All The Makings Of An Indian 'Thriller'

I always read with a mortal fear of running into the word `sweetmeats' in some dark and narrow clause. Among the literary potholes that bedevil Indian writing in English, `fragrant oil' and `vermillion streak' are regular offenders, and `sweetmeats' is public enemy number one. Happily, most people in Shashi Warrier's novel prefer seafood and painkillers.

It helps that the protagonist, Colonel Rajan Menon or Raja (Ludlum's Bourne meets Chandler's Marlowe, best if played by Edward Fox in the Hollywood blockbuster) inhabits the cross-culturally monolithic world of the paramilitary forces. A language of spare, sometimes self-consciously terse thought and dialogue is already available to him. It works for the most part, barring the inevitable cliches when the villain's face `twist(s) into a mask of fury', or the occasional false note as when Raja says: "All right, get the lad". But the writing has a certain bearing, the voice is intelligent, and the style triumphs through modesty.

 

A spoilsport jacket blurb gave the plot away, but it didn't much matter. The general story is based on the 1989 abduction of Mufti Mohammad Sayeed's daughter and the 1996 Jain Diary-hawala scandal. Throw in some Partition-era spy stuff, a foreign hand, a shadowy mastermind and a twist of lime, and you have a fairly innocuous `thriller'. Three hostages are taken by a terrorist group demanding ransom and a set of politically explosive diaries. The power structure develops palpitations; Raja is called in for a rescue operation, but despite the helpful hardware and backup given to him, the bad guys inexplicably keep up. One bloody conflagration later, Raja finds himself fleeing from both sides, searching for the brain behind the brawn. He's broke, homeless, injured and confused, but a good Hindi movie theme is co-opted in the shape of a rich and loyal brother who joins in the adventure and becomes the vehicle for the final denouement. This last, has the hurried feel of a TV serial nearing the end of its allotted

hour, the villain rising to any old bait to own up before the credits roll. It pains me to say that in the heat of the moment we find the phrase `Indian dog'.

Warrier is essentially a good storyteller, and he's done his homework. His tale is solidly grounded in geography, chronology, and physical description. It is sprinkled with interesting tips on how to make bombs (a useful skill in these times), terrorist and counter-terrorist psychology, emergency medication, innovative ways to get informants to inform, and a convincing portrayal of military, political, and bureaucratic minds. The staleness of the plot matters not a bit: there are enough micro-surprises and mini-cliffhangers to keep one interested. I may as well confess here to having a soft spot for the oldest story in the world: the existential troubles of an individual struggling for life and integrity in a compromised and manipulative system. Also, I'm happy as a pig in muck when knee-deep in acronyms like RPG-7/Ds, NVGs, NSAIDs, and FLASH messages from the COAS to the SOF,especially when I'm told what they mean.

Maybe it boils down to the fact that I just like Colonel Menon. This commando isn't granite-jawed and freed in a single bound. He's nondescript looking, his marriage is on the rocks, he spends a great deal of time being framed and getting smacked around because of his own stupidity, and he has serious career doubts. Not without reason: the damsel in distress is not a fantasy in a plunging neckline but a spoilt teenybopper who cops it anyway. He doesn't pre-ach or patronise, and while he comes in strong shades of valour, he isn't above a little Falstaf-fian discretion. The killing mach-ine with a heart of gold is hardly an original character, but then the Indian thriller is a nascent and delicate beast with potential, and Warrier is the only one trying for now. Given our inspiring traditions of high-level subterfuge and crime, we should have a mo-nopoly on the genre in no time.