband and myself, the gentle rhythm of chopping and stirring serving as my own kind of meditation. 

Whenever I do that, I find my thoughts straying back to my mother and her two to four pm ‘siesta’. No matter how mad the whirl of life got, she knew that she needed that time to make herself whole. And she took that time for herself, without apology, without explanation, and without the slightest trace of shame.

How I wish more women followed her lead, practicing self-care with the same patience and affection that they bestow on the care of others. Not only would they be happier for it, but so would their families.

The book's the thing

The story behind my first novel – a thriller set in the world of Indian politics

You know how the joke goes. Everybody has a book inside them – and in most cases that is where it should stay.

Well, it’s too late for me now. My book is already out, rolling hot off the presses, and available on Amazon and at all good bookshops near you. As for whether it was better inside me or out in the world, well, there’s only one way to decide that question. Buy a copy and make up your own mind!

Sorry for that bit of shameless self-promotion but perhaps you can indulge me just this once. I am still giddy with delight, having unpacked the box containing the first hardback copies of my novel, Race Course Road (Aleph Book Company). Since you ask, it’s a thriller set in the world of Indian politics and deals with the aftermath of a Prime Minister’s assassination. Most of the action centers around Lutyens’ Delhi and the Prime Minister’s residence on Race Course Road – hence the title. (Yes, yes, I know, it’s now called Lok Kalyan Marg; but you have to admit that doesn’t have the same ring when it comes to book titles.)

So, here I am, with a silly grin that refuses to move off my face, and a mind that refuses to think of (let alone write about) anything other than my book. Did I mention it was called Race Course Road?

Over the last week or so, ever since the book went on sale and I began the never-ending process of trying to flog it, I have been asked the same questions both in real life and on social media by those who have picked up a copy. 

The first one inevitably is: why did I decide to write a thriller set in the world of Indian politics? 

That one’s easy. As all those advice manuals keep telling you, ‘write what you know’. And, for better or for worse, this was what I knew. I first started writing about Indian politics way back in the late 80s and early 90s, when India was going through a political churn like no other, with one unstable coalition taking over from the other. 

Despite the fact that I was straight out of college, with no real experience of either journalism or politics, I found myself thrown into the deep end, being sent off to interview Prime Ministers (VP Singh and Chandra Shekhar) on their first day in South Block, resulting in page-one bylines that I cherish to this day. I followed such stalwarts as Madhavrao Scindia on the campaign trail, driving with him in a rickety Ambassador car through dusty villages and sleepy small towns, feasting on the stories he regaled me with. And I interviewed everyone from Atal Behari Vajpayee to Kamal Nath to Uma Bharati, as I climbed up the ranks at work.

As luck would have it, I developed a certain familiarity with the Race Course Road complex over the years as well, visiting it both in a professional and personal capacity. The workings of the place fascinated me: the security set-up that ensured that no guest was ever left unaccompanied; the many different channels of entry in place for people with different levels of clearance (a ‘green-channel entry’, for instance, meant that no record was ever kept of your visit); the air of inviolable privacy it exuded. 

It was this fascination, in part, that led me to base most of my book in RCR (and to name it Race Course Road). It seemed a bit odd to me that most Indians have no idea how RCR is actually laid out, even though so many Prime Ministers have lived and worked there. Unlike the White House, that conducts tours so that ordinary citizens can walk through the seat of government in America, the RCR complex is out of bounds for most of us. 

Very few people even realize that 7 Race Course Road, the official address of the Indian Prime Minister, is not where he actually lives; it’s the office complex where his secretariat is stationed, where meetings are conducted, where the Cabinet sometimes meets, and where foreign dignitaries come to call on him. Over the years, Prime Ministers have lived in either Number 3 or Number 5 Race Course Road, while Number 9 has been taken over by the SPG, and Number 1 by a helipad. 

But while the book is set squarely in the real world, none of the characters in it are based on real life people – to answer the second most frequently asked question. Yes, I know that’s not going to deter those who are determined to find parallels with real life but for what it’s worth, here’s my disclaimer: all the characters are figments of my imagination, and have no existence outside of my own mind. 

And as for that perennial query: how does one keep going at writing a book when the end doesn’t appear in sight? Well, the answer is pretty simple. Take things one day at a time. Make sure you get at least 500 words down every day. Write even if the words are not coming (you can always edit – or even delete – the day after). Read good books to get inspired. Read bad books to feel better about your own writing. And write, write, write, until the damn thing is done!

