Customer Reviews

A Dead Hand: A Crime in Calcutta

5 star:		(4)
4 star:		(13)
3 star:		(18)
2 star:		(7)
1 star:		(8)

 

 

A Dead Hand is Paul Theroux's latest novel, and here he dabbles into the mystery genre, with mixed results. His vivid descriptive language enlivens the story, but the novel didn't seem to me to have enough of the conventions of a fine mystery to bring satisfaction. Most of the clues seemed obvious, and the progression of the story was often too predictable. For readers who thrive on feeling one is actually in an unfamiliar place that comes to life through fine language, A Dead Hand will bring some reading pleasure. For mystery lovers, A Dead Hand provides more appetizer than entrée.

Rating: Two-star (Mildly Recommended)

Set in India, familiar territory for Theroux, 'A Dead Hand` tells the story of a travel writer suffering from writer's block (aka `dead hand') until a chance letter from an American ex-pat, the mysterious Mrs Unger, relating a story of a mystery of a dead body in a hotel leads him to release his creativity in very unexpected ways. The story is more about obsession and infatuation than it is about the mystery itself as the narrator falls under Mrs Unger's Tantric charms. But does she have more to hide than she's letting on?

In the hands of Theroux, a new novel set in the India that he knows so well, what could possibly go wrong? Disappointingly, quite a bit on the evidence of this book.

For a start, both the narrator and the object of his infatuation, Mrs Unger, are far from likeable characters. The writer (Jerry Delfont, although he is hardly, if at all, referred to by his name in the book) comes over as a self-pitying man (and when the narrator has few redeeming qualities it's hart to empathise with him) and he largely fails to convey any of the charms that make the Mrs Unger so appealing to him. Also inexplicably for someone who knows India so well, Theroux fails to invoke much of the mystery of the place.

A further problem I had with the book was that in relating the Tantric activities of Mrs Unger there is clearly a lot of sexual metaphor(the sessions take place in Mrs Unger's `vault') - which is fine although it is repetitious (as is much the first two parts of the book), but he then goes on to make it explicit - `And being inside the vault was like being inside her body'. It seems that he is giving his readers no credit for picking up on his non-too subtle hints. We really can pick up on the hints, Mr Theroux. If there's one thing worse than a writer who tells instead of shows, it's one who shows and then tells in case he hasn't shown well enough.

The subject of writing is clearly something Theroux knows very well, although given his prolific nature one suspects the pains of writer's block are less familiar to him. In the second part of the book, the narrator is introduced to another writer visiting India - a certain Paul Theroux which is kind of amusing but it also comes across as a bit self-congratulating - although this Mr Theroux is talked about in less than complimentary terms. It's amusing but adds little to the story.

The mystery of the murder is only really dealt with in the final part of the book (in the first two parts, Delfont is too busy being obsessed to bother too much with sleuthing so if you were wanting a mystery book, this probably isn't it) - and things pick up a lot here. The writer finds the dismembered hand of the victim - ie a dead hand. And if you hadn't made the connection with that and the writers `dead hand' or writer's block - again it is explicitly spelt out for you.

Of course, there are some lovely Theroux touches as well - and the Indian characters are without fail more interesting than the American characters in the book. But it's a long, long way from his best work.

The ennui of a travel writer in Calcutta is the catalyst for a strange tale of obsession, betrayal and exploitation. Jerry Delfont has come to a moment of reckoning in his career as he considers his "dead hand", writer's block, admitting he has been "pretending to be a writer when I was only indulging myself as a tourist". Salvation arrives in the form of a letter from a wealthy woman, Merrill Unger, who appeals to Delfont to help her solve the mystery of a dead child, to shed light on an outrageous story told by her son's friend, Rajat. Delfont reads the letter, "amused by its presumption", but, with few demands on his time, he agrees to meet Mrs. Unger, who is far more formidable in person than he has imagined. A philanthropist who decries the sainted Mother Theresa for false humility, Mrs. Unger quietly runs an orphanage and is involved with many humanitarian works besides the business that has brought her to Calcutta.

Contrary to his assumptions, Mrs. Unger is devastatingly beautiful, powerful in a way he has never encountered before in a relationship. At this precarious time in the writer's life, the attention of this woman is a balm to the soul of a man doubting his viability in the world. Slowly introduced to Mrs. Unger's environment, which includes her devotion to the goddess Kali, Delfont falls into an unexpected but welcome state, impatiently anticipating the next contretemps with the American philanthropist he has begun to view as a visionary, a saintly, complicated woman who introduces him to the ecstasy of tantric sex. Delhunt nearly forgets his mission to learn more about the dead child in the hotel room in his urgency to be near Mrs. Unger.

