A Dead Hand: A Crime in Calcutta

This was my first time reading Thoreaux but I absolutely loved it. The breath taking cover adorned with haunting blue's, fuchsia and gold made me feel like I was closer to India and the story itself was rich and decadent, it unfolded lazily at its own speed, oozing mystery and sultriness like a melting camembert, it captured my interest but it's not a lightning fast read, it's not meant to be. Not every story has to be a nonstop bucket of ice cream, the melting thrill screams to be eaten before it dissolves, this took some time to read, but it was satisfying, elegant and bit naughty at the same time.<br /><br />The tale is a mix of mystery and old fashioned travels that are long forgotten in this new modern era. Jerry Delfont is an author who has just finished giving lectures in exotic Calcutta, his time seems to stretch endlessly but his boredom is suddenly stalled by a mysterious letter, one that arrives praising his talents and asking for his help in solving a murder mystery, a letter that is the beginning of it all. Mrs. Unger is a beautiful and very opinionated woman who's charities have saved many children from poverty and life of crime, she asks desperately for Jerry's help in clearing her son's friend from murder charges, a body of a nameless child has been found in his hotel room, and when he flees from the scene of crime it creates more questions than answers but Jerry is so blinded by her charms and beautify that he takes on this task, making new friends and enemies on the way and discovering the dark, rotten dirty secrets camouflaged by an exotic face of a foreign country. Mrs. Unger takes him under her wing and makes him desperate for her attention, she bewitches Jerry with her many talents and adds a rich layer of spice to the story, I had a great time solving the mystery which seem to take a back seat to the relationship that seemed to unfold between this perfect proper woman and a man who lusted after her. Things that happen are surprising and not as innocent as one would expect but the incoming discord and feeling of "something is wrong" make for a great read. Jeffry's lust and desperation were more interesting than the mystery itself, and I followed that road greedily, waiting to find out the truth.<br /><br />I really enjoyed the language and the writing, the backdrop was amazing and the mystery was interesting but it clearly was not the main vein in the body of this work. I loved the character development because it made me feel close to what was going on, I felt connected to the the food and the people, the places and the décor, discovering the good and the ugly in each person was immensely enjoyable and I had a great time reading this book, it makes me want to read more of Paul Theroux and the journeys hidden between his pages, I definitely want to read more of his stories, there is an old fashioned charm to them with a modern edge that makes for an irresistible read.<br /><br />- Kasia S.

I read a lot of <a href="https://goodreads.com/author/show/6878.John_Updike" title="John Updike" rel="noopener">John Updike</a> in the past. They were written well, had good characterizations and plots, but they didn't "bowl" me over - I don't think he ever aimed for that. And then last year I was reading reviews of an Updike biography where we find out that almost every thing in his life ended up in his books - people, scenes, plots. I am reading the Bech books right now - and now I see that all they are are dramatized descriptions of his various author trips to other countries or "life-as-an-author" tales.<br /><br />Of course other authors do this as well. Enter "A Dead Hand". In fact, Theroux explicitly references this halfway through the novel when the main character (a magazine feature writer) is anxious about meeting "Paul Theroux" because Theroux will steal his soul (well, it seemed like it). And throughout the book there are references to stuff being used later in books. It is obvious that Theroux is well aware of what he is doing and he can mitigate it by calling it out.<br /><br />But (of course there is a but!), it is still kinda lazy - it shouldn't really be that much of a deal, but there is the admittedly romantic view that the artist "creates" rather than "rewrites". In this case, Theroux probably ran across some stories of sweatshop shenanigans when he was traveling India, and perhaps even ran across a tantric masseuse (should I say the masseuse ran across him.) And all this stuff, along with other things he encountered, gets sausaged into a novel. <br /><br />What about the book just as itself? It actually read very well. There is a noir quality to the detective and the femme fatale, the manipulated detective, and the detective as white knight avenging wrongs. The plot is kinda one-dimensional, it does get kinda obvious after awhile in that there were no other characters to be behind the "dead hand" besides the ones that were already there. So the reader just ends up with scenarios of why, and this reader at least, wasn't too far off when the plot unraveled.

