The Cambridge Curry Club By Saumya Balsari, BlackAmber, Rs 275

While scholars were battling over the exact year of the first war of Indian independence, another mutiny was stirring in 21st-century Cambridge. The “subalterns” working for the charity shop called IndiaNeed owned by Diana Wellington-Smythe or “Lady Di” asserted their right to heat up their lunch right inside the shop, in spite of orders to the contrary from their employer on the ground that Indian food smells. It is another matter that the rising never did take shape, because the site of the revolt, the shop, would collapse that day. But the “sly October wind” that tore through Cambridge that morning had done its duty in inciting Heera, Durga, Swarnakumari and Eileen to rebellion, not only against Lady Di, but against the very conditions of their existence.

The happenings of a single day make up the content of Saumya Balsari’s debut novel. It is endless gossip and twaddle, with some metaphysical quips thrown in, courtesy Durga. The ladies discuss their husbands, their Asian compatriots and the English in the shadow of a Jubilee photograph of the Queen on her birthday. Customers coming into the shop provide brief interludes of action in between the chitchat until a heated brawl ensues at the end. Life changes for the better for each of the ladies in the aftermath of the confusion that breaks out as Lady Di’s son is bonked on the head by Swarnakumari and falls in a heap over the corpse of an elderly lady. Little objects of desire — a blonde wig, a whip, tiny knickers with “Punish Me” embroidered in black and a pair of crutches — keep floating in and out of the action. They become part of the “khichdi pot of life bubbling in here”, at IndiaNeed.

Inevitably, there is much talk about the diaspora, with Swarnakumari and Durga providing the voices of tradition and rebellion respectively. The charity shop proves to be the ideal location for such reflections since it is “A symbol of the Diaspora...a domain of collective hope and renewed, recycled life.” The ladies also keep talking about the way Indian names get transformed as continents are crossed — Swarnakumari becomes Sara, Ashok becomes, quite inexplicably, Bill, and Lady Di keeps calling Heera Helen. In this context, Balsari makes a faux pas, which gives the discussion on naming an unintended, and unfortunate dimension. Durga, as the mythical goddess, is not Durgashtini but Durgatinashini, the one who destroys evil.

All the characters, being caricatures, amuse by being true to type. However, some of them are more successful in this than the others. While Mr Chatterjee is a brilliant comic stereotype of the NRI Bengali bhadralok, his wife, Swarnakumari, is less convincing. Mr Chatterjee enjoys his retired life in Cambridge by watching Mohun Bagan matches and occasionally, the cleavage of his English neighbour from behind net curtains. When he is not doing either, he sends letters of complaints to local authorities and newspapers about the “moral turpitude” of schoolgirls. His wife’s devotion to Guru Ma is endearing, but her frequent hanhs and na (which, in her speech “was a statement of finality rather than a search for validation”) and silk saris make her seem more like a Marwari than a Bengali housewife.

The Cambridge Curry Club is hilarious from start to finish. It will doubtlessly lend itself to a hugely entertaining sitcom. Until that comes off, the print version is recommended for lifting the spirits on a gloomy day.