Only Murderers in the Building: Crime Fiction
Conversation between four "Crime Novelists" at Bangalore Literary Fest, 2023:
You can hear me mumble, stutter and blabber uncontrollably about my latest novel "Death on Diagonal Lane" at 5:17, 7:34, 18:40 and 26:38. 😀 Do watch it... it's a great deal of unintentional comedy, if nothing else 😊
https://x.com/HarperCollinsIN/status/1730858656915431609?s=20
Harper Collins has tweeted an unofficial video of the interaction I had with their bestselling author Anuja Chauhan at Bangalore Lit Fest 2023. Hopefully I'll be able to post videos of my other events at BLF when BLF releases the official videos of all the events. Anyway, this is an advance view! Watch me make a fool of myself and goof my carefully prepared lines 🤣 I couldn't help it Anuja has this somewhat overpowering personality and I was somewhat off balance at the crazy way the interview started: Anuja was late, caught in the Bangalore traffic, and I had to ad-lib for 5 minutes and keep the audience entertained until she got on stage 😂
If you happen to be in Bangalore this weekend, come over, watch me make an ass of myself 😀
Dear Friends,
my latest comedy novel "Death on Diagonal Lane" has been published by Hachette India:
https://www.hachetteindia.com/
A humor non-fiction with cartoons, by Poltu
Is the recession making you blue?
This book is just what the doctor ordered.
Twenty-two sure-shot strategies for dealing with the downturn!!!
Follow them and you’re sure to get shot.
Written by your friendly, neighborhood career consultant on probation from the friendly, neighborhood asylum.
A humorous look at living in a recession. Will the strategies in this book help you deal with your real-life problems? Possibly not. On the other hand, it will certainly cheer you up, and in these grim times you can use all the cheering-up coming to you, no? And who knows, while you are laughing, you may realize your troubles are actually a blessing in disguise.
Excerpt:
(from Strategy 13: Start a
revolution)
Seeing not the dimmest hope of a
job on the horizon, your thoughts turn lightly to commerce. Why not start my
own company, you think? Then I can have fun laying off my own employees.
This is actually a good idea, but
to succeed in business, you need a revolutionary new product. Say you want to
get into men’s underclothing – your only specialization – you need to come up
with a revolutionary – not revolting – new underwear that will bring the
Y-Front clad hoards screaming into your retail outlet, trampling three innocent
bystanders in the process.
But instead of all that sweat of
thinking up a new product, why don’t you consider starting a revolution itself?
No, I don’t mean a revolution in men’s personal clothing – I mean a real,
honest-to-goodness blood-and-gore revolution. Think Stalin. Think Mussolini.
Think Mao Tse Tung.
The saga of Perl and Hari - technologists, entrepreneurs, restauranteurs, scientific-detectives - in seven convenient volumes. Join Perl and Hari on their adventures as they get together, found a technology enterprise that specializes in Sacred Ashtray machines and get caught in the crossfire between warring yoga gurus. Share a meal with them as they burn a restaurant down and start one of their own, get caught up with a homicidal French cook, Japanese spies, and a movie-mad terrorist group dedicated to the overthrow of the Indian State and the establishment of matinee idol Rajni-Can as king. Drag after them through the humid, musty rain forests of Borneo on the search of a missing Neanderthal research specimen. Rack your brains with them as they solve the mystery of the musical cows - and along with it the great party-hats mystery. Sit in on their inter-galactic teleconference with an alien Beatles cover group - although the extra-terrestrial musicians in question would deeply resent being called aliens - for are we not, they would say, all members of a universal brotherhood of beings? - to solve the mysterious murder of one of their troupe.
And how, you ask, do I get my sweaty hands on these historical volumes?
Arrayed below, you see the dusty leather-bound jackets of these tomes. Click on them for more information on each individual book. You can also use the navigation panel on the right of the screen.
As of July 2022, only the first four of these are published on Amazon as paperbacks and eBooks. The remaining three are all written out, but I haven't yet gotten around to publishing them.
