Narcopolis...

If the book is to be defined in one word, then I would prefer to call it surreal. It is the safest blanket word for anything weird and dream like smitten with unexpected elements of surprise that, however, in the context of the novel do not hold absolutely true. Jeet Thayil appears, in a subtle way, inspired by Salman Rushdie; the way he sets in motion the story in retrospect as a dramatic monologue into each of our ears individually, one by one and we begin to get high on those heavy pot smoked-stoned words. The first few pages are a deliberate attempt on the technique of stream of consciousness. The words that the narrator blurts out as though said in a state of trance are thoroughly premeditated and unfortunately are not in line with the rest of the narration when we meet again Dom Ullis in the last page. Nonetheless Thayil deserves respect for he is not just a writer of these events but an active member in the story if not carved out as himself, but following his journey with drugs a bit of him may be observed in every character.

Reading this book is like going to a movie and coming out of the theatre without a major change in your expressions, you only grow a tad grim but would not like to discuss it with anyone. Words flow effortlessly like poetry and excellent imagery and dream like sequences of classic trance are witnessed. For me here lies the victory of the book; dreams are brutal, hallucinations are ruthless and sobriety is only paid occasional visits like one of the brothels in the book. In a way Narcopolis is a scary story, for the author never once smiles throughout the narration, even when he does it is only at the misery of the characters or rather his own self. It is a sadistic take on reality where characters are too real to forget smiling but in the midst of way too real situations to introduce any mirth.

One thought sprouts another under the influence of opium and dope and chemical and heroine and an entire array of narcotics. Gradually the narration moves ahead independently and acquires a less familiar shape and indulges in a strange kaleidoscopic pattern. The unfolding takes us from Shuklaji Street to China several decades ago and takes us forward to communal tensions in the 90s. Thayil often yields to egoistical tantrums that writers sometimes throw, through over involvement in the story that a storyteller must not be a victim of, sometimes even boasting the fact off that he knows more than the readers do.

So far, I have not said a word about the story of the book because a story has only been woven in order to highlight the dark crevices and webby niches of the glamorous Bombay. It does not sound like Bombay at all but at the same time there is no surprise. The dark demons of the night live in the wombs of gutters and alleys with illegitimate signboards, and every big city blows a sooty trumpet of such a corner. There are eunuchs and there is trade of the flesh and there are drags from chillums and imported China pipes yet there is heart and there are hopeless longings and there are sighs, but there are also castrations and pain and madness and shame. It is a filthy book but not without a fair amount of very natural emotions.

All in all, the book is a gripping one. I am not a good judge of a book but this one deserves to be read if not win a Booker Prize. Read it for the taste of that transcendental addiction to poetry that Thayil germinates within us.