The Clifton Chronicles: Book 3; Best Kept Secret: by Jeffrey Archer.

Archer always keeps a suspense in the end of every volume of this series, and this one, part three, is no exception. This time the story is moving on to the next generation and - a la As the Crow Flies and at least another one of Archer's works - there is multiple suspense, possible incest and more.

They already have a son, and hope to be united in marriage, but are they related through a common father? One expects this these days to be simply and privately solved in an hour or so by medical procedures, but those days before DNA tests were possible much less common, it was a matter for courts - and that is a surprise until one realises quite how complicated the issue is.

It is far more important for the people concerned whether they can marry and if the son is not labeled born of incest, but there is more to it, since the will of the grandfather who founded the estate and the shipping corporation that the eldest son shall inherit the whole, and the law of the land too goes in generally for the elder son inheriting the title albeit in that case it has to be the legitimate one.

So the drama begins where the previous part left it off, is the couple related already; and the issue is to be decided by the parliament of UK, as most issues that are not satisfactorily solved by courts do. Again, in this case the people concerned are mostly selfless and care only for the good of the whole family, but the public is involved!

From this - the vote goes with need of the one single person presiding to vote to break a deadlock, described by the author in his usual way keeping one breathless - to the brilliant son of the brilliant couple growing up and getting into scrapes, and the uncle meanwhile in scrapes of his own that are more evoking of pathos rather than an amusing chuckle, and then too there is the little sister (daughter of the deadbeat dead father, aunt to the little boy) found and adopted into the family; very engrossing, but it goes further.

Adventures of the boy where he is quickly out of his depth, and the various elders involved quickly and silently to not merely get him out of it safely but to have the profit of it all for the nation, it becomes slightly reminiscent of an earlier work of the author where a similar young man out of his depth in Switzerland had a previously brilliant (but now a mere bank employee) roommate come to his aid unexpectedly, and so on to a thrilling chase that solved satisfactorily.

Here it is satisfactory in that part albeit slightly less thrilling and more concerning for the boy, but the whole thing twists and turns unexpectedly towards the end with the father of a schoolmate involved in a sinister way. Villains that pursue the righteous main characters with no thought to their own happiness but only to destroying that of others is yet another familiar theme. It would be cliché if it were not all too familiar in life and only too true to type.

Archer leaves the reader hanging in suspense at the end as usual in the series, so one expects the next part impatiently. Must read for Archer fans and all the more so for Clifton Chronicle connoisseurs.

Three Cups of Deceit: by Jon Krakauer.

The original book that Krakauer refers to and exposes for semi fiction with exposure of Mortenson's saga did seem too much, and it is, going by this. Great deal of the story in Mortenson's original is just that - story, gilded for fundraising purposes. There might be more to it though, and Krakauer is not going into that which is obvious. 

Friday, February 1, 2013

The Racketeer: by John Grisham.

Delight after the somber reality of some of his past recent ones, and true to his earlier form albeit with less crusading for truth or championing of the victims and more about sheer getting away with it.

Sunday, December 2, 2012.
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It's as usual by Grisham  a tale of law and courts and judges and lawyers with backdrop as usual of Southern states, and crimes and solution by honest but wronged ones, with details of prisons that remind one of autobiographical works of Jeffery Archer.

But the real story is about travails of an honest black lawyer, a judge who took bribes and a mining consortium that bought the judge - and the neat way the wronged lawyer managed to overturn the success of those criminals without committing a crime.
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"Frostburg is a few miles west of the town of Cumberland, Maryland, in the middle of a sliver of land that is dwarfed by Pennsylvania to the north and West Virginia to the west and south. Looking at a map, it is obvious this exiled part of the state was the result of a bad survey and shouldn’t belong to Maryland at all, though it’s not clear who should have ownership. I work in the library, and on the wall above my little desk is a large map of America. I spend too much time gazing at it, daydreaming, wondering how I came to be a federal prisoner in a remote part of far-western Maryland.

"Sixty miles south of here is the town of Winchester, Virginia, population twenty-five thousand, the place of my birth, childhood, education, career, and, eventually, The Fall. I am told that little has changed there since I left. The law firm of Copeland & Reed is still doing business in the same storefront shop where I once worked. It’s on Braddock Street, in the Old Town, next door to a diner. The name, painted in black on the window, was once Copeland, Reed & Bannister, and it was the only all-black law firm within a hundred miles. I’m told that Mr. Copeland and Mr. Reed are doing well, certainly not prospering or getting rich, but generating enough business to pay their two secretaries and the rent. That’s about all we did when I was a partner there—just manage to scrape by. At the time of The Fall, I was having serious second thoughts about surviving in such a small town.

"I am told that Mr. Copeland and Mr. Reed refuse to discuss me and my problems. They came within an inch of being indicted too, and their reputations were tarnished. The U.S. Attorney who nailed me was blasting buckshot at anyone remotely connected to his grand conspiracy, and he almost wiped out the entire firm. My crime was picking the wrong client. My two former partners have never committed a crime. On so many levels I regret what has happened, but the slander of their good names still keeps me awake. They are both in their late sixties, and in their younger days as lawyers they struggled not only with the challenge of keeping a small-town general practice afloat but also fought some of the last battles of the Jim Crow era. Judges sometimes ignored them in court and ruled against them for no sound legal reason. Other lawyers were often rude and unprofessional. The county bar association did not invite them to join. Clerks sometimes lost their filings. All-white juries did not believe them. Worst of all, clients did not hire them. Black clients. No white client would hire a black lawyer in the 1970s, in the South anyway, and this still hasn’t changed much. But Copeland & Reed nearly went under in its infancy because black folks thought the white lawyers were better. Hard work and a commitment to professionalism changed this, but slowly.

"Winchester was not my first choice of places to have a career. I went to law school at George Mason, in the D.C. suburbs of Northern Virginia. The summer after my second year, I got lucky and landed a clerkship with a giant firm on Pennsylvania Avenue, near Capitol Hill. It was one of those firms with a thousand lawyers, offices around the world, former senators on the letterhead, blue-chip clients, and a frenetic pace that I thoroughly enjoyed. The highlight was playing gofer in the trial of a former congressman (our client) who was accused of conspiring with his felonious brother to take kickbacks from a defense contractor. The trial was a circus, and I was thrilled to be so close to the center ring.

"I was one of seventeen clerks that summer. The other sixteen, all from top-ten law schools, received job offers. Since I had put all my eggs in one basket, I spent my third year of law school scrambling around D.C., knocking on doors, finding none that were open. At any given moment, there must be several thousand unemployed lawyers pounding the pavement in D.C., and it’s easy to get lost in the desperation. I eventually fanned out through the suburbs where the firms are much smaller and the jobs even scarcer.

"Finally, I went home in defeat. My dreams of big-league glory were smashed. Mr. Copeland and Mr. Reed did not have enough business and certainly could not afford a new associate, but they had pity on me and cleared out an old storage room upstairs. I worked as hard as possible, though it was often a challenge to put in long hours with so few clients. We got along smoothly, and after five years they generously added my name to the partnership. My income barely rose.

