Deeti, Kalua, Zachary, Serang Ali, Paulette, Neel and Baboo Kissin, I am afraid I have to abruptly dismiss our modest tea party. The biscuits are soggy, sandwiches are musty and the Darjeeling brew is insipid. So slip me some “black tar” and I’m off to the land of nocturnal rainbows bedecked with copulating gremlins.
Sea of Poppies irrespective to the fact of it being the preamble to Ghosh’s Ibis trilogy and the onset ambience of the epic Anglo-Chinese Opium War,falls short in capturing my nomadic temperament through its plain narrative and wobbly interpretation of its characters. Ghosh enthusiasts would decidedly contradict this retort labeling my Machiavellian analysis as act of lunacy or vernacularism (as this book was highly recommended by several ‘neighborhood bookworms’). With the prospects of burning torches likely to be flung, SCREW YOU FUCKERS!!!! Comprehending this manuscript was a dreary stupor compelling me to seek solace in Pynchon’s The Crying of Lot 49.