Dishing it out

What I hate about eating in fancy restaurants

There are many things to love about eating in big, fancy restaurants. There are the crisp white tablecloths, gleaming with the promise of a good meal. There is the smartly-uniformed wait staff, with nary a soiled shirtfront or stained trouser in sight. There is the soft whisper of muted conversation, the discreet tinkle of wine glasses, the occasional clunk of the silverware, all of it adding up to an atmosphere of temple-like calm – all the better for you to enjoy an outstanding meal served up by the presiding deity in the kitchen.

What’s not to love, right?

Right.

But even at the risk of sounding like a churlish grump, I have to confess that there are many, many things I absolutely loath about dining experiences like the one detailed above. 

First off, is the overbearing attention. From the time you enter to the moment you depart, there isn’t a single moment when you feel truly alone, enjoying a lovely meal or a special occasion with your loved ones. There is always someone infringing into your personal space or lurking within earshot to listen in to your conversation. And it is impossible to go 10 minutes without someone asking if your dish was okay, if you’re having a good time, if you’d like something else. The much-touted concept of the dining ‘bubble’, the sacrosanct space within which no server should intrude, is something that very few fancy restaurants seem to understand or respect.

So, if anyone who runs or works in such an establishment is reading this, here’s a handy list of the many things I hate about eating out in fancy restaurants. 

• Waiters who rush up the moment you are seated, unfurl the napkin lying in front of you and place it, with a flourish, on your lap. There are so many things wrong with this scenario is that I don’t quite know where to begin. There’s the assumption that you can’t perform a simple task like unfurling your own napkin. There’s the intrusion into your personal space, when your server’s hand are perilously close to your bosom/stomach/groin area. And there’s the aspect of hygiene: why would I want that pristine cloth that is about to be placed on my lap to be touched by someone else? (The last one is probably just me and my OCD speaking.)

• The first question you are asked when you have been seated and ‘napkin-ed’ invariably is: “Still or sparkling?” Or, if the establishment is even more pretentious than most, the question comes coached in terms of “Evian or Perrier?” I have yet to visit an expensive restaurant that offers you tap water as an alternative. If you want tap water – which is perfectly safe in such establishments – you have to ask for it. And they are depending on the fact that you will be too embarrassed to ask (for fear of being seen as a cheapskate) to make a profit on every sip you take. Which is why I make it a point to do so.

• Food served in shallow bowls or plates with a rim. As far as I am concerned, the only thing that should come in a bowl is soup, or at a pinch, a risotto. Anything that requires cutting with a knife and fork should come in a plate; because there is nothing quite as awkward as trying to cut a piece of meat or fish in a shallow bowl which wobbles precariously with each attempt. And no plates with a raised rim please. When I place my fork and knife on the plate between bites, I have a reasonable expectation that they will stay in place, not clatter off and fall on the floor. It’s embarrassing for me, and more work for the wait staff if they do. So, just stick to simple, old-style plates, and we’ll do just fine.

• Upselling everything, from the aperitif to the wine to the overpriced lobster. This is especially galling when you see your host being press-ganged into ordering pink champagne as a pre-dinner drink, or an expensive bottle of red/white, even though he was looking for a bargain. And waiters/managers who push your guests towards the Beluga caviar when asked to recommend something deserve a special place in dining hell.

• When I visit a restaurant what I want is a good meal without a side-order of freezing-to-death. But no matter what the season, you can be sure that the temperature in a fancy restaurant will be Arctic in nature. If you complain, three members of staff will come and offer you a shawl (“We have pashminas in every shade for our lady guests”). Surely it would be simpler to just turn up the temperature on the AC controls. But no, that seems a step too fair. It’s the pashmina or perishing in the cold. Take your pick.

• Sometimes when I come out to lunch or dinner with a book, I really am looking forward to reading that book. But to the wait staff at a restaurant, I just look like a sad, lonely soul, who has been reduced to eating out alone. So, they gamely – and I am sure, with the best of intentions – try and sit in for my missing friends, making small talk as I eat my meal. And no matter how monosyllabic my replies or how discouraging my body language, they persist with their conversational gambits. But guys, I really am okay being on my own. And I really would like to read my book. In peace. With no interruptions. Though another glass of that pink champagne would be just great.