"During my prosecution, it was painful watching their good names get dragged through the mud, and it was so senseless. When I was on the ropes, the lead FBI agent informed me that Mr. Copeland and Mr. Reed were going to be indicted if I didn’t plead guilty and cooperate with the U.S. Attorney. I thought it was a bluff, but I had no way of knowing for sure. I told him to go to hell.

"Luckily, he was bluffing."

"My father was one of the first black state troopers hired by the Commonwealth of Virginia. For thirty years, Henry patrolled the roads and highways around Winchester, and he loved every minute of his job. He loved the work itself, the sense of authority and history, the power to enforce the law, and the compassion to help those in need. He loved the uniform, the patrol car, everything but the pistol on his belt. He was forced to remove it a few times, but he never fired it. He expected white folks to be resentful and he expected black folks to want leniency, and he was determined to show complete fairness. He was a tough cop who saw no gray areas in the law. If an act wasn’t legal, then it was certainly illegal, with no wiggle room and no time for technicalities.

"From the moment I was indicted, my father believed I was guilty, of something. Forget the presumption of innocence. Forget my rants about being innocent. As a proud career man, he was thoroughly brainwashed by a lifetime of chasing those who broke the law, and if the Feds, with their resources and great wisdom, deemed me worthy of a one-hundred-page indictment, then they were right and I was wrong. I’m sure he felt sympathy, and I’m sure he prayed I would somehow get out of my mess, but he had a difficult time conveying those feelings to me. He was humiliated, and he let me know it. How could his lawyer son get himself so entangled with such a slimy bunch of crooks?

"I have asked myself the same question a thousand times. There is no good answer.

"Henry Bannister barely finished high school and, after a few minor scrapes with the law, joined the Marine Corps at the age of nineteen. The Marines quickly turned him into a man, a soldier who craved the discipline and took great pride in the uniform. He did three tours in Vietnam, where he got shot and burned and briefly captured. His medals are on the wall of his study in the small home where I was raised. He lives there alone. My mother was killed by a drunk driver two years before I was indicted.

"Henry travels to Frostburg once a month for a one-hour visit. He is retired with little to do, and he could visit once a week if he wanted. But he does not."

"I suppose I should be thankful that my father makes the effort.

"As always, he’s sitting alone in the small visiting room with a brown paper sack on the table in front of him. It’s either cookies or brownies from my Aunt Racine, his sister. We shake hands but do not embrace—Henry Bannister has never hugged another man in his life. He looks me over to make sure I have not gained weight and, as always, quizzes me about my daily routine. He has not gained a pound in forty years and can still fit into his Marine uniform. He’s convinced that eating less means living longer, and Henry’s afraid of dying young. His father and grandfather dropped dead in their late fifties. He walks five miles a day and thinks I should do the same. I have accepted the fact that he will never stop telling me how to live my life, incarcerated or not."

"He taps the brown bag and says, “Racine sent these.”

"“Please tell her I said thanks,” I say. If he’s so worried about my waistline, why does he bring me a bag of fatty desserts every time he visits? I’ll eat two or three and give the rest away."

"“Looks like we’ll all be speaking Spanish before long. They’re taking over.”

"Henry has little patience with immigrants, anybody with an accent, people from New York and New Jersey, anyone on welfare, anyone unemployed, and he thinks the homeless should be rounded up and placed in camps that would resemble, in his view, something worse than Guantánamo."

"“I’ll probably leave the country,” I say. “Go somewhere where I can use the Spanish, somewhere like Panama or Costa Rica. Warm weather, beaches, people with darker skin. They don’t care about criminal records or who’s been to prison.”

"“The grass is always greener, huh?”

"“Yes, Dad, when you’re in prison, every place has greener grass. What am I supposed to do? Go back home, maybe become an unlicensed paralegal doing research for some tiny firm that can’t afford me? Maybe become a bail bondsman? How about a private detective? There are not a lot of options.”

"He’s nodding along. We’ve had this conversation at least a dozen times. “And you hate the government,” he says.

"“Oh yes. I hate the federal government, the FBI, the U.S. Attorneys, the federal judges, the fools who run the prisons. There is so much of it I hate. I’m sitting here doing ten years for a noncrime because a hotshot U.S. Attorney needed to jack up his kill quota. And if the government can nail my ass for ten years with no evidence, just think of all the possibilities now that I have the words ‘Convicted Felon’ tattooed on my forehead. I’m outta here, Pop, just as soon as I can make the break.”

"He’s nodding and smiling. Sure, Mal."

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The story now begins with the murder of a federal judge, Fawcett, and Bannister has information on identity of the killer, information that he'd trade with FBI only for immediate release.

There is a tad liberty taken with the narrative, mostly in first person until now with Bannister being the protagonist, in relating the scenes between FBI officers where the protagonist couldn't possibly have been present. 

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"My celly is a nineteen-year-old black kid from Baltimore, in for eight years for selling crack. Gerard is like a thousand other guys I’ve seen in the past five years, a young black from the inner cities whose mother was a teenager when he was born and whose father was long gone. He dropped out of school in the tenth grade and found a job as a dishwasher. When his mother went to prison, he moved in with his grandmother, who was also raising a horde of cousins. He started using crack, then selling it. In spite of a life on the streets, Gerard is a kindly soul with no mean streak. He has no history of violence and no business wasting his life in prison. He’s one of a million young blacks being warehoused by the taxpayers. We’re approaching 2.5 million prisoners in this country, by far the highest rate of incarceration in any semicivilized nation."

"The chow hall has invisible barriers that dictate where one sits and eats. There is a section for the blacks, one for the whites, and one for the browns. Intermingling is frowned upon and almost never happens. Even though Frostburg is a camp, it is still a prison, with a lot of stress. One of the most important rules of etiquette is to respect each other’s space. Never cut in line. Never reach for anything. If you want the salt and pepper, ask someone to pass them, please. At Louisville, my prior home, fights were not unusual in the chow hall, and they were usually started when some jackass with sharp elbows infringed on someone else’s space."

"I’ve known men who spent time in the hole, or solitary confinement, and the worst part of it is the lack of social interaction. A few handle it well, but most start cracking up after a few days. Even the worst loners, and there are plenty of them in prison, need people around them."

"It was one of my early clients who told me about Judge Fawcett. The man was desperate to get out of prison, and he thought I could work miracles. He knew precisely what was in the safe in the basement of that cabin, and he was obsessed with getting his hands on it before it disappeared."

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"In five years, I have helped six inmates gain early release from prison. Needless to say, this adds mightily to my reputation as a masterful jailhouse lawyer, but I caution every new client that the odds are stacked heavily against him."

"As the victim of the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act (RICO), an often misguided and famously flexible federal law, I am keenly interested in the proliferation of the federal criminal code, now at twenty-seven thousand pages and counting. The Constitution names only three federal offenses: treason, piracy, and counterfeiting. Today there are over forty-five hundred federal crimes, and the number continues to grow as Congress gets tougher on crime and federal prosecutors become more creative in finding ways to apply all their new laws."

There is a horrendous description of treatment meted out to Malcolm Bannister, the protagonist, in the trial and custody process.