Most of the Perl books are 'Musical Novels' - that is to say, I've written songs to go with them. You can check out some of these songs by clicking on the link My Music in the right pane.
This is Volume-I
of Perl’s Script: the comic adventures of Perl and Hari.
Perl and Hari run a French restaurant called Le Tomb, a software startup called Ruby Storm, and are 'scientific detectives' on the side. Oh, and they have a pet talking buffalo called Jagan.
Two leading city gurus fight it
out for the spiritual TV ratings. Things have reached such a bitter
pass that Sri Sri (or is it Sri Sri Sri?) Bobby Shankar – the Art of Kidding
chap – habitually refers to his rival as That Old Goat. That Old Goat,
meanwhile – or Shy Baba to use his official name, he of the permanent bad hair
day, calls his spiritual adversary Stupid ol’ Bobby, boorishly eschewing all
the Sris in the prefix.
Bobby seems to have the upper
hand with his corny jokes and his Sacred Ash gimmick, until his deadly rival of
the holy cloth comes up with the Sacred Ashtray. This naturally makes Bobby
bite the lemon and take a jaundiced view.
Enter Perl and Hari – the
intrepid technologist-entrepreneur duo. Can they invent a sacred ashtray
machine for Bobby to outdo that of Shy Baba?
But they get more than they
bargained for in this particular project. Their technological research soon
lands them into a bubbling, frothing spiritual gumbo of food critic murderers,
overweight German spies, kidnapping, extortion, sex scandals… can Perl and Hari
extricate themselves from the holy soup with their sanity – and bank balance –
intact?
What leading book critics say
about Sacred Ashtray:
Telangana Herald: As far as we can make out, it’s a book of some sort…
Farm & Ag Review: A remarkably clear, concise exposition of the scientific rearing of
goats. Belongs in the library of every diligent goat farmer.
Daily BJ: The word Sex appears just once in over 300 pages, that too in
conjunction with Babies. What kind of a novel is this?
Good Grief, what do you care
what book critics say, anyhow? It’s pleasant, it’s funny, and while it won’t
change your life forever, it’s worth the price as mentioned on the sticker. Buy
it, you won’t regret it.
Excerpt:
Perl was already back, looking
like a spray of dew-drenched sweet pea when Hari crawled into Ruby Storm. She
was seated at a speakerphone, ready to open negotiations with Bobby. She waved
him to a couch and pressed Dial.
“Art of Kidding,” said a soft
feminine voice. “Which leg would you like pulled today? Press one for –”
“I’m going to do the leg-pulling,
kid,” said Perl like ice cubes made audible. “Put me through to that rat
Bobby.”
The receptionist had been trained
well. She did not miss a beat.“Sri Sri – or on certain days Sri Sri Sri – Bobby
Shankar does not take calls.”
“He’ll take this one all right.
Tell him it’s about the ring.”There was a suppressed gasp – the news had obviously
gotten around the ashram. There were confused rattles, clicks and whispered
conversations. Then Bobby came on the line.
“Yes? Who is this?”
“We have your ring.”
“What?”
“You heard. – If you want to see
your darling finger-joy alive again, leave a million rupees in unmarked bills
behind the third garbage can under the R.K. Puram Bridge.”
“What?”
“Unmarked bills. One million.
“What?”
“Oh Good Grief!” said Perl impatiently.
“Didn’t your English teacher tell you about the other interrogative pronouns?
There’s also Who, Why, When and Where. Anyhow, putting the whole thing in a
concise nutshell, we’ve ringnapped your ring – your ashtray machine is in our
custody. And you, rat, are in a fix.”
There was a choking, gurgling
sound.
“Perl? Is that you, Perl?”
“It’s your nemesis, kid. And in
case your English teacher didn’t teach you words like that, a nemesis is not a
nice thing to have.”
A furious cry – like that of a TV
Baba who had nicked himself shaving – engulfed the speakerphone.