Well written but clunky. What I took away from reading this book is that Paul Theroux would be tons of fun to have dinner with but that maybe he shouldn't be writing novels any longer. This really a story about an older man looking for love and wondering if he can ever settle down; the Hitchcockian McGuffin involves a mysterious American woman living in India who entices and deceives him. The mechanics of the plot peek through like broken bone through skin; and he's heavy handed with the foreshadowing and the ominous portents. If you're interested in a warts-and-all portrait of modern India, this book is worth reading. Otherwise, well ... it's a bit of a struggle.

One of the best things about reading "A Dead Hand," is diving face-first into sixty-something writer Paul Theroux's scenes of epic tantric massages, then flipping to the author's bio on the dust jacket and giggling about how <i>that </i> man wrote <i>these </i> scenes. <br /><br />For one thing, Theroux looks like a hybrid of Mr. Rourke from "Fantasy Island," and our former next door neighbor, a bronzed-skin scuba fanatic who sunned in a hammock on his deck with a Speedo balled up and balanced on his crotch -- not unlike a wet seal juggling a striped inflatable ball. With this in mind, I defy you to not titter at this:<br /><br />"She used both her hands, her clutching fingers, to spread her sex like a flower. Or so it seemed to me as I watched, like an opening lotus with reddened and thickened petals." <br /><br />That is by far the gem of a limitless collection of touching, prodding, and kneading in this kinda sorta mystery involving an uninspired travel writer Jerry Delfont, who is in Calcutta for business but stays on longer when he receives a handwritten letter from a Mrs. Unger, an alleged fan of his work who needs his help. Her son's friend, or maybe it's her son's boyfriend, wakes in a seedy hotel room and in the glow of his cell phone find the body of a dead boy laying on the floor. He freaks out, and high-tails it on out of there. Mrs. Unger wants Delfont to investigate this curious case. <br /><br />Mrs. Unger is a quiet philanthropist, who dresses in Indian fashions and has "magic fingers," which she uses to seduce the heck out of Jerry Delfont. She splays him out on a table in a scented room and works over his entire body one millimeter at a time. As is often the case with dull, mal-developed male characters, he falls in love with her and does her bidding with a blind, unconditional, puppy-like eagerness. As Jerry gets further into the investigation, he realizes that she is not the untarnished beacon of good that he has been manipulated into believing. <br /><br />Also: Theroux the author briefly introduces a character named Paul Theroux who is an obnoxious writer whom Jerry Delfont can barely tolerate. It's a strange introduction that really serves no purpose and sticks out like an added mustache crammed onto a Mr. Potato Head. <br /><br />As far as mysteries go -- and I think this is a mystery -- it's not very mysterious. And if it's a crime novel, it's even less. Mostly it is filler between the descriptions of tantric massages, which are equal parts hilarious and infomercials for tantric massages that left me craving a good rub down. This is not a great book, it's a little better than okay. Jerry Delfont, whom Theroux has pinned the plot to, is a lifeless sap with questionable motivations. Nothing to regret reading, though. <br /><br />Mostly I loved the sexy cover, which is exactly why I bought the book in the first place. I'm a sucker like that.

There was lots I liked about this book. First was the view of Calcutta in the description of an experienced travel writer -- using as his main character an experienced travel writer. I liked his ability to render a sense of place -- and of worlds within that place-- the clean and wealthy enclaves, the dirty, smelly streets, the use and abuse of the poor by the rich. I liked the main character's sense of rootlessness and his self-consciousness about it. But most of all I liked the way Theroux handled the encounter with a priestess of Kali and her secret kundalini practices. I like the way he took us from his initial enchantment by her hand written letter and first meeting with her through his growing obsession with her and gradual initiation into the rites of erotic encounter in the sweet smelling vault of her sheltered home. I thought he handled this brilliantly, delicately, poetically.<br /><br />I found this all the more valuable as the main character eventually discovers the dark side of his idol - the sacrfice not only of animals but of young children to the goddess and at that point finds the charge that had existed between him and the woman dissipate into repulsion. They need not speak it. Their touch communicates more than words can say.<br /><br />There's more -- the train trip across India and again the contrast between rich and poor, but I thought the odd and almost impersonal intimacy between the writer and the woman with her erotic wisdom and the hidden rituals of kundalini, the book's greatest gift. <br /><br />I was enchanted.<br />