"After four days of deliberations, Judge Slater delivered what is commonly referred to in trial circles as the “dynamite charge.” This is basically a demand that the jurors get back there and reach a verdict, at all costs. You’re not going home until we have a verdict! Such a charge rarely works, but I wasn’t so lucky. An hour later, the exhausted and emotionally spent jurors returned with unanimous verdicts against all defendants, on all counts. It was obvious to me and many others that they did not understand most of the code sections and intricate theories used by the prosecution. One of the jurors was later quoted as saying, “We just assumed they were guilty, or else they wouldn’t have been charged in the first place.” I used this quote in my appeals, but it apparently went unheard."

"The trial was a spectacle, a farce, a ridiculous way to search for the truth. But as I learned, the truth was not important. Perhaps in another era, a trial was an exercise in the presentation of facts, the search for truth, and the finding of justice. Now a trial is a contest in which one side will win and the other side will lose. Each side expects the other to bend the rules or to cheat, so neither side plays fair. The truth is lost in the melee."

Bannister had asked to self surrender. Instead he was taken immediately inyo custody, and transported via the system. The description of this process is unbelievable in its mindless horror.

"Louisville is five hundred miles from my hometown of Winchester, Virginia. Had I been allowed to self-surrender, my father and I would have made the drive in about eight hours. He would have dropped me off at the front gate and said good-bye.

"Forty-four days, twenty-six of them in solitary, too many stops to remember. There is no logic in this system and no one cares. No one is watching.

"The real tragedy of the federal criminal system is not the absurdities. It is the ruined and wasted lives. Congress demands long, harsh sentences, and for the violent thugs these are appropriate. Hardened criminals are locked away in “U.S. Pens,” fortresses where gangs are rampant and murders are routine. But the majority of federal prisoners are nonviolent, and many are convicted of crimes that involved little, if any, criminal activity.

"For the rest of my life I will be regarded as a criminal, and I refuse to accept this. I will have a life, freed from my past and far away from the tentacles of the federal government."

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FBI agents met Bannister and gave him the deal he asked, and he gave the name, Quinn Rucker. FBI caught him, and while he was interrogated, investigated and found cash, guns and a Hummer; he was brought to confess and knew it was Bannister who'd given his name, as Bannister had known he would. Bannister knew about the arrest from newspapers.

"There is a surprising amount of organized religion in prison. As troubled men, we seek solace, peace, comfort, and guidance. We’ve been humiliated, humbled, stripped bare of dignity, family, and assets, and we have nothing left. Cast into hell, we look upward for a way out. There are a few Muslims who pray five times a day and stick to themselves. There is a self-appointed Buddhist monk with a few followers. No Jews or Mormons that I know of. Then there are us Christians, and this is where it gets complicated. A Catholic priest comes in twice a month for Mass at eight on Sunday mornings. As soon as the Catholics clear out of the small chapel, a nondenominational service is held for those from mainline churches—Methodist, Baptist, Presbyterian, and so on. This is where I fit in on most Sundays. At 10:00 a.m., the white Pentecostals gather for a rowdy service with loud music and even louder preaching, along with healing and speaking in tongues. This service is supposed to end at 11:00 a.m. but often runs longer as the spirit moves among the worshippers. The black Pentecostals get the chapel at 11:00 a.m. but sometimes must wait while the white ones simmer down. I’ve heard stories of harsh words between the two groups, but so far no fights have erupted in the chapel. Once they get the pulpit, the black Pentecostals keep it throughout the afternoon.

"It would be wrong to get the impression that Frostburg is filled with Bible-thumpers. It is not. It’s still a prison, and the majority of my fellow inmates would not be caught dead in a church service.

"As I leave the chapel after the nondenominational service, a CO finds me and says, “They’re looking for you in the admin building.”"

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Malcolm Bannister was supposedly transferred to another prison and held incommunicado in solitary confinement with no mail and no visitors. In reality he was taken by FBI and was free, and went into witness protection program. After a face change at a military facility and a name change, Max Reed Baldwin was taken to Jacksonville, FL where he was given an apartment on lease and instructed to open a bank account, by his handler, so the reward money would be wired.

"I have no way of knowing the wire is being watched."

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Quinn Rucker and his lawyer pleaded not guilty, denied his confession, and also claimed FBI had lied and tricked him into signing it by using threats. Max was handed over to the local handler.

"Pat and I say our farewells. I thank him for his courtesies and professionalism, and he wishes me well. He assures me my new life will be rewarding and secure. I’m not sure I believe this, because I’m still looking over my shoulder. I strongly suspect the FBI will monitor me for some time, at least until the day when Quinn Rucker is convicted and sent away.

"The truth is I cannot afford to trust anyone, including Pat Surhoff, Diana Tyler, the U.S. Marshals Service, and the FBI. There are a lot of shadows back there, not to mention the bad guys. If the government wants to watch me, there’s little I can do. They can obtain court orders to snoop into my bank account, to listen to my phone calls, to monitor my credit card activity, and to watch everything I do online. I anticipate all of the above, and my challenge in the near future is to deceive them without letting them know they are being deceived. Taking one of the two jobs would only allow them another opportunity to spy."

Why wasn't he aware wired money can be watched?

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"During the afternoon, I open another checking account at Atlantic Trust and move $50,000 from the SunCoast account. Then I do the same thing at a third bank, Jacksonville Savings. In a day or two, once the checks have cleared, I will begin withdrawing cash.

"As I putter around the neighborhood in my little Audi, I spend as much time looking in the mirror as I do watching the road. It’s already a habit. When I walk the beach, I check out every face I see. When I walk into a store, I immediately find cover and watch the door I just came through. I never eat in the same restaurant twice, and I always find a table with a view of the parking lot. I use the cell phone only for routine matters, and I assume someone is listening. I pay cash for a laptop, set up three Gmail accounts, and do my browsing in Internet cafés using their servers. I begin experimenting with prepaid credit cards I buy at a Walgreens pharmacy. I install two hidden cameras in my condo, just in case someone drops in while I’m away.

"Paranoia is the key here. I convince myself someone is always watching and listening, and as the days pass, I fall deeper into my own little world of deception. I call Diana every other day with the latest news in my increasingly mundane life, and she gives no hint of being suspicious. But then, she would not.

"The lawyer’s name is Murray Huggins, and his small Yellow Pages ad announces specialties in just about everything. Divorce, real estate, bankruptcy, criminal matters, and so forth, pretty much the same ham-and-egg routine we followed at dear old Copeland, Reed & Bannister. His office is not far from my condo, and one look suggests the laid-back beach practice of a guy who comes in at nine and is on the golf course by three."

"For $2,500, Murray can build a few firewalls. He’ll set up an LLC—limited liability company—in Florida, with M. R. Baldwin as the sole owner. The LLC will then form a corporation in Delaware with Murray as the sole incorporator and me as the sole owner. The registered address will be his office, and my name will appear in none of the corporate documents. He says, “I do this all the time. Florida attracts a lot of folks who are trying to start over.” If you say so, Murray.

"I could do this myself online, but it’s safer to route it through a lawyer. The confidentiality is important. I can pay Murray to do things the shadows will never suspect and be unable to trace. With his seasoned guidance, Skelter Films comes to life."

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Max was asked to meet FBI and the prosecution team, and chose neither Roanoke nor his new location.

"“Have you told Quinn’s lawyer that I will testify?”

"“No. We do not divulge anything until forced to do so.”