“It was you! You broke into my ashram
last night and stole my ring!”
“The one you didn’t pay for,”
said Perl frostily. “This is called repossession, kid. Not stealing. Banks and
credit card companies do it all the time.”
This is Volume-IV
of Perl’s Script: the comic adventures of Perl and Hari.
Perl and Hari run a French restaurant called Le Tomb, a software startup called Ruby Storm, and are 'scientific detectives' on the side. Oh, and they have a pet talking buffalo called Jagan.
A nondescript artisanal organic farm high
up in the
Can that intrepid
detective-restaurateur-software developer duo – Perl and Hari – solve the
mystery of the musical cows before the strange disease spreads like wildfire
across the plains of
To find out, read on… (Go on. Of course you
want to find out. Don’t be a dummy. Pop that $3.99 or whatever it says on that
price sticker below, and buy the book).
Telangana Herald: This time we’ve nailed it – it’s a book!
Farm & Ag Review: A thought-provoking study on the effects of opera music on milch
cattle. Can Puccini and Verdi augment your herd’s milk production? Read this
book and find out.
Daily BJ: To
be absolutely honest, your friendly reviewer was suffering from a hangover and
couldn’t really peruse this tome, in the strict sense of the word. But I did
flip through it, and caught the word ‘Sex’ about fifteen times, so it can’t be
all that bad.
As you can see, the experts are all over
this book. Shouldn’t you be too?
Excerpt:
There was the scratching sound of a key turning. The door opened and Mata stumbled in. The policewoman put her head around the door. “Five minutes! That is all!" she said, and shut the door again.
“Perl! Hari!” cried Mata in
delight, on seeing them.
Then she became suspicious. “What
you do here?”
“Hi Mata!” said Perl cheerfully.
“We saw you getting hauled in by the police. Just checked in to see if you need
help. Sorry we couldn’t come earlier. We stopped for lunch and some unavoidable
shopping.”
“But… what you do in Lisbon?”
“Passing through… just passing
through…”
“But weren’t you in France some
time ago?”
Perl looked at Mata in wide-eyed
amazement.
“Good Grief! How on earth do you
know?”
“Mata knows.”
“Oh?” Perl shrugged. “Sure we
were there – then. We are here, now.”
“Oh?”
“Yup.”
“I see.”
“Absolutely.”
Mata had another nasty thought.
“You get me into this bird-nest
soup, right?”
Perl’s eyes snapped open in
amazement.
“Us? Why would we do that? We’ve
come to get you out, for God’s sake!”
“Oh?”
“Yep.”
“I see.”
“Good. Look – we don’t have time
for pleasant chit-chat. That policewoman will be back any second now. She told
us everything – the bombs you were carrying and everything. Your baggage has
been sent to the police forensic labs for analysis.”
“Chikusho !”
“Chikusho is about right. She was
telling us it could take weeks and weeks. Maybe forever.”
“Ikenai !” cried Mata. “Gotta get
hats to boss in 48 hours, or boss kill me.”
“Hats? What hats?” asked Perl
innocently.
“Err… some hats. Fashion hats.
Samples. Boss going into haute couture.”
“Ah!” said Perl understandingly.
“The samples will be late for the printemps-été shows, right?”
“Exactly,” said Mata gratefully.
“And by the times those boys in
the police labs have finished testing the hats they’ll look like props in a
horror movie.”
“Chikusho ! Mata not thought of
that.”
“Of course, you could always pass
them off as exceptionally avant-garde hats…”
“No! Boss hate avant-garde!”
“Well, you better break into the
lab and break them out, hadn’t you? Before those boys break your boss’s haute
couture hats, I mean.”
“Labs no problem,” said Mata
dismissively. “Labs full of men, for sure. Men not a problem for Mata. But
gotta break out of airport first. Damn airport full of policewomen!”
“You need to get rid of these
policewomen, right?”
“Right.”
