Skip to main content

Age of Vice

Title: Age of Vice 

Author: Deepti Kapoor

Publisher: Juggernaut, 2003

Pages: 548


If you want to meet some of the vilest characters in Delhi and Uttar Pradesh, Deepti Kapoor’s Age of Vice is just the novel for you. The novel opens on Delhi’s Inner Ring Road in the year 2004. Five pavement-dwellers have been run over by a Mercedes car at 3 o’clock in a cold February night. The man found in the driver’s seat, Ajay, is not the real killer. He is a convenient proxy for carrying a rich man’s sins.

Ajay is originally from Eastern Uttar Pradesh, the crime-hub of India. Back in 1991, when Ajay was only an eight-year-old boy, his father was killed by the goons of the upper-class landlords who rule the roost in the villages. Ajay was sold by his mother as a slave. The boy reaches Himachal Pradesh. A few years later, he finds himself in Goa from where Sunny Wadia takes him to Delhi as his right-hand man. Delhi – the city of “con men, criminals … ugly and dirty … no good, (where) only rich people do well, everyone else suffers.”

Sunny is a playboy who has everything that most Indians cannot even dream of: chic cars, silken girls, posh mansions, exotic foods and drinks and the whole-hearted support of con men, criminals as well as politicians. His father, Bunty Wadia, is the lord of a whole kingdom of those con men, criminals and politicians. And a whole business empire as well. Bunty’s brother, Vicky, is a dreaded criminal in UP. Vicky is no ordinary criminal. He is like God: nothing escapes his eyes. He is omniscient, and omnipotent too.

The Wadias are the real winners in India where the game is inescapably rigged and the rules are stacked. These winners make the rules and the politicians ratify them in the state assemblies or the central parliament. The rules are not for ensuring the welfare of all Indians; they ensure the welfare of a few select Indians. These select Indians will do some good too in order to look good in public.

“I was never a goonda,” Vicky says.

“I forget,” Bunty smiles. “You were a God-man.”

The author has panache. She carries everything with elegant ease: crime, irony, style, philosophy, plot, suspense, drama, punch dialogues Рyou name it. This novel is as gripping as a Shah Rukh Khan movie. Sunny Wadia possesses all the charms and elegance and apparent innocence and not-so-apparent cleverness of SRK. He can adopt a simple Ajay as his prot̩g̩ and gunman at one time and then make Ajay a scapegoat when that is convenient for him and still continue to the hero of the movie Рsorry, the novel.

This is Delhi. Only a few privileged ones can be real winners. The rest are lucky if they can break even; the majority are losers.

In the end you are not sure who the real winner is, however.

In a world that does not have even a single good character, there cannot be any real winner. There is a character who initially promises to be a good heroine: Neda Kapur, a Delhi-based journalist. But she gets caught in the shifty charms of Sunny Wadia and eventually leaves the bad world of the Wadias and reaches London, funded by Sunny Wadia.

You read this novel as if you are watching a mega-hit Bollywood movie. You move from action to action with a lot of anxiety about what is going to happen next. Deepti Kapoor can keep you hooked to her story. What a style too! Sample this:

Ajay’s mother, Rupa, is pregnant again.

His elder sister, Hema, tends to their goat.

This is Eastern Uttar Pradesh. Nineteen ninety-one.

The foothills of Nepal rise in the north.

The moon is visible long after dawn.

Before Ajay took a breath he was already mourned.

Staccato.

I loved this book and I hated everything in it. It is written in a seductive and gripping style. It is almost unputdownable. It shows the dirty side of India clearly, too clearly.

Too clearly – perhaps therein lies its fault. This is a thriller. So that’s not a fault really. It’s just that I would have loved to get deeper insights into the heads and hearts of those three Wadias.

PS. This post is a part of Blogchatter Blog Hop

  





Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Yesterday

With students of Carmel Margaret, are you grieving / Over Goldengrove unleaving…? It was one of my first days in the eleventh class of Carmel Public School in Kerala, the last school of my teaching career. One girl, whose name was not Margaret, was in the class looking extremely melancholy. I had noticed her for a few days. I didn’t know how to put the matter over to her. I had already told the students that a smiling face was a rule in the English class. Since Margaret didn’t comply, I chose to drag Hopkins in. I replaced the name of Margaret with the girl’s actual name, however, when I quoted the lines. Margaret is a little girl in the Hopkins poem. Looking at autumn’s falling leaves, Margaret is saddened by the fact of life’s inevitable degeneration. The leaves have to turn yellow and eventually fall. And decay. The poet tells her that she has no choice but accept certain inevitabilities of life. Sorrow is our legacy, Margaret , I said to Margaret’s alter ego in my class. Let

The Adventures of Toto as a comic strip

  'The Adventures of Toto' is an amusing story by Ruskin Bond. It is prescribed as a lesson in CBSE's English course for class 9. Maggie asked her students to do a project on some of the lessons and Femi George's work is what I would like to present here. Femi converted the story into a beautiful comic strip. Her work will speak for itself and let me present it below.  Femi George Student of Carmel Public School, Vazhakulam, Kerala Similar post: The Little Girl

William and the autumn of life

William and I were together only for one year, but our friendship has grown stronger year after year. The duration of that friendship is going to hit half a century. In the meanwhile both he and I changed many places. William was in Kerala when I was in Shillong. He was in Ireland when I was in Delhi. Now I am in Kerala where William is planning to migrate back. We were both novices of a religious congregation for one year at Kotagiri in Tamil Nadu. He was older than me by a few years and far more mature too. But we shared a cordial rapport which kept us in touch though we went in unexpected directions later. William’s conversations had the same pattern back then and now too. I’d call it Socratic. He questions a lot of things that you say with the intention of getting to the depth of the matter. The last conversation I had with him was when I decided to stop teaching. I mention this as an example of my conversations with William. “You are a good teacher. Why do you want to stop

Uriel the gargoyle-maker

Uriel was a multifaceted personality. He could stab with words, sting like Mike Tyson, and distort reality charmingly with the precision of a gifted cartoonist. He was sedate now and passionate the next moment. He could don the mantle of a carpenter, a plumber, or a mechanic, as situation demanded. He ran a school in Shillong in those days when I was there. That’s how I landed in the magic circle of his friendship. He made me a gargoyle. Gradually. When the refined side of human civilisation shaped magnificent castles and cathedrals, the darker side of the same homo sapiens gave birth to gargoyles. These grotesque shapes were erected on those beautiful works of architecture as if to prove that there is no human genius without a dash of perversion. In many parts of India, some such repulsive shape is placed in a prominent place of great edifices with the intention of warding off evil or, more commonly, the evil eye. I was Uriel’s gargoyle for warding off the evil eye from his sc

X the variable

X is the most versatile and hence a very precious entity in mathematics. Whenever there is an unknown quantity whose value has to be discovered, the mathematician begins with: Let the unknown quantity be x . This A2Z series presented a few personalities who played certain prominent roles in my life. They are not the only ones who touched my life, however. There are so many others, especially relatives, who left indelible marks on my psyche in many ways. I chose not to bring relatives into this series. Dealing with relatives is one of the most difficult jobs for me. I have failed in that task time and again. Miserably sometimes. When I think of relatives, O V Vijayan’s parable leaps to my mind. Father and little son are on a walk. “Be careful lest you fall,” father warns the boy. “What will happen if I fall?” The boy asks. The father’s answer is: “Relatives will laugh.” One of the harsh truths I have noticed as a teacher is that it is nearly impossible to teach your relatives – nephews