Another Great Indian Con being lapped up by the world... . Let me start by explaining the title of my review: being an Indian (settled in India, not outside) I am incessantly perplexed by the plethora or completely rubbish books from India which the West just can't seem to get enough of. Books which say nothing about India, and are not about it. Just books set in India, which throw in some curry and some local language, and somehow thus make people fall all over themselves in an attempt to praise the book. My gut revolts against such partisanship, and this is one of those books which is a perfect example of this rubbish trend, and hence is going to get such deserving treatment at my hands.    But let me start by going back a bit in time and giving credit where it's due: after reading his first two books, I came to the very early conclusion that Vikram Chandra was the narrator's Narrator, a storyteller of uncommon brilliance, a weaver of magic tales. On the flip side, like most other Chandra fans, I too was frustrated by his ability to end every one of his stories in the worst all of all possible ways; but I loved his craft nonetheless. I had almost convinced myself that with his next book, I'd stop about 10% before the end of the book, and with Sacred Games, that promise turned out to be very easy to fulfill - I managed to put the book down without dying of guilt about halfway through itself.    Sacred Games is a book about nothing: there are no characters who feel real, it is not about the protagonists' environment, it doesn't rotate around or shed new light on any events, and it doesn't deal with any objects of fascination. Nothing. Nil. Zilch. Nada. A lot of people have talked about this as another of the, if not the definitive Bombay book, but having lived there myself, I can vouch for the fact that this book doesn't even begin to capture an iota of the character or the essence of Bombay. (If you really want to read about the city, read "Shantaram" - now that's a book!) In fact, I think one of the lowest points of the book is how it fails to create any context - the events of this book could almost have happened anywhere, at almost any point in time. (And no, that does not make it timeless - just outright insipid.) Simple mechanisms like linkages to some real-life events would have given the reader something to hold on to - but no, Mr. Chandra refuses to give any straws to the drowning. Reviewers have gone ga-ga over it's portrayal of the Bombay Mafia, but there is nothing said here which is even remotely new, and there isn't the slightest different twist to it. Dons, corrupt policemen, actors, dancing girls, slums, and smuggling - everything has been told, and told much better.     A stunningly stupid highlight of this book is the copious usage of local language without any glossary to help the readers understand what the terms mean. I have almost been a local there, and though I understood most of the local or slang language, there were terms which bewildered even me. I understand that Mr. Chandra believes that this deliberate omission of explanations draws you into the story, but when there are 10 or more such words per page, it will leave a lot of readers more irritated than intrigued.    Overall, I would strongly recommend avoiding this book. The Indians because there is nothing here that you don't know or can't read about in a better written book, and the rest because this is not about India -it's just a forced nowhere story. Save your money and your time. Go buy or read something else.
Output: NEG