Theroux's Calcutta teems with humanity, the deprived and the desperate, a rigid class system and the scars of poverty: "India has a market economy... there are no suitors, only customers." Mrs. Unger seems an extraordinary person to the once-cynical writer, who is daily more entranced by her exotic seduction. But, as the circumstances around the child's dead body fall into place, Delhunt's faith in human nature is challenged, India exposed in all its moral ambiguities. Theroux throws in an extra twist when his protagonist is introduced to author Paul Theroux, also seeking information on the mysterious Mrs. Unger, a curious conceit in a place where nothing is what it seems. As Mrs. Unger honors the goddess Kali, so does Delhunt worship at the altar of obsession, slow to wake from his hedonistic haze and a reality he cannot ignore. Luan Gaines/2010.

In what is arguably his best novel since "The Mosquito Coast", the well-traveled wordsmith Paul Theroux knocks it out of the, um, cricket pitch in "The Dead Hand", a brooding and obsessive mystery set in Calcutta's hellishly writhing slums of human wreckage. The title refers to "writer's block", of which burnt-out travel writer-protagonist Jerry Delfont suffers. Languishing in a middling Calcutta hotel with nothing left to write, the middle-aged Delfont receives an enigmatic letter from a wealthy American ex-pat, Mrs. Merrill Unger, telling the tale of a dead boy found in her friend's room in a flea-bag Calcutta slum hotel. Against better judgment, Delfont follows the letter to its source, meeting the surprisingly sensual and alluring Mrs. Unger. Soon Delfont's globetrotting plans are on hold, and smitten by Unger's sinuous charms, he soon finds the more literal meanings to a "dead hand." Over his head in Bengalese mysticism and tantric sex, a pawn on a chess board with dimensions well beyond his comprehension, Delfont falls ever deeper under Unger's spell, learning his past travelogues have not even scratched the surface of India's impenetrable culture.

Theroux spins his prose with same transcendental magic he uncovers in Hindu temples and fetid alleyways. This is the stuff that recalls The Orient Express and old black and white movies - exotic, mildly occult, and continually shadowed by an unseen but clearly palpable sense of dread. The author adds delicious depth and color with smattering vestiges of the British Empire, rich in "mountebanks" and "calumnies" and "ironmongery" and rich remnants of Victorian "sensibilities" left behind in the west, while left alone to flourish on the subcontinent. True to Theroux's own travelogue roots, the stink of traffic, the seething masses, the noise of horns and bicycle bells fill Calcutta's thickened air, while Theroux casts himself in a cleverly self-depreciating cameo role.

In short, "The Dead Hand" is a blockbuster that satisfies on multiple fronts: the best western dissection of Indian culture since Rohinton Mistry's haunting "A Fine Balance." An engaging mystery that will keep you riveted to the pages, while holding in enough suspense, thrills, and startling visual images of abuse and depravity to make you want to walk away, fully realizing you are powerless to do so. Poignant, appropriately ambiguous, and frightening, "The Dead Hand" is a brilliant novel that will leave a mark on your soul that will not easily fade.

Paul Theroux is one of the most talented, and interesting, writers of our time. But this time around he has written a dud. The story is about an American travel writer living in India, who has "dead hand" (writer's block, or just lack of spark that would lead to the desire to write), and who becomes involved in a mysterious death when he is brought into this intrigue by an irresistible and potentially dangerous woman. There's nothing especially bad about the word-for-word writing, nothing really wrong with most of the characters, the visual descriptions, the social and cultural perspective. But there are two major flaws: (1) the alluring woman, who is the most important character to the story, is ridiculous and completely unbelievable, so the reader never feels like he or she is reading about an actual, intriguing person, (b) the plotline about the death, and how the narrator gets dragged into it, is outrageously contrived, again forcing the reader to take in words that just don't seem believable, that remind you too often that you are reading a little tale a writer dreamed up in a flight of fancy, nothing you really need to get involved in. Theroux is a good enough writer that there are little bits and pieces in the book that entertain, and some of the minor characters are intriguing and real-seeming, but overall this just doesn't work. If Theroux's body of books were an album, or a box set, this would be a filler track; better yet, something recorded but left on the cutting floor.

Being a Theroux fan-both his fiction and non-fiction travel pieces-I looked forward to reading this book. In the end, it was hit and miss for me. The descriptions of India and its inhabitants were vivid and compelling. Theroux's prose is smooth and fluid, but otherwise there is little to recommend here. This is a billed as a mystery, but the mystery takes a backseat to the protagonist's romantic/sexual obsession. The plot meanders and lacks focus. But perhaps the greatest problem here is that none of the characters are sympathetic. The reader finds no one to root for. In the end, I'd recommend this novel to someone interested in India or traveling there, but that's about it.