This book is STEAMY-SEXY-PAGE-TURNING-GRIPPING.....<br /><br />and **Pulchritudinous! (my new favorite word....meaning "physically beautiful)!!! <br /><br /><br />I read it the DAY it was released! (awhile ago)<br /><br />I'm excited to read -starting today-- Paul's new travel book "Deep South" (thank you Netgalley)

AKA "A Dead Hand: Paul Theroux does Ayurveda"<br /><br /><br />Oh, I missed Paul Theroux. And here he is writing about India again, writing about a writer again, and wham, my completely inappropriate HUGE crush on Theroux is back. <br /><br />I never ever had that feeling about another writer. Seriously. Reading this book felt like meeting with an old friend. Not an old lover (I wish), because you realized too late that this was someone you could love, so you never actually tried. So now, whenever you meet, you get that pleasant buzz of meeting someone who you would have had an affair with under different circumstances (okay, in this case it's more a case of someone who you'd havy happily married and had tons of little writer kids with to watch grow up, hoping that none of them would end up writing graphic novels, and well, you know, true love and everything.)<br /><br />But stop, that's not what happens. What happens is that nothing ever happened, and you meet from time to time and you get excited, happy, this completely gleeful happiness that comes from deep down in your belly, when you notice after the first few pages that indeed, the author you are reading is still as brillant as you remember him and also so very much Paul Theroux, and OMG DID I MENTION THAT I LOVE PAUL THEROUX?<br /><br />At this point, you must have gotten the impression that "A Dead Hand" is the most brillant book ever. Sadly, it isn't. I mean, it's good (and I will tell you about this later), but I think what I loved most about it is that feeling I was trying to describe above - this feeling of recognition. It's just so...Paul Theroux. He is the only writer who I recognize by his writing style. And recognizing that I did made me feel all giddy with anticipation for the book I was reading.<br /><br />Which doesn't even start all that exciting. It starts with a letter (classic, but certainly not new), a letter send by an American woman living in India to a writer who happens to be in Calcutta with nothing else to do than to meet with her and to listen to her story about a dead body which suddenly appeared in a hotel room, wrapped in a carpet. The writer gets caught up in the story and in the woman (here's where the Ayurveda comes in), and the way he is drawn into that world, the feelings, the taste, the chaos and the people - you can almost taste India in Theroux's writing.<br /><br />Yet again Theroux uses a writer as his protagonist. This time though, he makes it very clear that this writer is not him, by having his protagonist meet himself, meet Paul Theroux. <br /><br />That scene is noticeable not only because of its very metaness, even for Theroux, but also because it is such a noticeable break in the story - which I almost wouldn't have noticed if it wasn't for the repetition of [a word that I would happily look up if I had the copy of the book here, but trust me, there was repetition]. <br /><br />Which makes me wonder all kind of things: Did he do that on purpose? Did he want us to notice? Also, is my head going to break if I think anymore about what it says about Theroux that he describes himself the way he does through the eyes of a character he writes knowing that we will wonder what it says about himself therefore being able to change his description accordingly which of course he cannot do because it's still Paul Theroux writing about Paul Theroux and yes, I think my head is breaking.<br /><br />Quite possibly I wasn't meant to wonder about this as much as I did.<br /><br />Anyway, there's a meeting, and it's a turning point in the story, intentional or not, because after the meeting (albeit without any help from Paul Theroux), our protagonist's feelings about the Amercian woman slowly being to change and the story about the dead hand slowly begins to unfold.<br /><br />I won't give away the ending, but it's good. It's not unexpected, far from it, I predicted something like that almost immediately. But then, this is not a crime story. It's a story about a crime in Calcutta. And it's probably my favourite book this year - for purely personal reasons (as shown at length and in incoherency above).<br /><br />Read and enjoy, my fellow Theroux-fans! (who are out there somewhere. I think.)<br /><br /><br />

