For a long time and indefinite number of reasons, modern day tales of aspiration that lead through an urban labyrinth of complexity, have been centred exclusively in Bombay. The promise land for the Indian dreamer, its polarities and precariousness have stimulated curiosity and framed storylines for numerous works of art and literature. Both over hyped and undernourished, the city seems to exude a powerful and inviting lure — one that is fuelled by the “mad desire (Bombay) arouses in you to lead an unlonely life” even as everyone is battling loneliness.
Karan Seth, whose life and ambitions steer the narrative, is a photographer with an impassioned goal to immortalise Bombay through his pictures and searches varying moods to be captured on film. Karan’s “epic record of the city” evidently serves as a parallel to Siddharth Shanghvi’s snapshots of the urbane crowd and their lives. The author opens with an ensemble of high society Bombay socialites, painted a rather familiar shade. Familiar not just because such representations have been laminated in films championing an exposé of elite culture, but also most of the archetypical figures depicted are fairly identifiable with their real life counterparts.
Shanghvi’s technique in debunking celebrity involves moving from public personae to private natures and yearnings. Following such a discovery, Karan strikes an unlikely but warm friendship with Zaira, a Bollywood star. He also forms a unique companionship with Samar Arora, a prodigious and renowned pianist now fallen reclusive. His tryst with love draws him to Rhea Dalal, a middle-aged married woman with a captivating aura of sadness and longing. All the characters are bound in an intricate web of emotions with each other which the author narrates with considerable warmth.
A dramatic shift in the tone of the novel takes place with the treacherous death of Zaira, a barely disguised replication of the Jessica Lal murder case. It is precisely from here on that Shanghvi decides to register his wrathful indictment, lashing out on the many afflictions of society. In doing so, he presents an argument which doesn’t posses the momentum he intends to deliver. The reason for this probably lies in the fact that the author’s exposition of a hampered judiciary, corrupt politicians, the bigotry of the right wing, much too recognisable Hindu People’s Party and manoeuvring witnesses, who turn hostile or derive social mileage from publicised courtroom drama, is deficient with regard to incisive exploration or at least a novelty in broaching his subject.
The real significance that the convoluted case holds is the turbulence it commences in the lives of the principal characters, as Rhea deliberates how she witnesses “two trials unfold”. Relationships start unravelling and individuals confront the darker shades of each others personalities, as well as their own. For Karan, the compounded rejection from Rhea and the fraught journey of justice for Zaira, render him hopelessly disillusioned and self destructive which ultimately finds him shacked in a kind of malignant loneliness he always wanted to escape.
In a complete disavowal of his desires for love and photography, Karan escapes Bombay only to return again. Shanghvi sublates Karan’s return to the city to an ambiguous sense that pulls him back to the place he left and doesn’t offer any explanation for it. It is only here that Karan finds atonement through the power of genuine friendship and in realising hope and beauty amidst disappointment and hardship, a quality that he finally enshrines in his camera captured essence of the city he calls home. Shanghvi turns innately philosophical in his resolution to live in “the truth of (each) moment,” acknowledging the transience of everything that happens, good or bad.
Language is an interesting aspect of Shanghvi’s second novel. Completely unlike The Last Song Of Dusk which abounded in lyricism to the extent of dramatic excesses, Shanghvi in his latest book employs colloquial lingo and heightens his realistic writing with generously distributed metaphors which are quite often overbearingly sexual in places not required. The most dominant feature of this migrant's tale is the use of the flamingo allegory. It is through this simili the author captures the unsettling experience of adapting to a metropolis.
Shanghvi’s greatest strength as a writer resides in his ability to explore ideas and connotations of love in a prose that matches the concept’s nuances. For instance, there is a remarkable tenderness in the writer’s delineation of the love that Zaira and Samar (who is gay) share, wherein he describes how souls get caught in wrong bodies. Love is the lifeline of the novel as Shanghvi displays its workings in varying degrees and various levels as it is, (the author will have us believe) the thing “everything was made out of”.
alokita dot datta at gmail dot com
The Lost Flamingoes of Bombay is published by Penguin India (2009, Pages: 349 Price Rs 499)
A version of this review was published in Businessworld Issue Dated 17-23 March 2009, page 73
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A dramatic shift in the tone of the novel takes place with the treacherous death of Zaira, a barely disguised replication of the Jessica Lal murder case. It is precisely from here on that Shanghvi decides to register his wrathful indictment, lashing out on the many afflictions of society. In doing so, he presents an argument which doesn’t posses the momentum he intends to deliver. The reason for this probably lies in the fact that the author’s exposition of a hampered judiciary, corrupt politicians, the bigotry of the right wing, much too recognisable Hindu People’s Party and manoeuvring witnesses, who turn hostile or derive social mileage from publicised courtroom drama, is deficient with regard to incisive exploration or at least a novelty in broaching his subject. 
