“ GANDHI A SPIRITUAL JOURNEY”
WRITTEN BY M. V. KAMATH
PUBLISHER: INDUS SOURCE BOOKS
PRICE: RS 195.00
NO OF PAGES: 205

Type “Books on Gandhi” on an internet search engine and the response throws up no less than 1, 500, 000 sites! It’s anybody’s guess how many books there might be on offer at each site. Does the world need yet another book on a subject done to death? Surprising as this might sound, the answer is yes. This book might well occupy pride of place on my bookcase for a long time to come. While the book cover, the paper quality, the friendly font, the price and the presentation are all attractive, the selection of Gandhi’s own writings on the subject of spirituality is formidable and a treasure. Kamath’s simple style of expression demystifies the colossus that was Gandhi and brings him across as a flesh-and-blood human being attempting to go beyond the flesh and its desires.


M.V.Kamath’s study is in a tone that is neither obsequious nor harsh. He takes turns to deliver his blows with gentleness and his appreciation with restraint. His study is made all the more significant --as his contemporary, he saw history unfold right before his eyes. In fact, as a young newspaper reporter, Kamath was present in the courtroom to cover the trial of Nathuram Godse and heard both sides present their case.


Hitler and Gandhi were the two most important political powers in the twentieth century. Our fascination with them may be, in great part, because they represent two extreme positions in their approaches to life. The great scientist, Einstein, however, threw in his lot with Gandhi, and his words say it all: “Generations to come will scarcely believe that a man such as Gandhi could have walked upon this earth.” While one tried to eliminate Jews, the other tried to uplift the untouchables; while one divided people based on race, the other attempted to destroy all divisions and unite people by spiritualizing them. We are naturally curious to understand what went wrong with the one and what went right with the other.


This book explores and proves, through various excerpts and quotes, how Gandhi’s spirituality lay at the base of his every thought, word and deed. Kamath observes in the Preface that, “It is a validation of Gandhi’s philosophy that across the world social activists and leaders have chosen to follow his principle of militant non-violence. Martin Luther King Jr. was greatly influenced by Gandhi’s ideology of non-violent social protest. The Dalai Lama has acknowledged the inspiration he has received from Gandhi’s teachings. Nelson Mandela and Aung San Suu Kyi have fought oppressive regimes drawing upon Gandhi’s legacy.”


The author deals with the subject that prudes find embarrassing— Gandhi’s sexuality and he has neither tried to push it under the carpet nor tried to justify it by giving it an acceptable spin. Kamath cannot fathom why Gandhi needed to go to such extremes: “Can spiritualism be attained through a total separation of woman from man? Our gods have their consorts and even many of our saints and prophets were married or had women disciples. There is no reason why that should be considered a sin or an impediment to spiritualism. But Gandhi apparently had his qualms, which distract from his committed desire for spiritualism.” He further reveals Gandhi’s relationship with Saraladevi Chaudharani, a married woman whom he wanted as his “spiritual wife” and who paid the price of going with Gandhi. She admitted later in writing, “(I) had put in one pan all the joys and pleasures of this world, and in the other Bapu and his laws and committed the folly of choosing the latter.”


Gandhi’s spirituality left no room for untouchability; Kamath comments that he was “so strongly against untouchability that he said that if untouchability lives, Hinduism must die and that he would far rather that Hinduism died than that untouchability lived. He did not believe in caste. As he saw it, caste had nothing to do with religion…his understanding of God and untouchability sometimes went to unacceptable lengths. When there was a terrible earthquake in Bihar, Gandhi made a statement that even elicited a strong censure from Rabindranath Tagore. Gandhi said, “Visitations like droughts, floods, earthquakes, and the like, though they seem to have only physical origins, are, for me, somehow connected with man’s morals. Therefore, I instinctively felt that the earthquake was a visitation for the sin of untouchability.” Oftentimes, Gandhi is shown going into extremes. Undoubtedly, his passion for leading a righteous life took him further than was warranted.


