First things first, unlike a lot of other “New India” writers, Palash Krishna Mehrotra’s persona as the narrator – which assumes importance in a work of non-fiction – is not annoying. He is neither the typical grim nag lamenting the inequalities of post-liberalisation India nor a pretentious social commentator taking on the onerous task of “deconstructing” the India we live in today. Unfortunately, not being a bore is not a qualification for being a writer, for even with his fresh narrative you see Mehrotra succumbing to the same pitfalls as others of his ilk — easy assumptions, even easier generalisations and a penchant for stating the obvious.
The Butterfly Generation attempts to chronicle the story of young urban Indians – between the ages of 25 and 35 – and how they reconcile their “disparate” worlds. Of course, with some liberal help from sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll (as if I haven’t heard of this since the sixties). Most protagonists of this young-India picture live in Delhi (south) or in Mumbai — as long as you take a flight and land straight at Hard Rock Café. Here we meet a photographer, a dancer, call centre junkies, musicians, scriptwriters and a corporate lawyer, among others. Brief trips elsewhere acquaint us with a wheeler-dealer auto-rickshaw driver, employees working in the food and beverage sector, metalheads and so on. Our generation here is ambitious, unabashed consumers of capitalism and general believers of the good life. Some pop Ecstasy, want to rain-dance on the road; others pop acid and worry about the debt they have run themselves into. All this would be fun if we really saw them pushing the doors of their perception. Only they don’t. Mehrotra’s “butterfly” generation flits from the trivial to the mundane all the way back to the trivial. And so what’s meant to be a “journey into the passions and follies of India’s technicolour youth” – as the cover pompously declares – reads like a lazy excursion into the fancies of a rather self-indulgent lot.
Sure, the book and its author have their moments. But they don’t go beyond being amusing anecdotes that could be interesting to listen to over drinks (or a joint, if you prefer). Should these have been compiled into a book? No, only because Mehrotra’s staccato style of writing is not powerful enough to involve you in his life and what goes on in his head in a way that books should. He makes ordinary observations interspersed with broad conclusions. So liberalised India gives its young a “second chance” and socialist India was “morally homogeneous”. Capitalism, it appears, has “liberated” India. All because now we can flaunt our sexuality no matter which way we swing. “In South Delhi, it’s not unusual to see a guy draped in a sari, hanging out at a bar with his boyfriend.” Never mind that just five hours away from where all the action is, a gay professor (of the socialist generation) gets suspended after students (of liberalised India) set up cameras to catch him having consensual sex.
Never mind that because back in Mehrotra’s India centuries of caste prejudices are being instantly wiped out in Pizza Hut. All thanks to the nametags that bear only the first names of employees working in such fast-food joints.
When the author isn’t busy oversimplifying, he is drawing inspiration from popular magazines and Bollywood movies. To understand women and “a little of where they may be coming from”, he decodes three prominent women’s magazines — Woman’s Era (WE), Femina and Cosmopolitan. And voila! there’s the WE woman who usually marries the arranged way and stays at home, the Cosmo girl who obsesses about the boardroom and the bedroom, and Femina strikes a middle way. This is as absurd as picking up TOI, HT and The Hindu to understand the country’s political leanings.
The problem, then, is the author’s inability to question his own construct and go beyond clichés. This wouldn’t have mattered if the book did not lay claim to narrating the story of a generation with vivid kaleidoscopic detail. But since it does, you’d expect a little more than one man’s musings. You’d expect some research and broader portrayal.
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If the aim was to go gonzo, then the book could have done with a little more edge and definitely much grittier narration. Lacking on all these counts, the book is, at best, the diary of a butterfly, but certainly not the story of my generation.
THE BUTTERFLY GENERATION
Palash Krishna Mehrotra
Rain Tree
263 pages; Rs 450