“Tell me – you have your mobile
phone, right? Or have they confiscated it?”
“Mata has spy mobile –
undetectable.”
“Great. Well I can slap together
a little mobile phone app for you – it’ll emit an inaudible sound wave at the
natural resonance frequency of the average Caucasian ovary. It will induce
spontaneous ovulation in all women within a 10 meter radius. All those
policewomen will quickly grab their tampons and charge off to the toilet –
giving you a short window to deal with the men and escape.”
“Kakkoii ! Can you really do
that?”
“Sure. Only one problem – it may
set off your ovaries too.”
“No probs. Mata super-spy. All
super-spy ovaries of steel.”
What leading book critics say about Exploding Buffalo:
Telangana Herald: We’re inclined to think it’s some kind of a book…
Farm & Ag Review: The author turns his attention from the herding of goats to the breeding of water buffalos, bringing the same scientific insights that he had brought to bear in the previous volume. A must-have for professional buffalo breeders.
Daily BJ: The word Sex is used six times, this time. An improvement, but this chap has far to go before we’ll recommend his books.
Come on guys, critics will be critics. Read it and make up your own mind. Don’t expect it to change your life – I mean, if you expect your life to change for $2.99, with discounts, what kind of life do you have, anyway? – But it’ll help pass the long hours on a trans-Atlantic flight. A lot better than sampling the free alcohol while elbow wrestling the fat fellow in the next seat.
Excerpt:
“Well, young lady?” asked Perl.
“Having another go at Jagan, I see.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Mata, too
exhausted to argue.
“Didn’t I tell you his testicles
were off-limits? You must fight this irrational urge for buffalo testicle
curry. It is becoming a neurotic obsession with you.”
“Not testicle, brain,” mumbled
Mata. “Bhutanese buffalo brain fry. Velly tasty.”
“So! You felt peckish for some
brain fry, and you decided to de-brain poor Jagan? You can’t just help yourself
to his medulla oblongata because the spirit moves you! I am sure he needs it.”
“Moo!” added Jagan He was
attached to his cerebellum too.
“Yes. Keep your hands off his
medulla oblongata, and his cerebellum and cranium as well, young lady. Do I
have to ban you from his individual body parts?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Next time you have an urge to
taste prime rib steak, oxtail, trotters…whatever, remember, Jagan is not your
one-point convenience store. We have Johnson Market for things like that.”
“Johnson Market closed at 2 AM,”
said Mata
“Well, that’s just too bad.
Assuage your midnight hunger pangs with cheese and crackers. Stock your room
with them. Desist from treating Jagan as your private larder.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“He is not a midnight snack.”
“No ma’am.”
“Moo!” added Jagan.
“Or breakfast, for that matter.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Very well, you may go now.”
This is Volume-III of Perl’s Script: the comic adventures of Perl and Hari, the indefatigable technologist-entrepreneur-restaurateur-detective duo. They run a software company called Ruby Storm, a restaurant called The Tomb, have a pet talking buffalo called Jagan and are 'scientific detectives' on the side.
There’s a Neanderthal in my bed!
Like most women on their wedding night,
Gloria Kryptopoulos comes to this routine, non-startling conclusion. But Gloria
is not most women. She has a PhD in Anthropology, and her husband, a senile
buffalo farmer, doubles as research specimen. Where the average susceptible
young bride is filled with a kind of shrinking horror, this moment of epiphany
affects Gloria the way an overflowing bathtub had a compatriot of hers, several
centuries ago – a gent by the name of Aristotle. Like him, she springs up,
uttering something unintelligible in Greek, and spends the next twenty years of
her life trying to prove her hubby is the last surviving Homo Neanderthalensis,
a leftover from a lost tribe of Neanderthals.
Flash-forward several years. Gloria is
about to make public her epoch-making research findings at an international
anthropological conference, when her research specimen-husband is kidnapped –
by a jealous colleague with a permanently jaundiced view of life after having
been dropped on his head as a baby.
