Words From Vaish

Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine Gail Honeyman                                HarperCollins Publishers 2017                                                                       386 Pages Norman Bates of Psycho infamy had to live with the malign specter of “Mother” that drove him to murder. The eponymous Eleanor in Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine similarly labors under the ghost of poisonously murderous “Mummy” – but copes rather better than poor Norman ever did. At least, Eleanor never kills anyone. An abortive suicide attempt fortuitously interrupted doesn't count. Key to her survival (and relative sanity) are daily routines rigidly followed, her single-minded professionalism in an underpaid and thankless job as a finance administration assistant for a graphic arts agency and vodka-fueled weekends before the TV set in her Glasgow council flat. The British welfare state has much to commend it; one gets the feeling that had first-time author Gail Hon

I once rented an apartment in a pleasant residential block of flats in Dwarka sub-city, National Capital Region. The residents’ homes there were all equipped with washing machines that took care of the laundry. However, that still left the problem of the ironing. The busy working couples inhabiting the society seldom had the leisure or the stamina to perform this seemingly minor chore at the close of an often exhausting day. And as neatly pressed clothes were essential for a smart turnout in the office, the Residents Welfare Association misguidedly gave the contract for providing this service to a burly, surly native of eastern UP. Barrel-chested, with an incipient paunch to match, this gentleman gave the impression of resenting this employment as being beneath him. This was much too low; he was destined for greater things – which unfortunately never materialized (like Achche Din ). This resentment found expression in his “work”; he accepted clothes for pressing

A Murder On Malabar Hill Perveen Mistry Investigates Sujata Massey Penguin Books 2018                                                426 Pages There are some “whodunnits” that greatly benefit from a strong sense of place such as Sherlock Holmes’ fog-shrouded Victorian London of 1897 and the 1930s-1940s California of Raymond Chandler’s private eye Philip Marlowe.  Sujata Massey’s excellent A Murder On Malabar Hill set in 1920s colonial Bombay (now Mumbai) is just such a work. The sights, smells and sounds of this period are so richly evoked that this novel has the heft and feel of an epic, rather than just a simple mystery. The teeming city - with its evocative architecture and cuisine, its social interactions, complex ethnic politics, multi-faceted religious, caste and gender dynamics - is as much an actor as Ms. Massey’s varied cast of finely drawn characters.    Chief among these is Perveen Mistry, the only practicing woman solicitor in this fictional Bomb

War At The Edge Of The World Ian Ross Head Of Zeus 2015                                       387 Pages The long twilight of the Roman Empire during the period of late antiquity continues to exert a peculiar fascination on historians, novelists - and the reading public. Ian James Ross is the latest entrant in this field, with his military adventure War At The Edge Of The World set in Roman Britain during the twilight of the Tetrarchy (305 AD) and before the rise of the Emperor Constantine. The Tetrarchy was the reform inaugurated by the Emperor Diocletian in which the Roman Empire was divided into Eastern and Western provinces for administrative convenience, each ruled by an Emperor assisted by a junior colleague.   This system of four co-emperors held good for over twenty years before eventually breaking down. This action-packed, blood-spattered novel opens in June 298 AD at the battle of Oxsa in Central Armenia against the massed forces of the Persian

Looking down the slope, I could see the tiny figures of the people who’d opted for the short flight. Their parachutes were spread out behind them like saris drying out on a dhobi ghat . Their pilots were connecting the rigging lines to the tandem harnesses they’d use for paragliding. My family was somewhere down there but at that distance I couldn’t distinguish them from the ant-like figures milling around. I’d opted for the medium flight that could extend anywhere from seven to ten minutes. This required taking off from a higher altitude. A sturdy, shaggy hill pony had taken me up most of the way. Despite the smelly animal’s sure-footed way over the narrow mountain trail, I’d been apprehensive of falling off; especially when it balked midway up. The guide had encouraged me to whack its sides with my legs and that seemed to work. I had no wish to share the fate of the late Superman actor Christopher Reeve, who ended up a quadriplegic after a fall from a horse. Luckily, th

The Dog Defenders “The dogs have gone to their kin, the sons of dogs,” growled the Pathan scornfully. He had reasons for his displeasure. The prowling pack of pi-dogs that patrolled the main portal of the fort ranged in colour from a dirty jaundice-yellow to the dull khaki of the native regiment that manned it. These animals made surprise attacks and incursions difficult. A long time ago, a kindly cook from a bygone regiment had set out boiled leftover scraps from the cookhouse in a large terracotta plate for the dogs. This individual act of charity had since become a tradition set in stone. In the customary way of the Indian Army, cooks from the regiments that followed had continued the practice. They had even extended it, by adding a crude trough that was periodically filled with the dishwater left after cleaning utensils used in the mess. The dogs, while not allowed within the precincts of the fort, were very grateful for this particular amenity. Especially during

The Secrets Of Wishtide A Laetitia Rodd Mystery       Kate Saunders Bloomsbury 2017                                                              336 Pages England, 1850. Sherlock Holmes had the street urchin Wiggins and the Baker Street Irregulars to assist him in his cases. Frederick Tyson, a celebrated Victorian criminal barrister, has his sister, the redoubtable widow Mrs Laetitia Rodd. This relic of a much-loved archdeacon, the late Reverend Matthew Rodd, is not quite the harmless old biddy that she seems. Reduced to shabby genteel poverty by the passing of her husband, the resourceful Mrs Rodd avoids the usual fate of being a poor relation dependent on more prosperous relatives, by working as an independent private investigator for her much younger brother. As she says - “My work could be described as the Management and Prevention of Scandal (my brother used to enjoy making up facetious advertisements for my services – ‘Blushes Spared and Broken Commandme

Bus journeys in India usually leave one irritated, uncomfortable and bored... This one, courtesy UP State Tourism, was no different despite the “de luxe” tag. The air conditioning had broken down and the passengers – serving members of the armed forces and their dependents – were sloshing somnolently in their own sweat. Cramped, with both legs gone to sleep and a throbbing headache, my then 16-year-old self glumly contemplated a wasted weekend at a Corbett National Park overrun with day trippers scaring away the wildlife. As we approached Ramnagar, the situation began to look up. The dessicated plains with their forlorn stands of withered mango trees and scraggy eucalyptus   gave way to denser growths of Sal, Kikar and Mohua trees. It was very like being in some medieval European cathedral, with shafts of dim emerald light lancing dramatically through the vaults of the majestic trees as though filtered through stained glass windows. The cool scented air was better than a