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VERSE

Having said that, one must stress that it’s not really poetry, it verges on doggerel, in iambic pentameter nevertheless; then again, it is an entertaining change from prose that well, proses on. Which is why you have lines that hold no pretensions to literature when they run thus: “One mistake can get you into trouble; Two can turn your whole life into rubble”. Elsewhere, this, as an example of English used to suit desi communiqués: “Lastmost Emperor dyed at Man-delay”. Or this one: “You’re now a member of the upper crust. But try to remain a blossom in the dust.” From which we can safely conclude that the works of Milton and Pope are not duly threatened.

So, what is needed here for the reader is a well-developed sense of the ridiculous. Some parts, though, are quite hilarious, like the passage where a hapless officer with a pronounced tendresse for fine wines and the like, is harangued on the evils of drink by his wife. “Why can’t you drink what normal people drink?/ Why of only vintage wines must you think?/ Why turn sour if grapes are harvested late?/ What’s there in Dom Perignon eighty-eight?/ What law says that it must always be pink?/ Why pour what’s left inanely down the sink?/ What on earth is wrong with Indian whisky?/ Why does only ‘double’ make you frisky?/ Why not drink a glass of hot milk for strength, and not that slimy thing called Crème de Menthe?/ Why buy Napoleon with a price so steep, He himself would have looked for something cheap…” In another piece, you come across clever twists like “bustard-hunting bird- brains”. There is the classic line that states what we all know: “I guess ministers everywhere are trite”, as also a spot-on sketch of a Gadaffi-like leader, with his unintentionally funny dissertation on love marriages.

Of course, those in the Service, those in the know, will instantly get onto the guessing platform. Doshi talks of incontinent PMs, the lopsided ratio of promotions versus ability, punishment postings, love amidst dusty files in dustier offices, sportsmen’s quotas, barely veiled contempt (by the author, presumably on behalf of the Service) for the Press, how files that get lost tend to stay lost, and how “We do not keep secrets in the South Block; We discuss them from nine to five o’clock”. The four sagas-in-rhyme deal with diplomacy during cricket, an affair of the heart, the art of wine-making and a misdirected Award for Bravery. So what comes through? Why, just that, like any other field, this one too is hardly level, needs the right connections, is riddled with gopher holes of corruption, deals within deals and eccentrics galore. Oh, and the feeling apparently prevalent among those in the IFS that “It’s on our brains the country runs”.

So. If one must open a book and be met with a moon-in-June rhyming pattern, the tales told therein must be entertaining. One isn’t sure this book fits the bill, though the author certainly deserves an E for effort. The novelty of rhyme soon wears out, at times the book descends into silliness. One gets a sneaky feeling that the book probably will hold interest most for the Foreign Service crowd. For the lay reader, the shenanigans of the Service become tedious reading after a while. All bark, no bite. To use a word that makes repeated appearances all through, “nice” reading for an evening when you don’t have much else to do.

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