Having said that, Gandhi, “was transparency personified.” While spirituality underpinned his every activity, he was rational first; “every ideology had to submit to the acid test of reason before being accepted.” How did Gandhi become spiritual, what were the influences in his life that shaped him and made him the colossus he later was to become? One learns that his early influences were Shravana as a devoted son, Harishchandra as the ideal truthful human being; Kamath reveals that, “every fresh reading of their stories moved him to tears.” Later Ruskin’s “Unto This Last” and Tolstoy all came to influence the mind of the already spiritually awakened lad. Then came the maid Rambha who instilled in young Mohan the faith in the “ramanama” or “Rama’s name” to ward off his fear of ghosts. Gandhi wrote, “The good seed sown in childhood was not sown in vain. I think it is due to the seed sown by that good woman Rambha that today Ramanama is an infallible remedy for me.”


As he grew up, he cultivated a distaste for conversion. He wrote, “Suppose a Christian came to me and said he was captivated by reading the Bhagavat and so wanted to declare himself a Hindu, I should say to him, “ No, what the Bhagavat offers, the Bible also offers. You have not made the attempt to find out. Make the attempt and be a good Christian.” … To him, religion meant, “adhering to values, not to a brand name.”


Kamath shares with us a story that brings out Gandhi’s spiritual depth right from the time he was in Johannesburg and plague had broken out in the Indian ghetto. Then, the sick and dying were taken to a quarantined building where a heroic English nurse was tending to them. “One evening, at the height of the epidemic, she saw a small figure standing at the door.”Get out, this is plague!” shouted the nurse. But the man standing there was Gandhi whom the nurse recognized as a leader of the Indian community. He was not about to leave. He told the nurse, “It’s alright; I’ve come to help you.” And he went straight to the sick. One man was literally covered with vermin and the nurse again shouted a warning. She told Gandhi, “Leave him.” But Gandhi would not. He merely told the nurse, “He is my brother.” And he stayed all night long until relief came.”


Selfless service became Gandhi’s credo so much so that “Everywhere he began to see two paths open to him; to live for himself alone or to live for others. He chose the second option.” Following selfless service came satyagraha, where “sat” stands for truth and “agraha” stands for firmness, which made the author observe, “The Buddha may have demanded eschewal of violence. So did Mahavira, but Gandhi took the principle to new and greater heights of excellence.” Gandhi’s non-violent, non-cooperation had its roots in his spiritual dimension and because that was where it was rooted, it succeeded politically and gained India its independence.


Kamath explores various aspects of Gandhi’s life from prayer, to silence, from brahmacharya to self-discipline; from what he felt about temples, animal sacrifice, to vegetarianism and even birth control. Not always was Gandhi in the right; but when he was right, which was often, he rose in stature.


One would have liked the English translation of the prayer, “Vaisnava jana to tene kahiye” printed on the back cover of the book followed by a note sharing with the non-Hindi reading public both in India and abroad, what the prayer signified for Gandhi and why it was important enough for it to get its prominence. One is grateful for Gandhi who says, “I know the limits of my strength. I am but a particle of dust. Even such a particle has a place in God’s creation, provided it submits to being trodden on. Everything is done by the Supreme Power. He may use me as He wills.”
A treasure of a book about an incredible man.

TITLE: THE BURDEN OF REFUGE by RITA KOTHARI
PUBLISHERS: ORIENT LONGMAN
NO. OF PAGES: 206
PRICE: RS. 675
“The Burden of Refuge” written by Rita Kothari, an English lecturer at a college in Ahmedabad, is a study of great academic interest for those interested in the Sindhi Hindus of Gujarat. The slim hard-bound book has a sober cover. The main body of Kothari’s book is found in seven chapters, including the preface.