"“That’s the way I remember it,” I say. These guys forget that I was once on the receiving end of a federal prosecution, with FBI agents sifting through every aspect of my life and a U.S. Attorney’s office threatening to incarcerate not only me but my two innocent partners as well. They think we’re pals now, one big happy team walking lockstep toward another just verdict. If I could, I would knife them in the back and poison their case.

"They—the federal government—took away five years of my life, along with my son, my wife, and my career. How dare they sit here as if we’re trusted partners.

"We eventually get around to my testimony and spend a couple of hours in review. This ground has been covered before and I find it tedious. Mumphrey’s chief assistant has a script, a Q&A, for me to study, and I have to admit it’s pretty good. Nothing has been left out.

"I try to visualize the surreal setting of my testimony. I will be brought into the courtroom wearing a mask. I will sit behind a panel or a partition of some manner that will prevent the lawyers, the defendant, and the spectators from seeing my face once the mask is removed. I will look at the jurors. The lawyers will pitch questions over the wall, and I will answer, my voice distorted. Quinn and his family and their thugs will be there, straining for any hint of recognition. They’ll know it’s me, of course, but they’ll never see my face.

"As certain as it seems, I seriously doubt if it will ever happen."

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FBI fortunately caught a phone conversation between someone from Rucker family and an agent of theirs, informing the Rucker family about the new name and whereabouts of Bannister, including plastic surgery. They met Max, ooffering to relocate him. He pointed out that they had no idea if this agent did it simply by shadowing FBI, and said he'd prefer to do it himself, promising to appear for the trial as promised.

"Before dawn, I load the car and wait. I sit on my terrace for the last time, sipping coffee and watching the ocean fade into pink, then orange as the sun peeks over the horizon. I’ve watched this many times and never grow tired of it. On a clear morning, the perfect sphere rises from the water and says hello, good morning, what another fine day it’s going to be.

"I’m not sure where I’m headed or where I’ll end up, but I plan to be near a beach so I can begin each day with such quiet perfection."

Max drove, located the tracking device while having his car serviced, and thereafter was lost to FBI.

"Baldwin had moved the money so fast the FBI lawyers could not keep pace with their requests for search warrants. There were at least eight withdrawals totaling $65,000 in cash. There was one record of a wire transfer of $40,000 to an account in Panama, and Westlake assumed the rest of the money was offshore. He had grudgingly come to respect Baldwin and his ability to disappear. If the FBI couldn’t find him, maybe he was safe after all.

"If Baldwin could avoid credit cards, his iPhone, use of his passport, and getting himself arrested, he could remain hidden for a long time. There had been no more chatter from the Rucker clan, and Westlake was still dumbfounded by the fact that a gang of narco-traffickers in D.C. had located Baldwin near Jacksonville. The FBI and the Marshals Service were investigating themselves, but so far not a clue."

Max was in Roanoke after driving around West and hired a private detective to locate Nathan Cooley, writing to him about making a documentary film about FBI agents simply shooting drug traffickers instead of arresting them. He signed his name Reed Baldwin.

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Max hired a small team of filmmakers, instructed them to be silent, and conducted the meeting and film making with Nathan Cooley who had lost his brother Gene in a bust. He shot some footage for two days, until Nathan was comfortable, and got him excited about more shooting in Miami, flying on a private jet. He got Nathan drunk on the flight and hospitalised on arrival at Jamaica (after which Nathan was arrested) and vanished, later meeting him in jail through a lawyer who bribed the guards.

The whole point is now coming to light, as Nathan pleaded with Reed to get money from his home - Nathan has eight million dollars worth of gold bars hidden under a trapdoor in the storage shed.
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Max had connected with Vanessa whom he met in Frostburg visitor's room, and they worked together in this; she collected the gold before he arrived and having met, they separated to deposit the gold in various bank lockers in Richmond and Miami, before she met Dusty Shiver to give him evidence that Quinn Rucker had been in a detox facility when Fawcett was murdered, and Max wrote to federals.

"Dear Mr. Mumphrey and Mr. Westlake:

"I’m afraid I’ve made a grave mistake. Quinn Rucker did not kill Judge Raymond Fawcett and Ms. Naomi Clary. Now that I’m out of prison, it has taken me several months to realize this, and to identify the real killer. Quinn’s confession is bogus, as you probably know by now, and you have zero physical evidence against him. His attorney, Dusty Shiver, now has in his possession clear proof of an airtight alibi that will clear Quinn, so prepare yourselves for the reality of dropping all charges against him. Sorry for any inconvenience.

"It is imperative that we talk as soon as possible. I have a detailed plan of how to proceed, and only your total cooperation will lead to the apprehension and conviction of the killer. My plan begins with the promise of complete immunity for myself and others, and it ends with the precise result that you desire. Working together, we can finally resolve this matter and bring about justice.

"I am out of the country and have no plans to return, ever.

"Sincerely,

"Malcolm Bannister"

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Max wrote again before the federal team responded and met him. Immunity for all three, Quinn and Max and Vanessa, were given, and Quinn released and brought to his lawyer, before Max would give the details. Westlake questioned about the gold, but Max refused to answer, and about ethics, he said it didn't belong to anyone - if the original owners were traced they'd hide and deny it.

"Six months after I arrived at the Louisville Federal Correctional Institution, I agreed to review the case of a drug dealer from Cincinnati. The court had badly miscalculated the term of his sentence, the mistake was obvious, and I filed a motion to get the guy released immediately with time already served. It was one of those rare occasions in which everything worked perfectly and quickly, and within two weeks the happy client went home. Not surprisingly, word spread through the prison and I was immediately hailed as a brilliant jailhouse lawyer capable of performing miracles. I was inundated with requests to review cases and do my magic, and it took a while for the buzz to die down.

"Around this time, a guy we called Nattie entered my life and consumed more time than I wanted to give. He was a skinny white kid who’d been busted for meth distribution in West Virginia, and he was adamant that I review his case, snap my fingers, and get him out. I liked Nattie, so I looked at his papers and tried to convince him there was nothing I could do. He began talking about a payoff; at first there were vague references to a lot of money stashed somewhere, and some of it might be mine if I could only get Nattie out of prison. He refused to believe I could not help him. Instead of facing reality, he became more delusional, more convinced I could find a loophole, file a motion, and walk him out. At some point, he finally mentioned a quantity of gold bars, and I figured he had lost his mind. I rebuffed him, and to prove his point he told me the entire story. He swore me to secrecy and promised me half of the fortune if I would only help him."

"As a child, Nattie was an accomplished petty thief, and in his teenage years drifted into the world of meth."

He'd been hired by someone, who only gave his first name as Ray, to do some work for five dollars an hour; it turned out he was needed to help move a very heavy safe, out of the truck Ray drove to the cabin, into the cabin basement.

"Nattie told his brother, Gene, who was in the vicinity hiding from the sheriff two counties away. The brothers became curious about the safe and its contents, and decided to investigate. When they were certain Ray had left the cabin, they attempted to break in but were stopped by heavy oak doors, unbreakable glass, and thick dead bolts. So they simply removed an entire window in the basement. Inside, they could not locate the safe but did manage to identify Ray. Riffling through some papers at a worktable, they realized their neighbor was a big-shot federal judge over in Roanoke. There was even a newspaper article about an important trial involving uranium mining in Virginia, with the Honorable Raymond Fawcett presiding."

