There isn’t any plot that ties the diverse narratives together. The point of view shifts abruptly and catches you off guard at times, but there is a consistent tone and way of saying things that permeates the book and all the characters in it. The novel doesn’t try to be high brow and thankfully never insults you intelligence, but it definitely isn’t a mass market novel either. The language alternates between lines that are so original they make you stop to reflect and drivel that makes you wonder if the writer suffers from a kind of literary bipolar disorder. It’s not a book that you will finish in one reading for sure, but you most definitely will come back to it later, maybe even wonder why you persist reading it.
The novel is set in a sleepy Chennai, mostly in a middle-class retiree-infested Rainbow Colony, but meanders whimsically
between characters and scenes. The only common thread that connects all these characters—from the stray dog that begins the book to the colourful Ranga or Inspector Murthy is a sense of alienation and a hint maybe, of despair.
The book certainly isn’t a romanticist or nostalgic novel that builds narratives to describe the city of Chennai, but it captures many truths about the city nonetheless. The xenophobia, the family ties, the class hatreds and the lost potential for old world charm all come out without expressly labelling themselves or choosing to stand out—and that is actually an achievement.
There isn’t much to take away from the novel. No insights into human character—not even the kind of cheap casual insights of Hollywood fiction. There is no deep empathy, no energy in pace and none of the pounding novelty of a rock song in its pages. What can’t be denied about it though is the sense that it’s a lived book. This isn’t mere imagining and although often frivolous, it’s lived life translated—rather dispassionately—into fiction.
But despite all this the book smells of criminally wasted potential.
Characters who could have lived fuller lives between its covers often appear and disappear without showing us who they are beyond the obvious or the superficial. Plot ideas that could have been much more pass by in a parade of amusing but easy narratives. Nothing moves you the way you know it could if the author had put in more effort.
At the end of it you wonder who the author, Sanjay Kumar, was trying to impress? He sounds smart enough to know that this isn’t all he can do. He sounds talented enough to write the kind of meaningful fiction that will shatter your brain and make you reassess your life but why didn’t he?
Something about it makes you feel like the writer didn’t throw himself in to the writing of it—which is sad because on display are a series of traits of a skilled writer and natural story teller. Within the pages are self restrain on an often-entertaining self indulgence. Mr Kumar doesn’t fall into the trap of trying to build image after image along a plot that leads to an epiphany—which seems to be what most novels have descended to these days. There isn’t any formula and all the literary gimmicks he employs have been handled so well that they don’t feel like gimmicks, but actually flow cohesively.
So the question about Virgin Gingelly is not how good a book it is or how entertaining a read it is, but why isn’t it so much better? Why use the weight of a war mace to do the work of a hammer?