When the Sindhi Hindus arrived into parts of India, including Gujarat, they came away from Sindh, their homeland, because they were Hindus by faith, but it was sadly ironic that when they arrived into post-Partition India, Indians here saw that very Hinduness with suspicion. Because they were non-vegetarians and dressed often in salwar-kurtas and duppatas, they were often seen as “Muslim-like” rather than as a displaced community of Hindus, homeless and stateless because of their faith. Their simultaneous worship of Hindu Gods along with Sufi saints, and Sikh gurus, bewildered the simple Hindus of Gujarat and made them at the same time wary and contemptuous of them.

The immediate fallout of this was that the Sindhi Hindu found it expedient to wear his Hinduism on his sleeve, and discard Sufism and Sikhism, which had become part of his Hindu ethos while in Sindh. However, even after this, the sense of shame persisted with several of Kothari’s own Sindhi Hindu students at college filling out forms, putting down “Hindi” instead of Sindhi as their mother tongue. The Sindhi stereotype of being fat, unhygienic and illiterate lent a great deal to the unnecessary shame the forced evacuee Sindhis felt in their new homes in Indian states.
The book really takes off in the fourth chapter, “Leaving Sindh” where Rita Kothari interviews Sindhis from both sides of the divide. It is the account of Amar Jaleel, a columnist of “Dawn” the Karachi newspaper, that stands out. Kothari prefaces the interview with her own valid observation, “While listening to him in his house at Clifton in Karachi, I could not help feeling the futility of dividing nations and along with it, tearing people away from each other.” Jaleel’s frank anger is reflected in his words, “The Muslims cannot build a democratic nation, they live with water-tight compartments. They can’t co-exit with differences.” He later adds, “What had the Hindus not given to Sindh? Hospitals, reading rooms, libraries. I used to live in Shikarpur and it was like New York. There was not a thing you could not find in its Dhakka bazaar. How enterprising that community was, and see how all they left has gone to seed. We have not even been able to create anything, nor preserve what they left. The greatest loss of Pakistan was Sindh.” After many such observations, Jaleel asks in agony, “It is as if a part of me has been amputated.” Then Khalique Jonejo, a Pakistani, shares with us how some Sindhi Muslims see events: “We carry a burden of guilt—of having collaborated with the new powers to cause the migration. I don’t think that guilt can be washed away.” When Salam Dharejo criticizes Hindus for considering Muslims as untouchables, Jonejo’s response is pristine in its fairness: “The so-called hierarchies between the Hindus and Muslims were differences of class and demography rather than religion. The Hindu shopkeeper would give respect to the wadero (roughly, Muslim landlords) of a village, talk to him and lend him money. Yes, his rate of interest may have been high, but the relationship was not without human concern. The discrimination your grandfather experienced would be the same as any poor person visiting a rich one, regardless of religion.”

When G.M.Syed moved a Resolution in the Sindh Legislative Assembly to support the formation of Pakistan, which was later adopted, the Congress’s Dr Choithram Gidwani criticized G.M.Syed, “Syed Sahib may be laughing today but the time will come when Syed Sahib and I will weep together if Pakistan is formed.” Dr Gidwani was right, since later, G.M.Syed did a volte-face and said, “Pakistan must die if Sindh is to live.” In 1970, when G.M.Syed was visiting India, the writer, Kirat Babani, invited Baldev Gajra, a Congress freedom fighter, to meet him. There, Kothari reports, Gajra refused to shake hands with Syed. He told Syed, and I quote Kothari, “Your hands are covered with the blood of Hindu Sindhis.” Syed’s reply to this was, “If twenty-five years are enough for capital punishment, I have suffered for twenty-five years. Do I still not deserve forgiveness?” End of quote.