Enter the Perl and Hari: software
programmers, restaurateurs, scientific detectives. Gloria is impressed with
their tracking down of a kidnapped buffalo. She hires them to track down her
kidnapped buffalo-farmer husband.
Their search takes them to the glassy
caverns of AARS, lined with bound back-volumes of Playboy, in the staid
business districts of
It does not take them long to realize that
they have not one, but three mad anthropologists to contend with, and that the
answers lie deep in the virgin rainforests of Borneo.
And what do leading critics think of
Neanderthal?
Telangana Herald: We’re really, absolutely sure it’s a book of some sort…
Farm & Ag Review: The author displays a remarkable breadth of expertise in livestock
farming, turning this time to the care and upkeep of Neanderthals, which we
have been given to understand is a prehistoric breed of milch cattle.
Daily BJ: OK
– archeological sex. Now we’re getting somewhere. This fellow finally seems to
be learning that sex is what our readers want to read.
This is what the critics say about
Neanderthal. And do you know what we say about critics? Read the book, kids.
The last one to read it is a mad anthropologist.
Excerpt:
DDT – for that is how Prof D.D. Tyagi was know to his students - turned out to be a thin dark gent with a mop of unruly white hair, a lopsided grin, and a curious manner of looking out of the corner of his eyes and licking his lips, which made him look like a sexual pervert. This he in fact was not. It was just the unfortunate side-effect of having been dropped on his head as a baby, while his mother took a quick swig of rum from her husband’s liquor cabinet. A legion of female students who had managed to get their doctorates unmolested- a rarity in Indian academic circles- would have attested to his moral rectitude.
Gloria of course did not know
this, but it still did not bother her. She liked sexual perverts. She enjoyed
slapping them. She loved the stinging sensation on her palms, and the shock of
enlightenment on their faces. It was little pleasures like that that made life
interesting.
She sat before DDT with bated
breath, her slapping hand twitching, barely hearing what he was saying.
“So, my dear Gloria,” said DDT
leering genially, “my dear friend Aristopoulos says you wish to study our rural
communities?”
“Yes,” said Gloria absently,
discreetly squeezing out a drop of glycerin on her hand from the little bottle
in her handbag. It added a pleasing wet, sucking sound to the slap.
“The question of course,” said
DDT, “is how rural? We have sort-of rural, really rural, and really, really
back-of-beyond rural.”
“Yes?” asked Gloria.
“Yes. We have places just a short
car ride out of Delhi that could pass for rural. The people there are
marginally more uncouth than in Delhi, which is actually pretty impressive
because people in Delhi are already astonishingly uncouth – you must have
noticed that already.”
“Yes - the taxi driver on the way
from the Airport to this place was fairly bizarre. I had to enlighten him
spiritually.”
“But, on the other hand - these
‘sort-of rural’ places are contaminated by the modern world. The TV, the
fridge, the detergent soap… this reduces their scientific value.”
“I suppose…” said Gloria, looking
mysteriously into his eyes.
“Then we have the ‘really rural’
- which is a lot better. Those kinds of places are at least a day’s journey
away. No TV, fridge but they still use detergent soap. Still valuable
scientifically, but a soap washed villager is somehow unsatisfying. You don’t
get that strong rural aroma that makes all the difference.”
“Hmm,” purred Gloria.
“But what is truly interesting is
the really, really back-of-beyond rural, where they are still living in the 3rd
century.”
“Ah?”
“B.C.”
“That’s interesting.”
“Yes. Very interesting. But you
would have to travel deep into the hinterland for that. It’s a long journey,
and not very safe – especially for a lone woman.”
“That’s nice.”
“So what would you like, my
dear?” asked DDT kindly. “Plain vanilla rural, or really, honest-to-goodness
rural?”
“Oh…really, really rural.”
“Really, really, really rural?”
“Oh yes,” said Gloria earnestly.
“Really-truly obnoxiously rural. As rural as it gets.”
