Tuesday, July 29, 2008
If God Was a Banker
The few readers ( Ed—Yeah, both of them !) will note that I assiduously maintain a Worst Reads List and while most writers given half a chance would vehemently argue against any of their works being placed in that exalted category, every now and then something comes along that facilely cuts through the clutter and ensconces itself at Pole Position for the year with more than five months yet to go.
Actually, generations to come will scarce believe that one such as this was written…...
A sordid tale of corporate avarice, ruthless ambition, machinations and sleaze plagues the book as the relative rise and fall of two corporate friends are persisted with. The quite brazen plot (Ed—Plot ? It must be ploughed !) is embellished by moral platitudes of incredible imbecility, a mindless rehash of parables mixed up with organizational shenanigans is presented as taking the story forward and one of the most lop-sided characterizations I have seen for a long time make the book by Ravi Subramanian a excruciating backbreaking journey on the wild side. All this generously splashed with the worst piece of writing in English I have seen made me wonder long and hard as to what the purpose of this was.
I can now fully comprehend what a hangovr must feel like !
Yes, in hindsight, an invocation to Him was certainly needed.
A 2.5 on 10 !
Talking of which, our friendly neighbourhood newspaper cheerfully identified a dark slim lady spectator at Wimbledon as the world-famous athlete Katie Holmes.
Yes, in hindsight, an invocation to Him was certainly needed.
A 2.5 on 10 !
Talking of which, our friendly neighbourhood newspaper cheerfully identified a dark slim lady spectator at Wimbledon as the world-famous athlete Katie Holmes.
Elementary, my dear Watson !! Easy, easy there--we ain't in Beijing yet,lads !
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Wet Paint
It having been eons since I crossworded anything, I mindlessly picked up a copy of “Keep off the Grass” by Karan Bajaj and managed to plough through soon enough. It’s one of those debuts where a reader can sense the maniacal urge to throw the proverbial kitchen sink and the dish-washer in, angling for a semblance of cohesion somehow. Despite the pitfalls, it came off a tad better than I had feared.
The premise of a ABCD ( a Yale investment banker !) yearning for a return trip fructifying in the shape of an IIM-Bangalore admission was banal enough, that the path to Indian hell was paved with good intentions made the landing somewhat bumpy still. While a B-school romp has not been dealt with too many times earlier, the familiarity with which Bajaj takes us through RG-giri, obstinate classmates, cold-blooded geniuses, accidental philosophers, midnight study sessions, Summer Placements, frustration forced out an inner disquietude-- in an academic cauldron is real enough, and is the mix of characters that he throws up in quick succession. The protagonist in the first person experiences the rigours of an Indian competitive system for the first time and is distracted by all he surveys even as he attempts to hold on to his individuality and ambition.
While the angst and paranoia are apparent, Bajaj dips into the ready smokescreen of easily available drugs on campus a little too eagerly and as a result, meaning and cohesion which otherwise would have made sense are rendered equivocal and ambiguous as all his insights and ruminations appear to hit the reader through a coke-induced giant haze. The plot meanders inexplicably as Samrat Ratan , the narrator, takes off on a ten-day meditation trip with his best friend after which they encounter drug hippies, vagabonds and foreign day trippers in North India. The recidivist and becalming summer internship is handled well enough and the book ends with a vague invitation to find one’s true calling and doing what one wants as the best way to solace and succour.
Yes, the journey itself has been done before, nonetheless, Bajaj has something to offer to the uninitiated and the writing remains sensible and does not stumble on the needlessly bombastic. The objectives of throwing a garbled mixture of philosophy, knowledge of India-her land and dialects, vignettes of campus life among very bright people are clear enough yet I came away with the feeling that Bajaj either backed away from telling a story or wanted an end-game that displeased nobody. I am just a wee bit bothered about a writer who refers to the course as Vipaasana ( having done that myself , in B-school too, unlike the author ! ) and not “Vipassana” and who gets some geography mixed up, and who finally commits the cardinal sin of introducing the incomparable Ruskin Bond in the last chapter. The slightly sneering condescension comes through too in some “pseudo-metaphysical discourses” and in the recourse to familiar settings and that colours the otherwise readable book.
A 6.5 on 10 !
The premise of a ABCD ( a Yale investment banker !) yearning for a return trip fructifying in the shape of an IIM-Bangalore admission was banal enough, that the path to Indian hell was paved with good intentions made the landing somewhat bumpy still. While a B-school romp has not been dealt with too many times earlier, the familiarity with which Bajaj takes us through RG-giri, obstinate classmates, cold-blooded geniuses, accidental philosophers, midnight study sessions, Summer Placements, frustration forced out an inner disquietude-- in an academic cauldron is real enough, and is the mix of characters that he throws up in quick succession. The protagonist in the first person experiences the rigours of an Indian competitive system for the first time and is distracted by all he surveys even as he attempts to hold on to his individuality and ambition.
While the angst and paranoia are apparent, Bajaj dips into the ready smokescreen of easily available drugs on campus a little too eagerly and as a result, meaning and cohesion which otherwise would have made sense are rendered equivocal and ambiguous as all his insights and ruminations appear to hit the reader through a coke-induced giant haze. The plot meanders inexplicably as Samrat Ratan , the narrator, takes off on a ten-day meditation trip with his best friend after which they encounter drug hippies, vagabonds and foreign day trippers in North India. The recidivist and becalming summer internship is handled well enough and the book ends with a vague invitation to find one’s true calling and doing what one wants as the best way to solace and succour.
Yes, the journey itself has been done before, nonetheless, Bajaj has something to offer to the uninitiated and the writing remains sensible and does not stumble on the needlessly bombastic. The objectives of throwing a garbled mixture of philosophy, knowledge of India-her land and dialects, vignettes of campus life among very bright people are clear enough yet I came away with the feeling that Bajaj either backed away from telling a story or wanted an end-game that displeased nobody. I am just a wee bit bothered about a writer who refers to the course as Vipaasana ( having done that myself , in B-school too, unlike the author ! ) and not “Vipassana” and who gets some geography mixed up, and who finally commits the cardinal sin of introducing the incomparable Ruskin Bond in the last chapter. The slightly sneering condescension comes through too in some “pseudo-metaphysical discourses” and in the recourse to familiar settings and that colours the otherwise readable book.
A 6.5 on 10 !
