Indian novels - there are the moony, mournful, melancholic, meandering ones like The God of Small Things, The Inheritance of Loss, The Clear Light of Day – they all win awards - and there are the rackety, ratatat, bang-up-to-the-minute, slangy, bawling brawling middle of a traffic jam ones like Slumdog Millionaire and The White Tiger and this one. They all get made into films. Well, this one hasn’t yet but it exudes a confidence that says it’s only a matter of months and I believe it.
The first sort include many droopy recollections of the grand days of a family now in terminal decline, money nearly all gone, boo hoo. These are stories told by women. The second sort are rags to riches tales told by a motormouth chancer who is going to tell his unlikely story at breakneck speed until you or him keels over from exhaustion. These are stories told by men.
The title How to Kidnap the Rich gives it away – our genre here is satirical comedy caper, and our tone is full-on caustic loathing of all things Indian. Sample nasty comment – referring to the bad parts of Old Delhi :
Where people lived like gnats on a lemur’s ballsack, where everyone was missing teeth or organs or legs and nothing got better even as the GDPs and the HDIs were going up, up, up all over United Nations Powerpoint slides.
Rahul Raina is an equal opportunities insulter, so naturally the rich will get the sharp end of his tongue too :
In a few years he’d turn into his dad and hate himself until he died. You know, the normal life-cycle of the upper-class Indian male.
Ramesh, our narrator, is upfront about his bad attitude :
My hate could have made India the world’s leader in renewable energy.
He likes to editorialise about India in ways which can take your breath away :
You can’t say anything nice about your parents. That’s the first commandment of being Indian.
or
We Indians are the horniest people on the internet, as any comment section on any video will tell you. We crowd around women, be beg for attention, we will even ask nymphs in sixteenth-century frescoes for their phone numbers.
He loves to shoot from the hip. His industrial strength projectile sneering can happen at any time :
We turned up to a glass-windowed office. The receptionists were white. That’s how I knew I’d really made it.
or
He looked full of charity and joy and other things that make no money.
MORE FUN WITH YOUR SIMILES
One of the things I love to do with modern novels is collect the outrageous similes that authors love to spice their prose with – here are some favourites.
He was totally disarmed, like Pakistan after a war.
I had been squeezing my head fuller than a three-child family on a motorbike
Staring at us like an uncle at a wedding buffet that’s run out of butter chicken
His face expressing terror…like he had just accidentally beaten his boss at the golf course
We would be welcomed like sons returning without white girlfriends from MIT
She was busier than our civil servants are in January editing government websites to remove any mention of last year’s targets (Wins the prize for the most convoluted simile!)
I should stop now or this review will be like one of those damned film trailers that include all the best jokes.
DID YOU LIKE IT?
The first third of this novel is terrific – line after line of great comedy (if you like it bitter). Unfortunately the kidnapping plot then takes over – yes, there is actual kidnapping here, and there are tough guys who say shit like
Tell Pratap to put the knife down, madarchod, or I’m giving your sweet rasgulla one in the balls.
And shoved into the middle of it all like an undercover cop at a BLM rally there is a tiresomely winsome Love Story, naturally, since this will be a film and we need one of those. The loved one is alas straight from central casting. There are two or three cardboard villains, of course. Everything in its rightful place. But as the plot sent the characters ricocheting around Delhi like seismographs in a tsunami the author seemed to run out of killer one-liners and I couldn’t care enough about the villains to want them to suffer. I wanted to like this way more than I did. But that’s me. Mr Hard to Please.