I wish I could give this book 6 stars. The image of Goddess Kali on the book jacket is haunting and disturbing, and though I had to put the book face down when I wasn't reading it, I found the book to be completely gripping.<br /><br />The book starts out slowly, and we're introduced to the protagonist. He's a writer, he's living in Calcutta, India, and he's got "writer's block" or "dead hand" and appears to be a bit pathetic and aimless. He's managed to avoid society's expectations by traveling around and making himself seem busy and worldly. <br /><br />I find that what I enjoy most about a book is the extent to which the author develops the characters. We get introduced to Mrs. Unger, or "Ma" and the corollary characters Charlie, Rajat, Howard, Parvati and endless "Bengali pedants." The most intriguing character by far is Ma, who the protagonist becomes enamored and obsessed with.<br /><br />We don't even learn the name of the protagonist until he introduces "Paul Theroux," a guileless author who wants to meet him to find out more about Ma. I found it a clever trick to introduce a character with the author's name. <br /><br />The plot takes the reader to many unknown parts of India, and the pretext which Ma ensnares the protagonist into her web takes many unexpected and disturbing turns. I found myself captivated by the beauty, mystery and allure that Ma shows us, and horrified by the filth and smells of the streets of Calcutta and beyond. I didn't realize how horrifying the once beautiful Ma could turn out to be.<br /><br />Bravo - a must-read for anyone interested in India, traveling, mystery or the beauty/underbelly of inner life.

Known for his travel essays, Paul releases a novel that takes us to the hidden areas of Calcutta not commonly visited by tourists. A travel writer with writer's block, receives a letter that intrigues him. He decides to visit the author of the letter and in doing so, he is unwittingly drawn into a mysterious woman's web of tantric massages, the slums of Calcutta, orphaned children, rescued children, temple sacrifices, oh and a dead body wrapped in a carpet that appeared one evening in an Indian boy's hotel room.<br /><br />Who's the dead boy? Why was he sought out to help? Who really is this mysterious rich woman who seems to do so much for the poor children in India? What really lies behind the iron gates of her mansion? What is her son hiding?<br /><br />Theroux has a wonderful way of describing places and scenes that is so evocative you feel as if you're there. You feel the heat, the dust and you smell the poverty, the fear and the ecstasy. And just when you're sitting comfortably in the story, he injects a prickling down the back of your neck. Nothing is as they appear, but what are the risks of delving into the mystery to find the truth?

Spoiler alert! -- This highly symbolist book certainly does not deserve all the bad reviews it has got. Theroux is far too clever to write a solidly BAD book, no? - The narrator Jerry Delfont, an American travel writer, not very successful, single and lonely, quickly advancing towards old age, experiences a writer's block, a "dead hand", in Calcutta, of all places. A number of strange occurrences draw him towards an attractive compatriot, called "Ma", who has gone native, hates all things British and runs some kind of charity involving orphans. – To enjoy the book one has to take it with a pinch of salt, NOT reading it as the crime novel it only structurally might claim to be: Maybe writing this little fantasy helped Theroux himself overcome a writer's block? Clearly Delfont, who even meets famous travel writer Paul Theroux (!) right in the midst of the novel, is some kind of alter ego to him, the result of PT's musings along the lines of "what if I hadn't been successful as a writer, what if I hadn't found my soul mate and married...?" Seen from this perspective to make the old man Delfont fall for somewhat blunt tantric seductions is rather self-depreciating, wrily amusing, tongue in cheek. And "Ma" with her love for "earthen" food, to me read like a sad, modern and Americanized version of the mythic "Mother India": Sensuous, seductive to Westerners, shamelessly commercialising spirituality, corrupt, without any social conscience, selling her beautiful children to the West for a pittance...