I generally have liked Theroux's non-fiction work more than his fiction. Like much of his fiction, this is a story that involves mystery, intrigue, and expats. In quality it probably falls around the midrange of his fiction. It's probably not the best introduction to Theroux's fiction or his writing, in general, but the book is a decent airplane or beach read. The main character of Mrs. Unger gains interest, but the revelations that come toward the end are easily seen quite a while ahead of time. Similarly, her relationship with her son and his relationship with an Indian friend who is central to the initial plot offer few surprises. The book runs out of gas for awhile about midway through. This is where Theroux inserts himself as a character, a device that adds little to the book expect perhaps marking where Theroux had difficulty moving the story further. Calcutta (or Kolkata as it is now called) is the best thing in the book. On a trip to India several years ago, it turned out to be one of the highlights for me. In part, this was because it was the least touristy destination on my itinerary. Theroux captures its intellectual ferment, its neglected Victorian buildings and the shabby charm that makes it unappealing for package tourist travelers. In so doing he compensates for the lackluster plotting and the variable depth of the characters. In sum, it's not great, not bad, but not worth entirely neglecting.

I picked up a copy of this novel in Calcutta at an old established book store on Park Street 2 weeks ago. Reading this after so recently returning from India was interesting. My time in Calcutta was relatively short, I did have a few days at the end of my journey to feel out this city. I was transported with ease back into Kolkata, the street names, the chaos, the traffic, the noise, the sacred, the juxtaposition of the Oberoi Grand with the street vendors on the sidewalk outside it's gates. The ghats on the Houghly River, the early morning flower market before sunrise, the street children running here and there - gesticulating hand to mouth - feed me!
I couldn't put this book down, the smells, the sounds, the sights came rushing back to me. I relished this book

I agree with a previous reveiwer that this is one of the of the best dissections of this subcontinent since Rohinton Mistry's "A FIne Balance". This is a wonderful examination of this perplexing country - one that is difficult if not impossible to understand. The more I visit - my 4th trip- the less I understand the complexities and I am yet drawn again to Mother India.

Jerry Delfont, a travel writer in Calcutta, is suffering from writer's block. He cannot seem to put pen to paper and is only too glad to get a letter from a mysterious Mrs Unger asking him to investigate a terrible crime. Mrs Unger, Jerry finds, is a philanthropist who has taken residence in Calcutta and rescues children from lives of poverty and misery. A virtuous woman, she is called 'Ma' by her indian acquaintances and Theroux seems to really have started out with something good.

The enchanting Mrs Unger wants Jerry to investigate the sudden appearance of a corpse in the hotel room of a friend. Jerry (who is completely enchanted by the woman) sets off to do the same and finds unexpected success both with the mystery as well as with Mrs Unger. But there is much more crime taking place under his nose than Jerry thinks there is. And, of course, the generous Mrs Unger has secrets of her own.

The book description hints of tantric sex and wild rituals. Well, the book is gory - animals are sacrificed - and there is some odd sex but nothing terribly shocking. Indians worshipping the goddess Kali and practicing Tantric sex seem to have been a fascinating topic for writers for a long time so no big shocks in that.

The shocking part comes later when, of course, we find out Mrs Unger's ulterior motives for helping these street children, child prostitutes and child beggars. But even then the shock isn't such a surprise. In fact, I think that is my issue with this book. There are no great surprises. The progression of events is fairly predictable and the formula is one that has been visited before. The odd introduction of the author as a character in the book is definitely surprising but I found myself wondering what exactly the point was to that little exercise. Is this book more of an experiment for its author than an attempt to entertain the reader?

In brief, I did not think this was one of the better books about life in India or a decent mystery novel. India kept distracting Theroux from the mystery he was trying to write about. And when he was writing about India (admittedly very well, on occassion) the mystery kept getting in the way.

I just don't understand the other reviewers who compare this novel to Rohinton Mistry's A Fine Balance. Mistry's novels bring people alive and his writing takes you so in the characters lives that you live and breathe them, you cry with them, hope with them. And you are definitely rooting for them through the book. This novel is an OK read if you have nothing else to look for and you are interested in stories about self-indulgent middle aged writers following obsessions to make their empty lives more interesting. You don't end up rooting for or caring about any of the characters. Perhaps I'm disappointed because I actually like Paul Theroux's travelogues, guess one doesn't expect expect particularly empathetic characters from a travelogue, just entertainment, but if this is a mystery or romance, then I expect to care about the protagonists. A bit hard to do in this case... I'd pass on this book.