Fine print

The story of our lives is intricately bound with the books we read along the way

There are some people who find cooking therapeutic. They love the mechanical peeling, chopping, cutting, grinding that allows them to switch off from the work day. They enjoy the meditative process of stirring the pot and watching their labours evolve into a dish that their family can enjoy. They love the rituals involved in putting a meal together.

I am not one of these people. What I find therapeutic is rearranging my bookshelves ever so often. Well, okay, now that you mention it, I do suffer from a mild form of OCD, but that’s neither here nor there (not there! Move it an inch to the right. Ah, that’s much better!) I find joy in going through my books, cataloguing them under categories and arranging them according to size or subject matter depending on my mood.

But ever so often I find myself distracted by a book I haven’t picked up in years. I start to leaf through it, and before I know it I am engulfed by memories: of the time I bought it, where I was when I first read it, the friend I lent it to, the discussions we had about it.

See, that’s the thing about books. They don’t just tell a story, they become stories in themselves. A whole history develops around them in your mind. They spark memories, they evoke emotions, they make you happy, they make you sad. They become the stuff of nostalgia.

And that’s before you even start to re-read them. Then, there’s the pleasure of coming across a line that made such an impact on you the first time you read it. There’s the added bonus of concentrating on language, style, characterization and plotting, because you are not intent on galloping to the end (you already know how the story goes). There are those rare moments when an oft-read book yields up new gems of wisdom because you are now in a different stage of your life. And then, there’s the added poignancy of reading an author who is now dead, but still speaks to you from beyond the grave. (Picking up a P.D. James at random, I stumble upon her meditations on the best kind of death, and I start to wonder if she achieved that in her own life.)

I glance through the memoirs of Cherie Blair and am struck by the impermanence of politics; less than ten years after it was written Speaking For Myself already seems dated and of little historical relevance. I start reading Jodi Kantor’s book on the Obamas, and wonder why this collection of tittle-tattle once removed made such an impact at the time.

And then, there’s the ‘What was I Thinking’ section. Did I really pay good money to buy a hardback copy of Judith Krantz’s Dazzle? It’s hard to believe that I was so young and so stupid at any time? Why on earth do I have so many Jackie Collins paperbacks, when I have no recollection of reading a single one? I must have done so, since my motto is to leave no book unread on my shelves. But, as I glance briefly through one, I can’t comprehend why I ever wasted my time on this drivel.

But I am happy to report that I wasn’t always stupid when I was young. My well-thumbed copy of To Kill A Mockingbird stands testament to that, as do the tattered pages of Gerald Durrell’s My Family and Other Animals (which still reduces me to tears of laughter, no matter how many times I read it). My copy of Truman Capote’s Breakfast At Tiffany’s may be falling apart but the tale of Holly Golightly remains as fresh and effervescent as ever with every re-reading.

I wander into the next room to visit my collection of Agatha Christie (every book she ever wrote) and I am transported back to the high ceilinged room that was my school library, where I first discovered the queen of mystery writing. The book was The Ordeal of Innocence, and I still remember the edge-of-the-seat suspense I felt as I raced to the utterly-unexpected end, reading by torchlight in my bedroom so that nobody could tell I was up way past my bedtime.

It was my early love for Christie that led to my subsequent discovery of – and pleasure in – such suspense writers as Val McDermid, Elizabeth George, Donna Leon, Minette Walters, and yes, P.D. James. The lone copy of Dorothy L. Sayers bears mute testimony to the fact that I tried – and failed – to get into the adventures of her creation, the perfectly named Lord Peter Wimsey.

I made much the same journey with the spy thriller genre, and that is dutifully recorded on my books shelves. I came to it via John Le Carre, starting with The Spy Who Came In From The Cold, written before I was born, and going on to such classics as Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, and Smiley’s People. My appetite suitably whetted, I went on to feast on Charles McCarry’s tales of super spy Paul Christopher (if you haven’t read him yet, do read the books in order; I didn’t and still bitterly regret it), and then went on to revel in the tales of Israeli spy/assassin Gabriel Allon (though I must confess I am now beginning to tire of Daniel Silva’s increasingly formulaic take on the spy novel).

But whatever my current views on authors and books, I could never bear to give away a single title. These books don’t just tell the stories that the authors wrote; they are also the story of my life so far.