"The basement was one room and one closet, a narrow space with small double doors. Inside the closet, Ray stored stuff that appeared to be forgotten—hunting clothes, boots, and a pile of old quilts and blankets. Gene cooked up the plan of hiding Nattie in there, for hours, with the idea that through the tiniest of cracks in one of the doors, he would be able to watch as the judge opened the safe and stashed away whatever it was he was hiding. Nattie, at five feet seven and 130 pounds, had a long history of hiding in cracks and crevices, though he was initially reluctant to spend the night in the closet. The plan was revised yet again."

They managed to do it, and Nathan saw the gold.

"Naturally, the brothers were stunned at what they had learned, and they began making plans to rob the safe. It would require an altercation with the judge, and probably violence, but they were determined to follow through. Two weekends passed and the judge stayed in Roanoke. Then three.

"While watching the cabin, and the judge, Gene and Nattie had returned to their meth business because they were broke. Before they could get the gold, they were busted by DEA agents. Gene was killed, and Nattie went away to prison.

"He waited five years before he strong-armed Judge Fawcett, tortured Naomi Clary, robbed the safe, and executed both of them."

Nathan was in jail in Jamaica and would welcome a deal to accept his crime and go to U.S. prison, Max told them, with no need for a trial. After he'd told them all, he had a drink with Westlake separately so they could talk. This was about the source of the gold as Max guessed it.

"“If my guess is correct, Judge Fawcett was accepting and hiding pure gold in the middle of the uranium trial. ... The company gave Fawcett his jackpot; he gave them everything they wanted.”"

This ties up neatly.

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Max put it forcefully to Westlake that federal investigation into the uranium mining consortium must take place, and the judgement by Fawcett in favour of mining cannot be allowed to stand; he gave a month before he'd contact the ace reporter of N.Y. Times and give him the whole story. 

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John Grisham finishes off with details of how the plan was put together by him with Quinn, his brother and sister Vanessa, and how they transported the remaining gold from various lockers to an apartment in D.C. before dividing it and taking it to Antigua on a yacht.

But the real story remains about travails of an honest black lawyer, a judge who took bribes and a mining consortium that bought the judge - and the neat way the wronged lawyer managed to overturn the success of those criminals without committing a crime.

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Sunday, December 2, 2012.

January 18, 2020 - January  2020.

ISBN 978 1444 76871 8
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Big Bang: by Simon Singh

Simon Singh tackles a subject all encompassing in human enquiry in this, touching everything from earth and solar system to relativity to origin of the universe and a few other huge topics besides, in a very very thrilling write up that is easy to read and makes it easy to comprehend for a non professional reader of the subjects such as physics and astronomy. Indeed, but for a couple or so pages at the beginning and similar at the end in the epilogue, where he touches on philosophical and such angles, this is one of the most intriguing, thrilling, satisfying and wonderful books to read.

One of the aspects of life and community of scientists is the surprising evidence that it is not always as scientific as one might expect, and even apart from the non rational aspect of the discoveries there is the very surprising but only human aspects of scientists who do the work being ignored or sidelined and forgotten with time until someone else rediscovers and gets the credit - and the prizes too. Attempts to correct the injustice happen, but again surprisingly, on less than the prize level. 

Friday, November 2, 2012

Oleander Girl: by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni.

A bridge over two very different parts of the world, migrants bridge a huge distance and gaps in cultures, languages, diaspora. Writing about their own kind comes easy in one way, and difficult in every other - does one write for those one left home, those one is living now with, attempt to make it universal and that how, precisely? For any artist, any writer tells one of thoughts and emotions and visions relating to world and universe as seem from one's own stand, one's own viewpoint, and universality is rare, although dominant cultures demand and define universality as something of the dominant cultures' point of view.

This author does a good job on the whole but in this one flounders a bit relating to Indian point of view on one hand and a satisfactory solution to the final dilemma faced by the protagonist towards the end on the other. A bias towards one race or culture is seen as preferential on a basis different from what it actually is - a vestige of colonial rule, rather than a preference for a particular race. It would be racism if it were a preference for a particular race or colour irrespective of any other factor, and such is hardly the case for majority of India. Colonial domination on the other hand explains much of various prejudices and that the real preference when it comes to family and relatives is after all for one's own is but natural. It would be racism if one preferred a race irrespective of all other factors and were to have negative firm opinions to all others, which is not true of India.

The protagonist, a young girl brought up very protected by her old grandparents in India, newly in love with someone of a more modern social set and about to be engaged, begins to discover that what she was given to understand about her parents is slightly untrue, and it makes a vast difference. She sets out on a journey to search for a father she knows almost nothing about, except his first name and of course the name of her long dead mother, literally across the world to another country, encountering untold dangers from strangers of another culture and from her own. Her future uncertain, especially if she finds her father, she is nevertheless determined to search to the limit of her capacity - limited severely by her small finance.

The dilemma at the end is therefore all the more climactic, when her fiance and his mother accuse her - and quite understandably so - of deception re her discoveries about her father towards the end of her journey. At this point her father has asked her to return to US and assured her of help and all the support she might need while there is another man who is in love with her and has helped her to look for her father in a very active way; will she return, retrace the route her mother went forth on before returning to her parents for a visit?

It is not clear if the glib easy solution opted for by the author is for a need to please a readership in India or if she simply was too tired to work more on this story, but something a bit less simple would have been more in line with the story until then. For instance her return to her father's country and a new university life unlike what she has experienced in the cocoon of her hometown, and possibly her distanced fiance coming over to US to woo her while taking charge of his family business end in Manhattan, would have been slightly less simplistic.

But perhaps it is the story that looms larger in the shadows that precludes this - the story of the silent and deadly discrimination against migrants from India post collapse of twin towers, based more on ignorance and resulting prejudice against all humanity of sepia tones (rather than the so called "white", which really is a colour no human skin has after all), and expressed in general hostility with negative effects in business as much as in sporadic violence, is the major theme in the background of the story of the girl who goes looking for her father.

This story is silent in the western press and usually dismissed as something of a fear very understandable under the circumstance, but in reality it is as much racism as it gets. For example US residents and citizens of Japanese roots suffered majorly during the WWII, but Germans did not, and nazi sympathisers had a field day (perhaps still do) with hostile acts against Jewish citizens of US, including severe violence. On the other hand the "nonwhite" world does not go berserk with violence against all whites on basis of a suspicion of nazi or kkk or even general racist and colonial culture of the "white"s, past or present, and any Asian or African confusing a Brit or Russian with a nazi would be seen as ignorant. That confusing all Asians with talibans or other jihadis is just as stupid, racist and ignorant is not yet understood much less admitted by the so called "white"s is yet another instance of the stupidity, ignorance and racism.

Far From The Madding Crowd; by Thomas Hardy.

Thomas Hardy is not merely master storyteller, there is much more to the superb author than that. It is difficult to decide which facet of his excellence to go into first and which is the best and so on.

There is the genuineness of settings and descriptions of his time and place, which might seem trivial but really is not easy to achieve. There is the human nature and its vagaries, especially when it comes to interactions of people with one another and with ambient society. There is the series of events that are as genuine as in real life, with few major happenings and their ripples, reactions of various characters major and minor, and events caused by people as well as by fate.

