• The Story:
    Every story begins with a dot and Siddhartha Tagore is the
    first dot in “Prisoner, Jailor, Prime Minister”. We first make his acquaintance
    as the newly sworn Prime Minister of India, in the early hours of the last day
    of 2016 in a very private, almost clandestine ceremony at Rashtrapati Bhavan.
    Within minutes of his taking the oath of office, he is apprised of a situation
    where the “possibility of political disintegration would become a clear and
    present danger.” Siddhartha Tagore who is no pussyfooting politician
    immediately decides that there would be “no perpetrators or protectors for
    those who try to damage India” and authorizes the head of RAW to go for the
    Jehadi jugular.
    One would expect this then, to be another political
    thriller, a story of espionage and counter espionage, a fast paced adventure of
    how Siddhartha Tagore tamed the terrorist tiger stalking the nation but
    surprisingly, there is a change of tempo and we are taken back in time to
    Harvard in 1985, a time of innocence when the young Siddhartha Tagore, a
    brilliant young student from India  comes
    to Boston  to pursue an undergraduate
    degree in music, much to the dismay of his powerful politician father. Mozart
    Man as he is referred to in Harvard has an equal passion for Mozart, Tansen and
    political history – a lethal combination that makes him a liberal, secular hero
    mesmerizing all he meets during his journey from Harvard to 7 RCR. At this point we are
    introduced to three more dots in the story: Gregory Templar, his roommate at
    Harvard and the beautiful Jaykar sisters who are identical twins.
    Predictably, Siddhartha falls for Ruby , one of the twins and
    once their student days are over; they return to Mumbai where the
    Jaykar matriarch runs a successful perfume industry. But the course of true
    love never runs smooth and a strange turn of events makes Siddhartha return to
    New York, to immerse himself in music till he is discovered as a candidate
    with great potential, a worthy successor to the Lok Neta, a member of the
    ruling party. Once again, Siddhartha returns home and is thrust into politics,
    eventually rising to the position of Top Job. However, Rukmani Devi, a
    formidable opponent and an opposition ready to pull the rug from under his
    precariously balanced coalition government , with the nation facing a serious
    security threat and his own demons threatening him at every turn, Siddhartha Tagore faces an uphill task.

    The style:
    In a narrative that flows smoothly like champagne, there are some parts which I personally found disturbing but I liked the New Gen politician of this book – a member of the upwardly mobile urban intelligentsia, uninhibited conspicuous consumers – a deviation from the archetypical pseudo Gandhian Indian politician.
    Tabrik C, like his protagonist, effortlessly straddles the
    worlds of music,politics and high society ,recreating student life at Harvard, the uptight
    Malabar Hill society and the intrigues at Raisina Hill with ease. Though billed
    as a political thriller, it is more a love story with politics as a backdrop.
    The characters are intensely passionate about their love and their beliefs and
    live life on their terms. They are “superior” yet flawed and despite their excesses are strangely
    endearing.
    Towards the end, the dots become quite predictable but Tabrik manages
    to engage and sustain the reader’s interest with unexpected twists in the plot which he handles
    with sensitivity and understanding.
    The final verdict:
    Siddhartha Tagore, the suave, aristocratic musical genius
    who zips around town on his Harley is not a hero one can forget quickly. “Prisoner,
    Jailor, Prime Minister is definitely worth a read!

    This review is a part of the biggest Book Review Program for Indian Bloggers. Participate now to get free books!

  • I think the Universe is trying to tell me a very important message : thou shalt not go for wedding receptions.