The question is both serious and important. Was Gajra wrong? What can the Sindhi Hindu do about his loss of land, loss of culture, loss of language, loss of identity, loss of respect, loss of dignity? Some would say that twenty-five years of verbal regrets cannot suffice for an entire community living in shame, scattered across the globe, on the verge of being erased from people’s memories. They might feel as Gajra did, that mere words from Mr Syed do nothing for a teenaged Sindhi Hindu in Mumbai who squirms when movies deride Sindhis and their way of life. Punit Padnani says in the book, “Media shows Sindhis in a very bad light. Why can’t they show a decent-looking Sindhi professional?” To my mind, when Gajra felt that Syed’s hands were soiled in “ the blood of Sindhi Hindus,” he spoke as a person who could see the never-ending downward spiral of the tragic permanent damage to Sindhi Hindu youngsters who try desperately to fit in everywhere, and are forced, thanks to the community’s ouster from Sindh, (often in a penniless condition,) to deny their own real cultural identities. Syed’s question was unfair; Gajra, not an RSS functionary but a staunch follower of Mahatma Gandhi, had virtually bared his chest to gun-wielding Pathans. When such a freedom fighter adopts a stern view of G.M.Syed’s role in the loss of homeland it is not to be taken lightly, since he was no fanatic or fundamentalist.

Kothari (a Sindhi married to a Gujarati) admits to her own sense of shame in the chapter entitled, “Stigma in

Gujarat” that, “As a Sindh growing up in Gujarat in the 1970s and 1980s, I had an acute feeling of being in the wrong community, one that did not value education, or respect women.” From the tone of the book, one has an uneasy feeling that, perhaps, the shame hasn’t entirely left her. Additionally, Kothari appears to have a similar discomfort with pure Hinduism, sans the Sufi and Nanak ingredients, seeing it as “narrow” when Hinduism is at least as deep in spiritual terms as the next religion, if not more, and therefore, as complete as Sufism and Sikhism are without Hinduism.

There are a few errors such as the celibate Sadhu T.L.Vaswani having a son called Hari Vaswani, in “Stigma in Gujarat” and the erroneous assertion that Naroda Patiya is a constituency dominated by Sindhi Hindus when, we are told by The Hindu (October 2, 2003) that both Naroda-Patiya and Naroda Gam, have majority Muslim populations. If Kothari had retained objectivity and been even-handed when dealing with both communities, the book would have gained much in credibility. All in all, chapters 4-6 make the book a serious work of history, a must for researchers attempting to put together the scattered pieces of the jigsaw of the Sindhi Hindus and the Partition of India.

BOOK TITLE: IC814 HIJACKED! THE INSIDE STORY
AUTHOR: FLT ENGR ANIL K.JAGGIA
REPORTING BY SAURABH SHUKLA
PUBLISHER: LOTUS COLLECTION, ROLI BOOKS, INDIA
PRICE: Rs. 295
NO OF PAGES: 223

In less than three months from the date of the hijack of IC814, Jaggia and Shukla have published a day-by-day account of the unfortunate hijack. The narration is quick, racy and professional; the cover of the book and its layout is attractive and pleasing; the almost perfectly objective style of Anil Jaggia ( the flight engineer of IC814) and Saurabh Shukla( investigative journalist with the Indian Express) leaves no stone unturned. A book that is difficult to put down until one has turned the last page.

The book opens with a dedication to the honeymooner, Rupin Katyal, the only victim to have lost his life on the aircraft; this is followed by a page with two diagrams: one showing the aircraft layout of business and economuy classes, galley, toilets, etc, with special markings on the seats occupied by Rupin Katyal, his wife, and others such as the two hijackers in Business class; the second map is a close-up of the cockpit seating arrangement, with clear pointers as to where the flight engineer, the pilot, the co-pilot sat as well as where “Red Cap” sat during the hijack. These maps are followed on the next page by a chart that traces the journey of the flight from Kathmandu to Kandahar, plotting the flight movement with brief notations at every stop.

The Annexure in the back-section lists the thirty-six terrorists whose relaease had been demanded by the hijackers, their names, parentage,, origin, the separatist group to which they belonged, with their date of arrest, complete with relevant particulars of these terrorists. Next, is the passenger manifesto, with the full name-list of all passengers on board. Then there is a three-page day-by-day account of the hijack by passenger Rajesh Naithani. Additionally, for hungry information seekers, the two writers have also drawn lists of those in the Crisis Management Group(CMG) and those in the Central Committee(CC) who dealt with the crisis from the ground.