But the best of all is his lyrical, poetic descriptions of the earth and heavens, of perfectly ordinary people and their reactions to it all, in a slow and deliberate tempo that gives one far more than if one were actually experiencing it all first hand.
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This work perhaps is best in that respect in that it begins with rhythms of life of a shepherd who is prudent and competent at everything he does, which includes his ability to tell time by looking at skies and to know which sheep needs precisely what, to know that harvest needs action now before rains come pelting down and destroy all the work of the year of all the men. Then there is the funeral scene with its dense fog that he describes as unshed tears suspended in air and thick on the trees.

As to the characters and story that grows out of the people and their nature described so well, few could do it so well. The bewitching beauty who likes her independence and her very strength and nobility of character that - along with her innocence - makes her a prey to the vagaries of an unstable vain man who is not without feeling but is without much conscience or strength when it comes to responsibility, after she has not accepted a man she liked and could be friends with and work with, and after she has innocently been the cause of a noble character man of wealth falling in love with her deeply, is a facet of human interactions that most would not look twice at, except perhaps to comment that she deserved it. That she did not so deserve even though it was her faults and mistakes that caused it is made clear by this author even through his less noble characters.

That it all ends happily after deep tragic events muted and otherwise, is the final satisfaction of this work. With Hardy, that is not always the case.

Wednesday, November 7, 2012. 

A Group Of Noble Dames; by Thomas Hardy.

A collection of tales from the master story teller of England with women young and old as the focus of the stories, told at a cosy setting of fireplace talk post dinner amongst a group of men exchanging tales. Interesting in study of human nature, each different from other and only constant is the unpredictability of not only events but human nature itself.

Mayor of Casterbridge; by Thomas Hardy.

A man can make a horrendous mistake in a bad moment with drink and temper, and however much he regrets it and does his best to change himself and aspire to be a better man, another moment of being less vigilent with one's faults can again bring him down and bring unhappiness to him and others around him. One may pity him, but one has to excuse those he harmed and are unable to love him again, or even forgive him, especially the young ones.

Thomas Hardy is a master in literature. And this is one of his best. Few books can be so heart wrenching about a man of such character.

Thursday, September 11, 2008
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Hardy belonged to an era when a few miles were a great separation, although people were traversing the Atlantic ocean regularly enough in search of livelihood and sometimes more than once in a lifetime. Perhaps it is that era or perhaps it is the author himself or it is a reflection of his times and his society, but invariably he makes his stance clear - unless there is subterfuge and trickery involved in saving a woman who made a mistake however small, pay she must and she does in his works for the mistake, often with her very life.

Tess was raped and she paid with loss of her marriage by her husband leaving her, insisting she was wife of the man who had raped her, and she eventually paid for it by being hanged for the murder of the rapist. Lucetta in this one is made to pay for having nursed a stranger to health and thus compromised her name, and if she marries another for love of the other or for fear of the one she nursed, no matter, society shall punish her so much she loses a baby prematurely and dies of shock.

Susan is sold by her husband to a stranger and she is over and over certified as innocent for having gone with him, no matter how wrong the husband was in the first place, and dies soon after attempt to correct her mistake. Her daughter is miserable for no fault of her own, is full of virtues and triumphs all her trials with the prescribed womanly virtues, except the unwillingness to forgive and inability to comprehend the actions of the man who made her miserable, and she is castigated without a word by the author towards the end for this.

The man who causes so much misery to various people is sketched best by the author with all his faults out in the open and his temper, his dark psyche and his violence not hidden, and his virtues clearly visible for all to see but not much dwelt on, with the theme being how he is respected and feared but never loved due to the complex mix of his nature. One cannot say one would be able to deal with him better if one met him, he might not allow that to happen to one any more than he did to Susan or her daughter or Farfrae, but the author nevertheless leaves one with a deep pity for the man whose mistakes and pride and temper and more caused so much misery to others - and to him. He gets the worst punishment after all in life, no one loves him, and few sympathise, fewer respect him past his loss of stature. He has attempted to rectify his mistakes by sacrificing much and achieved much, but his nature he could not change and so he lost all by steps, including the love of the daughter that could have been his.

Thursday, November 23, 2012

Mill On The Floss: by George Eliot.

Human nature, the author's era, and in particular a corner of the veil over caste system of Europe lifted with the casual reference to the separate churches or chapels for the poor and the gentry - all in all, good.

Friday, February 11, 2011
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Amazingly this is one of the few works of literature where a film or a television serial gives more, not less, than the original work in some ways. The social contexts of the time and the general setup is described in the book by the author as much as the author saw necessary, but times change and perhaps social set up across the world in another land, another time is different. At any rate, what comes across as a very personal story of a young woman in particular and her family in general, with the society as the frame thereof, changes when one takes into account the context of the time and the society, which is brought to view far more clearly on film in the film or television series.

The central character Maggie is very endearing in her persona full of life and aspiring for a life of mind and spirit while in turmoil of heart and conscience. Eliot seems to be a follower of Aquinas, and at any rate finds it necessary to make the poor young girl give up her one chance of finding life of happiness when she and a young man are inexorably drawn in spite of all obstacles, with little quarter given to his very valid arguments about the others they are engaged to being merely cheated if these two pretended no love existed between them.

The author seems to make little of the young woman's quest for independence by on one hand making her insist she won't depend on her relatives if she can make her own living and on the other hand give far more importance to the claims of various relatives and others when weighed in against her own mind and heart.

As for others, the society then clearly had its caste system with money and power playing top roles (which one doubts has changed much) and more, society including most women (author mentions them towards the end as the wives whom the rector cannot bring to see reason or truth where a poor young woman without powerful connections when compared to others is concerned - what else is new? -) consider a young woman as not quite proper except as someone belonging to, property of, under protection of a relative with some money, prestige, power, preferably male. If the male is merely a slightly older brother, nevertheless he has the power of righteous indignation and wrath if the young woman has any emotions much less actions or thoughts that are not explicitly approved prior to having them by the said male, and same is true of other relatives. The young man in question gets far more latitude in comparison.

In short the life and society of Europe was not that different regarding the feudal structure especially regarding women from what is now protested about as the restricted version in lands other than those of richer western nations (which is not a geographical term, since it includes Australia and NZ generally) with lifestyles of plenty and so forth.

One wishes the author had made Maggie's society see common sense and have a heart and allow her and Stephen Guest to be happy, but Eliot seems to think it is necessary to go tragic to deprive Maggie of everything that can possibly be taken from her including life, merely for the sin of having a young man of rich class fallen in love with her - he has been courting her cousin, but is really not bound by promise to her - and the only relief in all this is that the four young people concerned, the two in love and the other two who thought they belonged to them, understand all perfectly with no rancour. Which makes it all the more senseless that the tragedy is forced merely for sake of punishing a flouting of conventional bindings due to truth of hearts.

But then again, the author is a prisoner of her times, and perhaps she meant to bring about change in social attitudes by forcing this tragedy to attention of her readers and making them see sense.

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July 27, 2012. 

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Vanity Fair: by William Makepeace Thackeray.

