If you enjoy a cursory wallow in the glittering society pages of tabloids,chances are youll stumble on some familiar characters in Ira Trivedis rather loftily titled The Great Indian Love Story. That,by the way,confines itself to Lutyens Delhi with an occasional detour to Chandigarh and the Capitals farm area where Audis,BMWs and Porsche Carreras line every driveway.
The introduction to Trivedis book says shes lived in nine different cities but doesnt specify if Delhi was one of them. If she hasnt,it would explain her fascination for the citys party circuit that embraces cocaine and single malts,long after the rest of us are jaded by drug tales.
This is a particular odd time for a book that is set after the global meltdown and features decadent youth who one would imagine no longer have the money to live lavishly. Riya,one of the protagonists,finds herself back in India after the crash on Wall Street minus her savings or a job.
After whiling away days in her bureaucrat dads government bungalow,she meets Serena at a gym. Then follows a whirlwind of parties with her glamorous new peroxide blonde friend,and a predictable narrative of torrid affairs and roller-coaster relationships. There are a few stirring moments when Riya comprehends the brutality of passion through her friends experience,and Serenas volatile life is nicely highlighted,but hardly enough to make the book memorable.
Clichéd phrases such as hard and piercing eyes dont endear the reader. Its with a sense of relief that you reach the third protagonist: Serenas mother,Parmeet,who lives dangerously in Chandigarh,flits between young lovers and a murderously jealous husband. A portrait of the unhappy rich usually makes for easy voyeuristic reading,but,even in India theres enough of it going around. Serial adultery,coke and debauchery dont cut it anymore.