Rich themes, poorly explored

My Friend Sancho is one of the big releases this summer as far as Indian writing in English goes. It marks blogger Amit Varma’s debut as a novelist. Mumbai-based Varma is known for his blog, India Uncut, and has been a journalist and well-known columnist. As such, his credentials as a chronicler of our lives and times are pretty impeccable. But it would not be wise to pick up Sancho with such high expectations. The writing is crisp and the book would certainly qualify as an easy read, even as a page turner. But the big question is, is that enough?

Varma sets the story in familiar terrain. Abir Ganguly, the twenty-something protagonist, is a reporter with a tabloid in Mumbai (apart from Varma’s own stints in journalism, his wife worked for Mid Day). The routine of a crime reporter—not being able to rise early in the morning, cultivating contacts, cosying up to the cops, even going for news breaks, photographer in tow (on the latter’s motorcycle) in the middle of the night—is recreated quite authentically. Sample this:

“‘Ganguly, Inspector Thombre. I hope I’m not disturbing.’

‘Never sirjee, that’s not possible. Bolo, what’s up?’

‘Ganguly, I have story for you. I have received tip that few gangster from Chhota Sion gang are spending night in nearby housing society called Samrudddhi. We are leaving to arrest. Why don’t you come with photographer, you might get story, pictures?’”

The dialogue as well as the all-too-familiar hunt for a “story” will no doubt ring a bell with many of us. More importantly, Varma’s sketch of the character of Abir also rings true. The latter’s sense of humour, his mannerisms and behavior—from daily checking the India Uncut blog (we can surely pardon a little self referencing, can’t we?) to his Smart Alec-y sense of humour—and the voice in which he speaks, all come together quite well to give us an engaging enough picture. But once Varma has established this and his dexterity as a writer, there is no more to look forward to other than a straight-forward tale you’ll probably finish in an hour or two.

The plot is fairly simple: Abir is witness to the cops killing a man—a Muslim—in cold blood after barging into his house at night. It’s a case of mistaken identity but the errant cops are not held accountable. As a somewhat callous—but completely recognisable—young man, Abir does the obvious thing: Hide his involvement with the incident. Through a quirk of fate, he is assigned to do a feature story on the dead man. A human interest story, New Yorker style, if you like, for which he must talk to Muneeza, the slain man’s daughter, who, though well educated, does not belong to the same class as Abir. The rest of the narrative traces Abir’s growing attraction for Muneeza and how that changes him as a person.

What lacks in this well-told tale, however, is a sense of depth. There are no layers, no peels to be removed, no grand themes explored. Again, it is impossible to read this as a quintessential “Mumbai” book as you may have been tempted to. For while Abir’s immediate surroundings (even the air-conditioned bookstore-in-a-mall that he frequents) are recognisable, there is far less of Mumbai than you may have expected—or wanted. References to encounter killings, religious discrimination and so forth are just that. These are themes that could have been explored in greater detail to give us a richer texture but strangely, Varma has resisted doing that. His argument is that he wanted to focus on just the love story and leave everything else as background. But for a reader—even one not looking for something obviously heavyweight and literary—that hardly suffices.

In a book where everything else, including the writing, falls into neat patterns, the ending is deliberately ambiguous, if not entirely unexpected. Abir picks up the phone to talk to Muneeza—who has left him after the discovery of his complicity (albeit unwitting) in the crime and his refusal to blow the whistle on its perpetrators. As Muneeza comes to the phone, we are left wondering as to her answer. It’s drama that is likely to get its author a call from Bollywood. On the other hand, what would have been more interesting would be an exploration of Abir’s own moral ambiguity. Like the eyewitnesses who saw Jessica Lal being shot dead, he chooses to remain quiet, saving his own skin, worrying about his convenience, loath to get muddled up with the “system”. What does the realisation of his own weakness do to him—beyond the juvenile heartbreak that has come as a consequence? That is a question that Varma should have asked. It is a pity he didn’t.

My Friend Sancho 
Amit Varma
Hachette India
Pages 217
Price Rs 195