    How else could I explain the mishaps in the last three weddings I attended?
    When the weather turns cooler and the relatives from overseas come home for some sunshine, the people of Mumbai decide to get married i.e those who are not married and are in a relationship or in the process of finding a life partner……so come November and wedding bells begin to peal or rather the bands begins to bajao. It is a season that leaves me with mixed feelings – happy because I can meet my friends and relatives , feast on good food and wine and enjoy the good weather;  and sad because I invariably have to let out the seams of my blouses which get tighter with each wear or worse still get a new one made to match the sari I plan to wear. So I often land up at weddings literally stuffed into my blouse praying hard that the buttons wouldn’t pop at the most inappropriate moment.
    Well, the first wedding I attended this season was a Parsi wedding at the prestigious Jeejeebhoy Agiary at the southernmost tip of town. Since this was the first wedding I had blouse that was sufficiently comfortable and I was looking forward to stuffing myself with the  choicest Parsi fare since the reception was being catered by the legendary chef Ghodiwala. Unfortunately the reception line leading to the dais was quite long and I felt that with each guest being photographed with the bridal couple it would take longer than I’d bargained for so when a plate of tantalising chicken tikka was whisked under my nose, I greedily reached out and grabbed a piece. I was thoroughly enjoying the kebab when I remembered that I had to chew carefully and slowed down my chewing till I found myself just two people away from the dais and the kebab still nowhere close to becoming a bonus. So I did thinly thing I could think of doing which was swallow. Now that was an even bigger mistake than eating it in the first place because it just got stuck! I didn’t know what to do and just as I stepped on the stage I began to gag and had visions of regurgitating before the bridal party. Horror of horrors! What can be worse than throwing up in front of the bride. Somehow controlling the urge to purge, I quickly shook hands, muttered a hearty congratulations smiled into the camera and walked off the stage to look for a loo. The loos we strategically located farthest from where I was, so I slunk into a corner and discreetly dislodged the offending kebab. I was convinced anyone who saw me would think I was drunks nd hurriedly rushed to the bathroom to set things right. Needless to say,  I skipped the dinner and just had a few more kebabs before getting home.
    The next wedding was a Catholic wedding and I had to make sure that nothing untoward happened to me for fear of embarrassing my husband in front of his colleagues. Luckily my heels didn’t break, the sari didn’t rip and the acid did not reflux my gut. But I managed to spill some of the yummiest paneer makkhanwala all the way down the front of my sari and had to try and look nonchalant about it as we wished everyone goodbye.
    The last and most ignominous one occurred early this week at the posh Willingdon Club. The crowd was oh so sophisticated , where subtlety and inheritance were spoken in the same hushed tones as the conversation. This was one of those dos where food for thought was more important than food to eat. But I was not disheartened as the highlight of the Willingdon Club dining experience is its fabled chaat counter so after piling my plate with lasagne , I marched on to the chaat counter, beckoning me with its tantalising fare. With one eye on my plate and the other  on the badly disguid uneven ground, I put my hand forward only to find my legs buckling below  me. Within seconds I was on ground,sitting squarely on my butt, the sari a mess with all the food spilled on it and the plate held triumphantly aloft! I was so shocked that I actually laughed, amused by my fall and the thought that everyone who saw me would think I was truly drunk. But I wasn’t. I had hardly had a sip.
    As I hobbled home that night, I realised that may be wedding receptions are not for me especially when I go with the idea of stuffing my face.
  • I was stuck in the traffic yesterday (nothing new about that) when I heard a jingle announcing the Government’s scheme to provide urban poor and unemployed persons with skill sets and opportunities for work other than as domestic servants and construction workers.“Don’t work as a maid or servant. Get a decent job! With the Rajiv Gandhi Urban Poor Employment Scheme equip yourself for a better life” screamed the ad. exhorting people to better their lives.   Honestly speaking , there is nothing wrong in that. Why should the urban poor be condemned to a life of servitude? Don’t they deserve a chance at a better way of earning a living?

    Sure – everyone should have the opportunity to earn a wage with a skill set  that helps him earn a livelihood. But honestly speaking what is wrong with domestic work? What is wrong in cooking and cleaning?After all it is an honest day’s work and many home makers are doing it day in and day out for free.

    I recently found out that a “maharaj” or cook earns upto Rs. 8000 – Rs 12000 a month for working for two hours as a visiting cook. He doesn’t so much as even chop the vegetables as that is meant for the minions at home. And as for washing up the pots he has used to cook the food – you must be dreaming. So, the “maharaj” literally earns upto Rs.24000 working in four homes for only 8 hours in a day. He normally gets to sleep in one of the homes he works in, gets his meals thrown in and works in homes that are really clean and comfortable with all modern conveniences. Similarly, a domestic house cleaner earns upto Rs.4000 a month for an hour’s job that involves swishing a broom like a magic wand and sloshing around water in a bathroom that is already clean.  These workers are paid in cash, have no accountability and can come and go as they please often demanding a premium as they are getting more and more scarce.

    The radio advertisement is actually spreading the wrong message – that there is no dignity in honest labour. While I agree that everyone should have a chance at bettering one’s future and that the poor urban population should not be forced to work as domestic labour, isn’t house cleaning and cooking career enough?

    Granted this sector should be more organised with proper labour laws in place protecting their interests, preventing child labour, abuse of servants, ensuring a minimum wage, health insurance and regular working conditions but to brainwash people into believing that domestic work is demeaning, will only result in the Prime Minister making his own cup of tea and sweeping his own home.

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