It was a rather small dinner party, as dinner parties in Delhi go, the kind where sparkling conversation is supposed to be the speciality of the house. Amongst the guests that balmy night were a sprinkling of foreign correspondents, expats and desis who write for the overseas press. Spring, alas, had been all too brief. A hot, dust-laden breeze blew intermittently as we sat out on the patio discreetly dabbing at the driblets of sweat slithering down our faces. I must add that the beautifully chilled white wine — Indian, of course, because in some milieus much of the smuggled French wine is often just a step up from ‘plonk’ and is a definite no-no – didn’t really mitigate the rather warm atmosphere. And keeping in sync with it and all the heat in the air was the conversation.

The topic du jour was a new novel with the rather chatpatta title of Hindutva, Sex and Adventure. The kitschy cover has, appropriately enough, a comely and curvaceous bare-topped woman who could have sprung from the pages of a coffee table Kama Sutra, striking a pose against the background of a gigantic, lotus flower in full bloom. For once you can judge a book by its cover.

Well, I wouldn’t even dignify this slim, gauchely-written book — crammed with extracts from the reportage and writing of the ‘author’ — by describing it as a novel. If you are wondering why I put the word author in quotes you are right to do so. John Maclithon is a nom de plume of — as the book’s blurb maintains – a foreign correspondent who covered South Asia for several decades. Some of it ostensibly ‘dodging bullets on the India-Pakistan border, covering Mumbai riots....’

Who is this man? The guessing game continues, with curiosity escalating into anger as more and more journos parse the book for clues. What has set the cat amongst the pigeons in the world of journalists is the fact that the author (hiding behind a pseudonym) has apparently modelled his radio journalist protagonist – called Andrew Luyt — on Sir Mark Tully. The name of the protagonist — as John Elliot, a former Financial Times journalist who has lived in India for the last two decades, astutely points out in his article in Mail Today — is a ‘mis-spelt anagram’ for Tully.

Maclithon, or whatever his name may be, has indiscriminately plundered (make that plagiarised) several elements of Tully’s life and writing: his protagonist, too, was born in Kolkata, was tempted to enter the Anglican Church, has a powerful voice and became a household name in the subcontinent, and worked for the BBC in India. And, yes, he lives with his intellectual partner in Nizamuddin East.

The similarity just about ends here — and what some would call slander begins. Luyt is as different from Sir Mark (knighted in Great Britain, a recipient of the Padma Bhushan and for most a voice of objectivity) as night is from day, and truth from lies. The fictional character ‘veers towards a soft Hindutva vision’ according to the blurb. Luyt appears to be incredibly naïve and writes mediocre prose, as does the novelist.

Apparently the publishers, Roli Books, are legally bound to not reveal the identity of the author. Though, the rumour mill working overtime has it that French journalist Francois Gautier who wrote from India for Le Figaro is the writer. Upping the frisson factor is the inclusion of several titillating scenes of love-making between Luyt and a much younger Indian journalist: yoga-enhanced sex and a few rather vicious sexual encounters between the two. Incredibly, the journalist named Imla is an aggressive and fearless reporter but sexually naïve. Luyt fancies himself as a sex-guru teaching her about the yogic route to mystic union!

There is, however, one saving grace in the novel: Imla’s line addressing her lover: ‘You saffron import from England!” Though I would make that France: if you know a little French and put your ear to the text the syntax begins to sound more Gallic than Anglo-Saxon.

Grace and casualness
While Hindutva, Sex and Adventure may not get an official launch, book launches have become quite ubiquitous in the nation’s capital — an increasing number of them are turning into socialite evenings. Wearing the stripes of a book-lover now gets you social cachet.

But that’s not the only reason: authors and those in conversation with them are the nouveau-celebrities. Take the launch of Fatima Bhutto’s Songs of Blood and Sword in the terrace garden of the Taj Man Singh. It spilled over with the elegantly attired (where have all the jholawalas gone?). Many of them stood patiently through the hour and more that the omnipresent William Dalrymple chatted with the rather courageous 27-year-old Pakistani writer.

But the buzz over the cocktails that followed — after the preamble about the author’s boldness in taking on the Pakistani president — was about her clothes. She wore a green sari with a bindi and remained gracious despite a stupid question about her views on the hullabaloo over Sania and Shoaib ki kahani by someone in the audience. Commenting on her wearing a sari another gentleman said that seeing her in one assured him that Sania would be safe in Pakistan!

Even as there was praise for Fatima’s sartorial statement that evening, there was much mumbled criticism of the casualness with which Dalrymple conducted the public tête-à-tête. Overheard: “He drank three glasses of beer while interviewing her,” grumbled one. “No, it was four,” added another. And in another corner: “Look at how he dresses. If he has to wear a kurta pyjama he must know how to sit while wearing it…you can’t cross your legs like that,” said an outraged matronly sort.

When I asked the lady if I could quote her, she made me promise I would not disclose her identity. She is a Jaipur Literature Festival aficionado and does not want to be shown the door by the talented Mr Dalrymple, whose fiefdom it is.

Subscribe to Verve Magazine or buy the Verve issue on stands now!