Capital Loss

Because this is actually,deliberately,a novel about being Taseer. The narrator lives in Taseers house,shares Taseers family and upbringing,and possibly goes to Taseers gym. And he is,inventively,named Aatish. And it becomes increasingly difficult for a reader to tease apart the moments of self-awareness that are intended to become,subtly,part of the story of Aatish-the-characters awakening to Delhi,and the little bits of Taseer-the-writer that creep through.

Take the fascination with caste. Theres a point where Aatishs girlfriends aunt a big-eyed princess-turned-BJP CM of a state near Delhi meets Aatishs trainer,Aakash; she seems indifferent to him till the point where she can look closely at the marks of his caste that,apparently,shine through his facial features. Aakash Sharma is dark,you see. But when we first meet him,we know intuitively he is high caste,as if a paler second skin ran under a dark patina. Seriously. This single-mindedness about colour isnt limited to purple fridges: his girlfriends beautifully pale shoulders,the brown lustre of the Nepalese,all feature repeatedly. Does Taseer think that everyone would focus on these,as markers of caste and status? Or that his narrator would? Im still confused. Towards the end,Aatish-the-character writes of a moment of almost-superstitious awe of Aakashs Brahmin status. By then this comes as no surprise: the entire book has read like an almost-superstitious paean to Brahmin rootedness.

After all,Aakash,the books central character,has been set up with sledgehammer subtlety. He is one of the thrusting young men who define Delhis margins: dressing flashily Van Hussain,unabashedly ambitious upgrading myself. But he tells stories of his priestly grandfathers miracles,organises a neighbourhood jagran,and lives with his family the temple-goers of the title. In other words,we are forced to look at him through Taseers Naipaul-tinted glasses as everything deracinated,pseudo-secular Delhi high society is unfortunately not. Indeed,Naipaul himself,dropped into the narrative exactly halfway through,informs us that it is the temple-goers,not green card folk,who go to the National Museum. Naipaul in the book merely as The Writer,accessorised with shooting stick and devoted Punjabi wife says this after a brief visit there one afternoon during which he sees a group of South Indians with teekas precisely the sort of detailed large-scale observation for which he is justly famous. The Writer diagnoses Aatishs relationship with Aakash as one of envy. Aatish agrees: when Aakash inherits the world,he says,he will hold the sense of who he is close around him.

Straightforward,then,youd think,boy-meets-mirror-image,learns about Life and Heritage and the New India. And,if you wish to read it so,you can,as a pleasant if unexceptional attempt,complete with the curse of such books,puerile puns Jhatkebal is a state,the Indian Musthavbin are terrorists.

But so much more satisfying would be the thought that Taseer is actually undermining this hyper-simplistic idea. It is obvious,after all,that Aakash too is fascinated by Aatish and seems to think that Aatish knows exactly who he is. Throughout there are voices that undermine the apparent main point,as when Aatishs underpaid driver thinks of Brahmin religiosity as a big con-job. And the true,civilised heart of the book isnt a temple-goer at all,but Zafar,Aatishs Urdu tutor,who asks no prying Indian questions,reveals a defiant dignity when arrested,and urges his children to abandon Urdu for English. The book concludes with some advice from Zafar for Aatish: write first-person,he says,and that breaks Aatishs Taseers? year-long block. Is Zafar,not a temple-goer,somehow less rooted,we are forced to ask? And when Aatish asks The Writer that question,he gets no answer.

Perhaps,just perhaps,thats the books real message,hidden behind the novels overt Naipaulian Hindu revivalism? Wonderful,if thats the case. But probably not. In which case,there are some nice bits about trees.