The narration itself is racy, objective, carefully analytical, and brief. The suspense is heightened by the manner in which the narration is divided: the camera alternates and shifts briskly between the onboard drama, as recounted by Flight Engineer Jaggia, and the political and administrative machinations in Delhi, Amritsar, Kandahar, Dubai, etc, as described by Saurabh Shukla. The narration focuses on the various factors that not only allowed the hijack but also caused Rupin Katyal’s death and also allowed the faux pas at Amritsar.

Jaggia’s name for the the head of the hijack mission is “Red Cap” the man the other hijackeres called,“Chief’. Jaggia found that Red Cap had “an accent similar to those of Pakistani taxi drivers in Sharjah”. He wore a red balaclava inside of which he was wearing photchromatic glasses in order to disguise his eyes. He entered the cabin just as flight purser, Anil Sharma, was leaving with the now empty cups of tea and coffee that the cockpit crew had just enjoyed.

“The intruder pushed him aside and forced his way into the cockpit, saying, “Koi hoshiyari nahin karega. Koi hilega nahin. Tayyara hamare kabaze main hain (Nobody move or try to act smart, we have seized the aircraft”). … A frisson of alarm ran down our spines. We were being hijacked.” Jaggia continues to describe the developments that folowed. Another hooded hijacker, Burger, entered the cockpit, saluted Red Cap and whispered to him. Red Cap ordered them to fly westward. Meanwhile, “Captain Sharan had quietly selected the relevant transponder frequency and passed on a coded message to Ground Control ” telling them that they had been hijacked.

While Jaggia shares with us the tension and frightening chain of events that followed on board the aircraft, Shukla now takes us to the airspace just above Lucknow. In what can only be termed ironic, he tells us that a VVIP Boeing aircraft was flying just four minutes ahead of the hijacked plane, and its occupant were none other than the Indian Prime Minister, A.B.Vajpayee and the Union Civil Aviation Minister, Sharad Yadav.

“Flight IC814 was in close vicinity of the Prime Minister’s aircraft. Yet the coutry’s most powerful person remained ignorant of the crisis. It was only after he would land at Palam Technical Area in Delhi that he would be informed of the hijacking. It is intriguing why the pilot of the Boeing chose to remain quiet and did not pass on the message of the hijacking to the PM’s entourage. He was certainly privvy to the information….Prime Minister Vajpayee was not informed of the hijack while he was airborne despite the availability of an Iridium phone in the aircraft. Surprisingly, the Joint Intelligence Committee comprising the Intelligence chiefs and National Security Adviser Brajesh Mishra failed to inform the Prime Minister.”

The book is full of such terribly disturbing but valid questions: considering the fact that in a crisis time plays a vital role, why indeed was the PM kept in the dark? Why did Mr Mishra not contact the PM on the phone, why did the pilot not share his knowledge of the hijack? Questions that trouble one even more because they lack acceptable answers.

Meanwhile the story reverts to the aircraft and Jaggia’s narration:
“ “Have you pressed the hijack button?” the hijacker asked urgently.
“What button?” asked Captain Sharan. “we don’t have any hijack button.”
“Why are you telling lies?” shouted the hijacker.
“We don’t have any such button,” Captain Sharan tried to reason with him, “this is an old aircraft.”
“You seem destined to die at my hands,” the hijacker said ominously….
“Captain saheb, fly the aircraft at leisure. We are in no hurry. This is the millennium flight. We shall go around the world and on millennium day, we shall give a gift to the government of India.” ”

Jaggia observed later that Red Cap seemed to know the aircraft well, “almost as if he had been in it before.” More proof of this is brought out:

“”Victor, Victor, Alpha.” The crackle burst through the speakers in the cockpit. It was the standard call from the pilot of a VVIP aircraft in the airspace around Lucknow. The hijacker appeared annoyed at this. An expression of disgust clouded his face. “Ha, Victor, Victor, Alpha,” he spat. I was puzzled at his anger. It was obvious that he was familiar with the call sign. It was an ominous warning—this man was a professional, and he meant business….Tension was now palpable in the cockpit. Not only was the hijacker armed- he seemed both determined and knowledgeable.”