In retrospect it seems far more the fault of a caste system that worships money and those that have it, not often questioning how they came by it, and despising and sidelining and using any which way those that do not have it. Under such a social system a man might commit much chicanery and even murder, and be able to establish his house in higher circles - it has and does happen all too often. A woman of talent however had no chance then short of having a wealthy male marry her, however capable she was, however beautiful, and there were always those that would save such a man from marrying her however unworthy of her he was otherwise, while all the more willing to dally with her even at cost of their own family life and marriage. Today things are different, not much but a little, in that a woman from not wealthy origins might still find good chances to rise to her fullest capabilities in her career, and even find a worthy mate, while caste is now less relevant albeit not quite done with. People of wealth still scorn those without and will save their sons from marrying worthy and beautiful women of no dowry, but it all matters a bit less.

Friday, December 10, 2010.
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Thackeray is either unable to make up his mind about what stance to take for public view, or adopts that stratagem as part of his satire extending to himself. With all the withering Goyaesque portrayal of the rich and the titled in most part, and while often acknowledging qualities of his heroine that would go a long way towards making of a man if she were one, he nevertheless takes care to repeat his refusal to give her a certificate of innocence or goodness, while not quite condemning her and making clear his satire re those that do so condemn her or pursue her with gossip and accusations unfounded in most - ninety nine out of hundred, really - part. The only really good people in his work are the major Dobbin (who is pursued by ridicule and discrimination almost into his adult life, and even then in not a small part until his worth is proven beyond doubt and beyond his father's lowly beginning as a mere grocer rather than a rich or titled person), and Amelia the other heroine who is looked down on not merely for her poverty for a large part of her life but also for her simplicity and goodness itself.

So perhaps a reader may conclude that in European caste system one can only be a rich and - or  - powerful male, preferably with a title or half a dozen, before one can have one's small faults overlooked and be respected socially, and the more the wealth, power and titles the more one's sins' degrees that can be not only overlooked but have one drooled over nevertheless. And if that was so in Thackeray's time, what has changed since? Only that in lands elsewhere a man may have a fair chance to do well and be recognised for one's worth before one is quite old, and sometimes even a woman might have such a chance, but for most part in most of the world the status quo remains.
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Becky Sharp has good qualities that might today raise her to a satisfactory status by her own efforts rather than having to please those with wealth and titles for sake of getting them to give her husband a position and money to secure a good life for the family; at any rate, she stands a better chance today of being seen as a normal person with normal concerns rather than a social climber, such climbing being neither necessary today to find financial security or a good life nor a vice per se.

But if Becky's lack of feminine virtues (she is not fond of her only child, and is more involved in pleasing people who can assist her husband with his career - which, come to think of it, might have served her extremely well had she been married to someone with a position in colonies part of the empire) is dwelt upon by the author and many many of his characters, they nevertheless manage to overlook the corresponding lack of masculine virtues in her husband (he never does manage to find work after the war and his resignation from the military, which is again surprising since he has no money apart from his salary; he never attempts to understand his household finance and worry about how to pay anyone, and he gambles albeit mostly successfully); what is more, without quite making it clear, Becky is blamed for the financial fiasco too, when it comes, although she has been instrumental in getting him a position that he promptly takes leaving her behind to face ruin.

If he is praised for being fond of his son and she is denounced for the lack of it, shouldn't he be denounced for lack of providing for his family and providing her a male authority to depend on (she is always pleased when he does show any sign of it), and shouldn't she be praised for attempting to secure a future for him and for the family?

No, the caste system of Europe says - any blame is for the female, any compassion and respect is for the male. Unless she happens to be well situated to begin with, that is, by virtue of happening to have a father or a husband with money or power or title, both with all of the above if possible. Then she can do as she pleases. No questions asked, no denouncing, no criticism, unless she happens to lose the instruments that have raised her to the status.

In retrospect it is not clear what exactly Becky Sharp did or did not do that was different from the general conduct of the empire in colonies, or generally the behaviour of European states in Asia and Africa.

Come to think of it, there is a subtle parallel there between Becky with her social climbing due entirely to her own innate qualities and Napoleon with his self built empire that the then European monarchs joined in bringing down with a crash, mainly because he was a common man who lacked royal pedigree.

Whatever the faults of Thackeray as a writer - and there are many - one can be reasonable certain that this parallel was not hidden from him, what is more he fully intended it but did not care to make it so obvious as to become socially unpopular or worse for it.

Thursday, July 19, 2012.
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Kublai Khan; by John Anthony Garnet Man.

One begins to read this book about the famous historical persona from Mongolia, a land of mystery for most of the world and a land that much horrors emanated from for those that experienced the invasions and onslaughts, and the author assures us that the famous Kublai Khan and his much more famous grandfather Chengis Khan (Chingis Khan and Genghis Khan being alternative spellings) were not the murderous figures as they are normally understood but men of ability, thought, and more.

And then he proceeds to give the history of the person and the clan, with all that they and their armies, mostly cavalries, did to the world they touched. Horror it is, unmitigated horror, at every stage almost, considering how many hundreds of thousands were massacred in how many different cities in very diverse parts of the world, only because this clan began with the man who believed he had a divine mandate to rule the world - and his progeny inherited this belief and stuck to it, often when they lacked territory to rule, and had infights amongst the various cousins all progeny of the one Chingis Khan only so one could find supremacy to rule the piece of earth he had chosen to rule. As for descendents of this man, somewhere one has read that they number in millions, with whole villages of central Asia often claiming descent from him.

Not that descriptions of thought and details of administrations lack as far as the life and times of Kublai Khan - and his mother - go, but the constant running theme is war, massacre of cities that do not capitulate immediately, and subsequent taxation of the conquered territory for financing of the future campaigns of the Mongols. Having conquered the territory from Mongolia to Hungary via all of central Asia and much of west Asia, the clan has not enough yet, and gets their nose tweaked only by Egypt due to the change in land; then they - specifically Kublai Khan - turn to China, conquer Tibet and all of China and declare him emperor of China (hence the Chinese claim to Tibet and genocide of hundreds of thousands of Tibetans with deliberate settling of Tibet by Han race from faraway east coast, all because if Kublai Khan was Chinese emperor he must be Chinese and not Mongolian, according to Chinese logic; by this logic Hanover could very well claim US and all the rest of English colonies!); and yet this is not enough, he must then turn to Japan and think about what next.

There are explicit details of how many thousands, sometimes even hundreds of thousands, massacred in what city, from Baghdad, and Nishapur (which translates as City of Night, in Sanskrt; so it probably was so prosperous a metropolis it need not sleep at night to save on oil for lamps) in Persia to various cities in China and Japan. But the horror of the whole Mongol mentality is reflected in the mere detail of administrative time when they are of the firm opinion that farmers and peasants should be simply driven out - no matter if they starve by millions - from their land, and the land turned to pasture for the horses of Mongolians, since Mongolian horses are more precious then humans of other races and nationalities.

Not that Chinese lack horrors to match - the explicit descriptions of their weapon sophistication leaves merely scientific progress as gap from then until now, with their not only explosives knowledge and usage for war but also chemical and biological weapons.

No wonder it takes so long to read this - it takes long to overcome the horror of various accomplishments of Mongols to be able to pick it up again and go on with the next part!

