Unable to take them around himself, Ram books his parents on a 16-day coach tour of Europe. The tour kicks off with Balu's exposure to the amazing sights of Amsterdam's red light district, not least among them a neon-lit nude astride a banana, and Janaki’s introduction to brandy and Irish coffee. The combination has an effect on their hitherto staid sex life that neither had bargained for, which threatens to be disastrous, but leads ultimately to greater happiness for both.

It’s an engaging story, the more so for Madhavan’s light touch and eye for the absurd. Why is it then that one has a growing sense of dêja vu as one reads on? The problem is not entirely Madhavan’s, but one that besets Indian fiction the more it travels. Having woken up to the fact that there is more to India than sadhus, snake charmers and maharajas, the West has replaced one kind of exotica for another – the great Indian middle class.

But, what’s sauce for the goose, isn't always sauce for the gander. So, while vignettes of that strange institution, the arranged marriage, or the obedient Hindu wife who forsakes both college degree and driving license to please her husband, the daily life of an Indian babu, and even such rituals as applying sindhoor and kaajal or loosely knotting her freshly washed tresses, which Janaki does with regular frequency, might be charming for a Western reader, it spells tedium and a desire to skip the pages for most of us in India. And, that’s the best way to read this book – skim over the bits that read like Amma’s letter from home or Mrs. Balachandra’s gossip, and enjoy those that give a rib-tickling cameo of a South Indian in Europe.