The hijacker demanded that they be taken to Lahore, confident that they would be able to get landing permission at Lahore. Jaggia asked himself how, without having a nexus with Pakistan, they could be so sure of obtaining permission to land. As the fuel started running out, and the permission to land in Lahore remained elusive, they finally landed in Amritsar for re-fuelling.

At Amritsar, Shukla takes us back to the ground realities: Brajesh Mishra took charge and ordered that re-fuelling be delayed, because the Crisis Management Group (CMG) had said “We need about an hour and a half to mount a commando operation.” Delay tactics were then put into motion.

Meanwhile back with Jaggia, we learn that the hijackers have ordered that the aircraft keep moving all the time. This was followed by Burger getting impatient and coming up to Red Cap to ask him a couple of times, “Shall we start killing?” Red Cap replied, “Nahin, aap aisa nahin karen.” The desperation increased and Red Cap finally got panicky when he wanted the aircraft to be airborne, “You take the aircraft to the end of the runway and crash it for all I care. Do it. But just move from here.”

And the book takes us from hope to despair, from dismay to joy through page after page of crisp narration.

“IC814 Hijacked!” is a must read for all those wanting to know of the behind-the-scenes realities both on board and on the ground. The crew’s careful handling of a fanatical suicide squad is remarkable. The narrative style that focuses on facts and not adjectives is both engrossing and spine-chilling. The indecision, the slowness, the confusion, the anger, the islamic lectures and fanaticism, the absolutely untrained approach to the whole crisis is brought out well by Shukla. Mistakes follow mistakes until one does can only smite one’s brow; one feels, at the end of the book, as if the return of all the passengers save one, is not the result of skill and strategic negotiation, but is in fact really a miracle from above. The flat-footed response of the Indian CMG and the Cabinet Committee is frightening: it would not be rash for one to feel after reading this account, that if one flies in the Indian skies, one flies at one’s own risk, insha-allah.

A must-read and great value for money indeed. What the book misses is minor: Jaggia and Shukla have only left out the emotional element, there is little of the passenger’s reactions to the whole crisis, an interview with Rachna Katyal would have helped add another dimension to the book. But these are really small potatoes.

That Jaggia and Sharan resumed flying a fortnight after the hijack is admirable. While they do the airline proud, one hopes their example will make others follow suit. The CMG, security and political personnel etc all need to take the book seriously. India needs not miracles but expertise and efficiency in a crisis of this nature.

Book Review
“A MARRIED WOMAN” BY MANJU KAPUR
PUBLISHED BY INDIAINK, PAGES 310
PRICE INR 295

Manju Kapur’s second novel is like having a four course meal in reverse. One begins reading a novel but realizes at the end that it was only a political tract masquerading as a novel.

The first three chapters are enticing and interesting, Ms Kapur’s sarcastic and ironic style breezes one through the first three chapters but from then on neither the style nor the content can rescue the book from hara-kiri.

Chapter 1, first the ice-cream: her laconic descriptions of the protagonist, Astha and her parents’ middle class values ring true and are humorous: her father’s adherence to an exercise regime and strictness about homework, her mother’s worries about her only child’s marriage and society, their united concerns about money ( very well brought out in a tiny vignette in a restaurant as they enjoy the tikkis less and calculating the profit the shopkeeper makes, more), her teenage crush on Bunty and the end of that, her heavy petting with Rohan in his Vauxhall and the end of that too and her broken heart.

