JOIN USShe began her writing career delectably with naming her first novel Piece of Cake. Not surprising, as she worked at Nestle’s: the very name evokes scrumptious goodies.
Soon it was all about a heart going pit-a-pat in A Girl Like Me. Beyond romance, she thrilled with Drop Dead. Which of us hasn’t dreamt at least once to be like Kiran Bedi? So, Niki Marwah was born in Swati’s third novel and has now slipped into Lethal Spice.
With her old ingredients in a new mix, Swati glides over her keyboard with lists of fantastic cuisine from all over the world. After all, the novel is built around an Indian reality television show, and even if there is no ‘Rajbhog Challenge’, we get to receive information about various countries.
Poor Thailand, which is in political trouble now, is “where ginger and lemongrass and red chillies ruled”. India is, of course, the gourmet land with ker sangri in Jaisalmer, karimeen in Cochin, aalu-sabji in Chandni Chowk, pathar ka gosht in Charminar and sarson da saag in Amritsar. No 70-mm dosas, though.
For, we have to get busy with the murder of the pregnant judge Mala Joseph and the consequent confusion: “Mala had consumed the poison on stage, under the very eyes of the cast and a 300-strong audience.” For Niki to prove herself, a perfect setting.
A lead? Ah, yes, Kamaal Kabaabs magnate going through letters from Mala. Not love letters, but recipe-letters for their proposed joint venture. “Dearest KK, have you tried switching quantities of ginger and garlic in your khatti khumbi?
I served it to some visitors from the BBC last night, and they couldn’t stop praising the results. Of course, I told them it was entirely your recipe...”
We slurp like Dr Watson, but Swati has other succulent grapes in India’s societal market to gather, the most recent and widely-covered news being rape all over the land. Rapes and gang rapes everywhere, be it Shimla or Kolkata, Bangalore or Pollachi.
Niki gets a chance to lecture on the need to avoid segregation in terms of gender: “Whereas the reality is that women don’t need special treatment; in fact, they need to be treated exactly the same as men — by employers, law-makers, law enforcement agencies, the justice system, the average man on the streets... No Lakshman rekhas, no curfews, no restrictions.”
But who killed Mala? Swati places yet another lead when a partridge is killed in the Jungle Book Resort:
“‘And what is that?’ Shaq said, retaining his hold.
‘The bird.’
‘I caught it.’
‘And I found it.’
‘And I killed it.’
‘And I let you.’
They stared each other down for a long moment.
‘Makes us accomplices, then,’ Shaq smiled.
‘Partners in crime,’ Vicky agreed.”
Action there is plenty with ever so many bizarre incidents happening on almost every third page. Logic is shoved aside happily.
If the Shimla ‘gas attack’ is colourful with a crowd of 300 escorted to safety (the exception being Mala), there is dark vibrancy about the manner in which cottages burn in the resort. Niki in Shimla or Vijendra in the resort, walkie-talkie is the in-thing.
Not that there are no moments of fun. Since her long-distance romance with Ram remains a private affair, Niki gets plenty of marriage proposals.
So we have this besotted old man from Kangra “whose dead wife had apparently come to him in a dream and told him that she had been reincarnated as the SP of Shimla; could he please come and take her back home?” Kudos to Poulomi Chatterjee, Swati’s editor, who has managed to keep us remain focused on the vital question: Who killed Mala? Or was she an unintended victim?
The ‘Finals’ is in Goa. Now, Niki Marwah is one of the judges at ‘Hot Chef’ contest. But it is Kemaal Kapoor who fills the stage. The kebaab king is being interviewed by the charming Nikhat.
The dark secret from his past, the studied vengeance binds his hands together at the back with a dupatta, leaving people to find him “half-naked, face down, in a hotel bathtub, in a pool of his own making, his belly slathered with his own urine.”
Swati never leaves much to our imagination. We even have KK signing a confession like John Turner of Boscombe Valley, under the compulsive force of Sherlock Holmes. Certainly an admirable, self-confessed bookworm.
So, who was the killer? We shall not crib about the loose ends that are a-plenty, for, we are satisfied that the partridge episode was not in vain to celebrate Lethal Spice as a rival to Andhra Avakkai in its tang and turbulence.
Lethal Spice
Swati Kaushal
Hachette
2014, pp 325
RS: 350