And Chinese solution to the shame of conquest of China by Mongolia is simple - declare the Mongolian emperor of China as a Chinese, claim his conquests as Chinese territory, and simply never mention any of the persons of any of the other races that contributed to the glory of China, such as the architect of the palace Kublai Khan had constructed in Beijing - today's imperial palace in the place is constructed along the same lines, following the same plans and dimensions, according to this author, post the razing of his palace by the successor.

One little detail - the famous wall of China was constructed to keep out other Mongols post Kublai Khan. Thank heavens, or else who knows what other parts of earth China would claim were a part of China!

His Majesty's Opponent: Subhas Chandra Bose and India's Struggle against Empire; by Sugata Bose.

To begin with one does wish the book was written a bit better, but it quickly becomes irrelevant as one gets into the life and persona of this figure so strangely ignored post independence by political rulers of India through decades due to an unbalanced worship of one family, two names and most small or big members of the said family dynasty. This sidelining of most major figures of independence struggle of India is neither new nor unknown, but is a shame nevertheless, and leaves much unknown about these majestic persona and their minds, thoughts and actions. Shame.

Bose is mostly known for having forged together an army, Indian National Army, to fight against the British during wwii. Prior to that all that is known other than his being a patriot and a member of Congress is that he was president of Congress and gave in his resignation due to displeasure of Gandhi who preferred Nehru instead, whom he saw as more malleable and less likely to think independently, whatever the truth of that.

What is not known about Bose is about his extensive writing and deep thought re world politics and economics in context of India and her future - he was fooled by neither communists nor fascists during his extensive sojourns through Europe during early and mid thirties, never mind the impression created (by British, perhaps, but most definitely left so by the post independence rule of Congress), that he befriended the Axis and was perhaps used by them as pawn - nothing could be further from truth.

Congress and generally government of India along with academia would do well to correct these mistakes and lapses about freedom fighters of India who are neither Gandhi nor Nehru by name - this ignoring the great is a shame for those that do it, and stars do not stop shining when someone herds people into a cave like so many sheep.
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As one finishes the story of this towering persona and his role in history of the world and his nation, one has several sensations - one wishes to know a bit more, one is overwhelmed with the gigantic figure who was in person perhaps imposing only due to his inner being (was he tall?) but cared for his people so very much (his embracing was reward enough for all the hardships his soldiers went through on his call); and one is once again wistful about his sudden accidental death, wishing it were not true, wishing someone like him were long lived and changed the course of world history for the better, and of course that of his nation. Would India be divided if he were alive and active in his nation? Perhaps not. And much misery, much strife would then have been avoided.

Last but not the least, did India even extend an invitation, a welcome and a citizenship, to his wife and daughter, post independence? That the woman whom he loved and who loved him enough to live the life she had to under the circumstances - a marriage kept secret, financial hardships galore post his death and during the war - shows her grit and her independence. But if Indian government did not even take steps to invite her, to award her and her daughter - the only child of Subhash Chandra Bose - with a with a citizenship and more, it is a shame to the government of India.
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The Encyclopaedia of Earth - A Complete Visual Guide: by Michael Allaby and John O'Byrne.John O'Byrne.

Even an a cursory glance at the book prior to purchase is impressive enough ( -hence the purchase in the first place!) - what with the part illustrating solar system and its planets and other fascinating objects before going on to Earth, our own planet. Then there is the geophysical parts and other about Earth. All in all a must in a home aspiring for well educated family, especially with growing children. In a school library, needless to say, it is indispensable.

As a matter of fact one might as well have children familiar with it when young, before they are corrupted by the peer cynicism against knowledge so very prevalent in some of the richer nations where being well informed gets a child bullied in school and a football jock or anyone capable of bullying is the object of worship, and tobacco-alcohol-and-co seem cool, partying a must and study merely a painful requisite for sat unless one has a cool career in hand such as a garage mechanic or a sport scholarship to push one through college all the way without any reading skills.

In parts of the world where knowledge and information are still valued, this book is a valuable addition to any home, any library.

Heart of Asia: by Nicholas Roerich.

Whereas one might expect lyrical descriptions of the sublime beauty - or thrilling tales of travails thereof - of the travels through Himaalaya and trans Himaalayan regions, from Darjeeling to Kashmir to Ladakh to Mongolia via Gobi desert, to Tibet and return to India through Sikkim, such descriptions are only summed up in the art work of the Roerich family, and here one gets tales providing unexpected insights into times the travel took place in. Whether these impressions are due to bias on part of the author and his group, or merely reflection of time then, is not easy to determine. They could be the other side of the facts usually not publicised.

Avenger: by Frederick Forsyth.

Very good, especially the finale. Very satisfying, after the horror of the details of the two wars. And the horror of the philosophy of the agencies, mitigated only by the honesty and loyalty of the individuals.

The Sins of The Father; by Jeffrey Archer.

It has taken long since the publication of the first part and one needs to be reminded of the story so far, but even independently it is worth reading. The anxiety to read the next part which takes long, by which time one has forgotten somewhat, takes a toll, but still -

The uncertainty of the ending is the third time Archer has used it, once in UK and once in US based story, both with the equal opposite and once with twins too.

One finds satisfaction in the end a bad guy comes to, but wishes it were not paid for by his victim being beaten up before and dying later. Also, it would have been all right if the mother were to marry a wealthy suitor who cares about her as well, and the otherwise satisfactory marriage she chooses of necessity of heart and mind could have come just a tad earlier.

The dilemma at the end remains the same as at end of part one, and one wishes there were a satisfactory solution in writing if not in life.

Too many works - one at least of Archer, one of Cookson - have been about the dilemma of a brother and sister falling in love due to the excruciatingly bad behaviour of the father of the two and part of his family. One wonders what basis there was in reality for this fascination - but it does serves to remind males to not endanger their own progeny by such behaviour, and acknowledge progeny rather than attempt to deny, or even better, behave well in the first place with the mother of the progeny.

Revolution 2020: by Chetan Bhagat.

Just when one gets past the Readers' Digest type sentence construction - nothing wrong with the digest, but they do condense originals, and the greatness of originals is not in the condensation - and the screenplay type writing (oh, try reading this author, any book of his, without a film or a television series unfolding before one's mind's eye!), and begins to think he might after all be getting over his tripe and getting towards better writing, he hits one on the head with the trashy climax of the protagonist questioning his self and sacrificing his love, quite as per melo-melodramatic style diktat of the films he seems to be unable to get over.

Until then, good at least, great in some few points. The pathos of a poor father bringing up a son and hoping he might get out of the dire circumstances the uncle has cheated them into, the pathos of the son who is good but lacks the take-off level to do well in competitive fields and is ignored, looked down on and so forth, until a politician realises his potential and sets him off on path to be able to do not only well but do good; the pathos of this politician being not smart enough to play the game with safety nets and taking a fall but setting up the protagonist to do well nevertheless with a paternal sentiment in spite of no lack of his own progeny; the pathos of the protagonist never quite feeling equal to his friends who were brought up in better circumstances and feeling guilty enough about his resentment of their togetherness to give up just when he could have had his dream life - if only the author had overcome his normal shortcomings to make this one better, skipped the sacrifice falsehood and thought of a better solution, ....

Did he simply visit the two towns he describes and write them into his work (did they come pleading with him?) or does he really know them, good question.

Hope this work does not get bracketed with the worthy anti corruption fight of the saintly and good of the country! They deserve better.