two totally different tales, connected by nothing more than sand and camels

It's 6 a.m. I can't sleep. Stupid jet lag.

Anyway, books! Lovely beach friends.... I can't say enough nice things about Jennifer Weiner's latest novel. But I can say one nasty thing.

The title really sucks, no?

Yes, in fairness, Best Friends Forever conjures memories of a good Judy Blume book, and in mimicking Blume's story-telling style -- title aside -- Weiner's struck gold again. But more gold than usual.

Her key characters, Val and Addie -- best friends who didn't grow apart so much as fell into a void -- are so well drawn. But so is every character in this story, a novel I would describe as Weiner's best so far.

We have the girls' parents -- the mousy mom, the PTSD dad, the house-wrecking party mom, the absentee dad -- shaded in through Addie's memories. We have Addie's brother, whose life undergoes massive change with tragedy, but whose love for Addie merely morphs. We have a villain forced to repent, changing the very idea of what a villain might be and whether a person who is bad at 17 is still bad at 32. We have loneliness as a character, an ever-changing enemy and friend.

And we have Jordan Novick.

Throughout the book, Weiner departs periodically from the first-person narrative style in order to set foot inside the love interest's thoughts and feelings. And, unlike most men in chick lit -- barring Nick Hornby's, of course -- Jordan has thoughts! And weaknesses! A heart-breaking history of his own!

Sorry. I don't mean to sound so gleeful about heartbreak. In fact, I read this book in one day and found tears literally welling in my eyes at points. But let's be honest. In most romantic-murder mystery-coming of age novels, only one character -- and maybe a sidekick -- get to have dark pasts or deep neuroses. Unless, of course, the love interest has some sort of mentioned-in-passing issue the hero/heroine can sort out quickly by merely existing and probably making out.

In all her characters, Weiner digs a little deeper. What might drive one to drink too much? To eat too much? To flirt too much? To stop working?

And how far should one go to change his or her life?

It's on this note that I am going to -- quite bizarrely -- start talking about Aravind Adiga's The White Tiger.

I know. These books have no real connection, other than that I read both on a beach in Tunisia.

Where changing one's life is merely one of the themes Weiner grapples with, I might argue it is the sole stomping ground of Adiga's morally-stretched, "half-baked" Balram (Munna) Halwai.

Early in this tale, we are keenly aware of all that Balram's father wants for him -- escape from the "Darkness" of a small Indian village, a better life than service to the rich. "My whole life, I have been treated like a donkey," he tells his son. "All I want is that one son of mine -- at least one -- should live like a man." (p. 30)

What, perhaps, is supposed to set Balram apart from those around him is his cunning, his calculation. This is not, after all, the tale of some nice little Victorian servant who somehow gets his due.

Rather, this is a tale of violence, revenge, and greed in an angry world. If Balram disobeys the laws of the land, he does so no more than any and all around him....

I don't want to get into the nitty gritty of this one. It's on the agenda for our next book club, and really, I wouldn't want to rob anyone of the opportunity to be surprised by Adiga's narrative twists and turns.

On a side note, this was Adiga's first published book. A brilliant work set loose upon the world when he was 34 (yes, I am jealous), that won the Booker and is told in a long and unwieldy letter format. Except, of course, that even at its most unwieldy and off-topic, the story is being told for a reason, driving at a point or detail the reader needs to know to understand the whole picture.

And, of course, one can't help but wonder whether Balram's story is supposed to be India's story. And whether there is such a thing as a happy ending.

"I won't be saying anything new if I say that the history of the world is the history of a ten-thousand-year war of brains between the rich and the poor. Each side is eternally trying to hoodwink the other side: and it has been this way since the start of time. The poor win a few battles.... but of course the rich have won the war for ten thousand years." (p. 254)

of UK, books and India

Some pics from the UK....

If the layout on your computer looks anything like the layout on mine, the first three are images from the rowing regatta at Henley-on-the-Thames. The next handful are from the Portobello Road Market, at Notting Hill. And the last speaks for itself....

By the way, on books: 1. I was really all set to encourage everyone I know to read Such a Pretty Fat. And then, in the last five pages, the author is mean to a homeless person. No, this will not ruin the end of the book for you -- it's a well-written memoir about a woman struggling with her weight and body image -- unless, of course, you can't stomach people who are mean to the homeless and disadvantaged. 2. I packed along Cassandra and Jane, thanks to a friend, and plan to update you soon on how this "Jane Austen story" reads -- Hint: it's been an excellent travel companion! 3. I am continuing my love affair with all things Lonely Planet. And, it turns out, all things Moleskine.

Oh, and 4. There's a new book club book! It looks as though this meet will take place sans moi, however the hosts have an excellent invite I just have to share (hopefully they don't mind):

Hello friends,

See, when you come to Bangalore, and stop at a traffic light, some boy will run up to your car and knock on your window, while holding up a bootlegged copy of an American business book, wrapped carefully in cellophane and with a title like:TEN SECRETS OF BUSINESS SUCCESS! or BECOME AN ENTREPRENEUR IN SEVEN EASY DAYS!

Don’t waste your money on those American books. They’re so yesterday.

I am tomorrow.

(from White Tiger by Arvind Adiga)

So begins, pretty much, last year’s Booker Prize winner, and your next selection for The Little Book Club That Could, the date for which is Yet To Be Set.

I know what you’re thinking. Another Indian won another Booker Prize? What hold does the sub-continent have on Booker Prize committees? I’ll note that last year’s panel had a British-Sikh comedian (aside: WTF?), and my people are not known for their reasoning or diplomatic skills (“Choose White Tiger, or I will slit your throat…”).

And while I am as befuddled by the appeal of The God of Small Things as the next reader, I will say that India, with its rocketing economy, teeming population, ancient, varied, strange, vibrant, and gorgeous cultures, its place in the Information Age, its new global stature, to go along with its old global stature, is an ideal place to incubate and produce compelling pieces of art. We may add Arvind Adiga’s White Tiger to the list.

The story of Balram, the servant driver from the Darkness of India, and his ascent and adventures as a “social entrepreneur” left me conflicted. The book is written in a charming, sardonic, underdog voice, which is greatly appealing. Adiga says he’s inspired by the Black American 20th century novel, epitomised by Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man, and the voice of those in the lower places, those that know the score, the reason for their Hell, and are enraged by it.

Adiga is no Ellison, but he captures, or imagines the reality of one foot soldier in the Army of the India’s Servant Underclass. Scores of men, women and children from the “Dark”-er states of India drive the cars, serve the tea, and till the fields of those in the Light. This book is an antidote to the elephants and ashrams and spices we’ve come to expect from the sub-continent. It casts a light on the side we never see.

Or, at least, I think it does. We really have no way of knowing. The book’s authenticity rings true, but that might have more to do with my overeducated, liberal ear than whatever might be the case. Does the poverty described in the book fall into the same exoticism trap the rest of country seems to fall into? Can we survey the country without seeing saris and dance numbers, without hearing strains of the sitar and thumps of the tabla? My fear is that I’m trumpeting a book that might be adding a brick to the edifice it professes to break down.

I hope you read the book and bring your thoughts. To confuse you further, A. and I will serve a selection of delicious Punjabi dishes and their accompaniments. Please let us know if you’ll join us.