I eventually managed to read five of them, in a span of one week. "Mixed Marriage and Other Parsi Stories" a short story collection by Meher Pestonji in Mombasa, "The Inscrutable Americans" by Anurag Mathur in Nairobi, "Ravan and Eddie" by Kiran Nagarkar in Nairobi and Masai Mara, "The Death of Vishnu" by Manil Suri at Masai Mara and "The House of Blue Mangoes" by David Davidar in Nakuru. The reason I mention the places...is mainly to tell you where I went. Those who might want to make connections between my opinions and my possible frame of mind at the time I was reading these books, based on the place where I was reading them, are free to do so.

Try and make a guess about the book that I liked the most.

"Mixed marriages..." is a collection of short stories about Parsi people. Each of the stories picks on some facet of Parsi life, some idiosyncrasy or unusual mannerism and presents it as part of a plausible story. I could even place some of my Parsi friends as some of the characters in the stories. It is a straight-forward, non-pretentious book, with no exaggerated style, no magic realism, no unnecessary flourishes...just interesting stories, well told.

"The Inscrutable Americans" starts well and is really funny in parts. But as in a typical Hindi film, halfway through the book, I suspect, Anurag Mathur lost his way and the last quarter just bumps along mindlessly. The story should sound familiar to most Indians who have lived in the US for an extended period of time and considering that the "hero" is a young, hormone-driven man from small-town India, who goes to a small town in the mid-West for a year's study, women and sex are the prime concerns of the book. Apparently, the book has also been filmed, but I have had no opportunity to see the movie.

"Ravan and Eddie" also starts of well. It is about the parallel lives of two boys, Ravan and Eddie, living in the same chawl in Mumbai, brought together by unusual circumstances. The first 50 pages or so are brilliantly written; very funny, satirical and detailed. From then on, things just fall apart, just like the lives of the protagonists. Too many things happen, too much is unexplained and the ending reads like a desperate attempt to find some way to finish the book.

"The Death of Vishnu" talks about the death of Vishnu, an all-purpose, drunk servant living in a corner of a landing in a building. Using his dying moments and actual death as a prop, Manil Suri then weaves stories around the inhabitants of the building; all of whom are varied personalities and of different communities, so that the stories would sound interesting. What eventually the book turns out to be, is a set of longish short stories about all these different people strung together by the presence of Vishnu. Vishnu's life is also written about, especially his relationship with his girlfriend and mother; but much as I tried, I couldn't visualize Vishnu. The whole attempt just seems so pointless, though probably to a Western audience that doesn't know what happens in Maharashtrian or Sindhi or Muslim homes, all the small details about food and clothing and religion might seem terrific.

Too many people have talked too much about "The House of Blue Mangoes". The book actually is very interesting for the first 100 pages or so, when we read the story of Solomon Durai and the battle between him and Muthu Vedar. After that, the book seems to lose its way, as it meanders through the lives of Solomon's children and grandchildren. The last 100 odd pages seem to be guidebooks, "How to make tea", "How to kill a tiger", "The A-to-Z of mangoes", etc. It is almost as if David Davidar wanted to write about the general knowledge he had gained about different "things" and so lets the story turn in ways that can incorporate these. Makes for tough reading in the end!

Each time I talk about Indian author books, my friend Krishnan, who does not read Indian author books, keeps asking me why I am such a masochist. At the risk of generalization, most Indian author books these days are pains. Either they are all about style or the stories are non-existent or too tepid or there is too much detail in an attempt to woo the Western audience. Maybe I am getting old, but these days all I want to read are good stories, well written. If the style and method help achieve this goal, well and good, otherwise they should be quartered.

...which is why Meher Pestonji's short stories offer the best reading pleasure among these five books.