Chapter 2: the chocolate sauce: Hemant the hero enters, they meet and get engaged; her obsession with him, his obsession with sex, their wealth, his increasing boredom, her increasing boredom, her father’s death after shifting, the arrival of a swami in her mother’s widowed life, the birth of her two children, the second one with fear and anxiety, prayers for a son, yes, it’s a boy, thank God.

Chapter 3 the sweet and sour vegetables, the main course: her husband doesn’t understand her, her attempts at writing poetry are unappreciated, her children don’t engross her, her mother doesn’t listen to her and leaves for Hrishikesh and then what’s worse, her mother’s long impersonal, religious sermon-letters from there. One hundred pages so far so good.

Chapter 4, suddenly it’s the garlic and onion soup: the novel falls into the quicksand of political activism and remains mired there. Surprise, it’s time for Babri Masjid! One smites one’s forehead, oh no, et tu brute, not this hackneyed politically correct one-sided view, please. Astha’s encounter with Aijaz, the nice Muslim (ergo, aren’t all Muslims nice?) who is such a cardboard figure that the writer cannot bring herself to ask him what he has to say about Hindu sentiments vis-a-vis the Ram temple but who miraculously manages to provoke her into research on the subject. Commissioned by a Muslim she does the inevitable, finds not a shred of evidence to redeem Hindus; she becomes agitated and spews fire. (Did she forget to dedicate the book to Romila Thapar? The political activist not in Astha but in Ms Kapur makes sure that Hemant( representing the saffron side) is given weak lines that are easily demolished by no other than an otherwise worldly-unwise Astha. Which leads one to ask the million dollar question: why is L.K.Advani being called, “the Leader” and not L.K.Advani when Rajiv Gandhi gets to keep his name? This squeamishness remains a mystery: was it Ms Kapur’s personal contempt for the arch villain or her reluctance to make the man famous through her path-breaking novel (sigh, better luck next time, Manju dear) or, worse, didn’t Astha, the character, remember that old man’s name? Attempting to win political arguments with such tricks might get one cocktail invites and a publisher but sadly don’t make for even second class fiction.

The rest of the book is the poisoned pill that follows the soup, Chapters 5 to 10. Now lesbianism is the red herring used to deflect attention from the real thing. If only like Jane Austen, Ms Kapur had stuck to the small world which they both know well and can write so well about, the book would have been first class. But Ms Austen, poor thing, probably had literary ambitions, not political ones. And so we trudge through more unashamed secularist propaganda before we can be done with the book. The writer /protagonist upholds pre-marital affairs, extra-marital affairs, minority rights, women’s rights, socialism, artistic self-expression, anti-Hinduism. Great. With such major concerns, is it any surprise that good-natured affection, small joys and love find no room in the book? Those who love Astha must leave her so she might find her artistic voice through politics and so they are all garbaged one by one: Bunty, Rohan, her father, Aijaz, Pipeelika. What remains behind is only a screaming placard,”Down with love, up with the Mosque, down with men, up with art as political expression”.

Ms Kapur fails to share with us Astha’s feelings at her father’s death; she fails to tell us the details about her first meeting with her future husband and their courtship, descriptions she is so good at, there are so many opportunities she could have grabbed to add dimension to her characters. The political activist stunts the writer in Ms Kapur; even the lengthy acknowledgements at the end of the book , which usually accompany non-fiction, provide proof of the writer’s agenda. Ms Kapur should not have fallen into the trap dreaded by green fiction writers: political activism. Her characters languish when they could have acquired depth, the book flounders and the characters remain hazy blurs. The novel is suffocated by its agenda and narcissism.

Ms Kapur hopes we will think it is a tragedy of a nice talented heroine in a suffocating world but we don’t because we are never allowed to forget the other story. Like the loathed “Leader” who the writer despises for using religion to achieve political gains, Ms Kapur, too, uses fiction as a vehicle to gain converts to her political ideology. While one is accustomed to politicians stopping at nothing, when a novelist does this, one can only watch the hara-kiri with surprise.

It is the saddest political tract I have read in a long time.