There are times, when you are hustling around, siphoning off work, your mind eagerly lingers over the idea of taking a colossal bite of the delectable book you just caught hold of… but then you get a premonition rooted at the precise fact that you just ruffled through a few pages and got a glimpse of the pivotal image the book gyrates around, thereby you are apprehensive. Uneasy to continue, as you know the occurrences you will come to face with are indubitably repulsive. But then the intricate labyrinth of wit, jest, sorrow, crudeness and pain lures you in anyway.

Such a book is, SIYA SETH DECIDES TO DIE, by debut author Sneha Mehta and no it’s doesn’t orchestrate with ‘Veronica decides to die’- Paulo Coelho.

A modest and impulsive attempt.

A miserable, rebellious (and we come to know why right after the first few pages) but luxuriant teenager’s account of the dire motive behind the appalling act of committing suicide. Set in the plush suburbs of Mumbai, she takes us through the vividly daunting strides of her life, some if it may seem to be quite trivial but then the underlying root is unveiled through a lucid trail of flashbacks; an adverse victim of parental incestuous abuse(the beast: the father). Shoving her self to the deepest, darkest shade of her mind, and she becomes the broody, rash and rebellious girl that she is. The best friend, the boyfriend and the mother, everyone’s state of mind and their misgivings with the protagonist is richly portrayed in certain sections.

The boyfriend’s (well if you call the creep you bump online at random and decide to meet up, keeping in mind the hotness quotient, pair up, just ‘cause you want to be a normal girl, a boyfriend, then yes, Siya Seth had a boyfriend) shit-headedness came up with the revolting concept he gave behind his fascination with Shiv Lingam (Bless! Bless! Bless the twisted mind).

Friendship on rocks, motherly love, and beastly exploitation all over winds up descriptively.

Raw, crude and uncouth, the narration defies it all. At the same time it is devoid of any beautification, elaborate descriptions or rhetorical expressions. Least manicured to be true, the dark and disturbing stain is spilled ingeniously while securing all the wittiness in the due course. And of course, Hinglish pose along frequently. Though at some places the loosely placed chapter titles gave away vital ideas about the content, but then maybe it was intended.

At certain points the book rounded up in unsure, vague intervals and you kind of start to anticipate the end impatiently, though the stealthy approaching end was commendable.

The rampant roller-coaster ride comes to an end with a deliberate car-crash.

All in all what could have been a commendable piece of work, some daft typos and errors marred the image and the impression. Clumsy grip, on the part of the publishing house, for letting such integral things slip the radar. Sad as it is, but the novel holds potential and an appreciable amount of appreciation for the crafty author.

Recommended reading.