This book was not easy for me to read. A very annoying account of Justine Hardy's time as a journalist in India , residing with erstwhile royalty, chauffeured around in her personal Auto Rickshaw, travelling to Assam, listening to the Dalai Lama, peeking into the NGO sector etc etc . Most characters in the book seem like caricatures and the constant reference to Kiplings journey is again.......annoying. Of course , Justine finds it hard to be happy anywhere, she doesn't get to report on any real issues, her boss at the paper wants yoga columns from her so on and so forth. The book is stained with some terrible photographs , unpredictably cropping up but thankfully not too many of those.
We were terribly put off by the style of writing and my irritation probably has reached to a point where I can't seem to find the correct pitch to critique it.
.....I just barely managed to finish it and thats rare cause i seem to have some kind of self destructive commitment to books - I try to finish the ones I start (yes even those terrible terrible translations of renowned vernacular authors....I endure them to the end). This commitment has been the toughest to keep. Hmm....maybe I'm cured of the disease.