Seahorse is the story of Nem, a student of English literature at Delhi University. He drifts between classes, attends off-campus parties with free-flowing drinks and weed, and writes articles for the college magazine. Until one day he crosses paths with an art historian - an encounter that changes the course of his life, steering him into a world of pleasure and artistic discovery. And then one day, without warning, his mentor disappears.
In the years that follow, Nem settles down in South Delhi, earning a name for himself as an art critic. When he is awarded a fellowship to London, a cryptic note plunges him into a search for the art historian - a search that forces him to revisit the past and separate fact from fiction.
At this point, are you thinking that this novel may not have much to offer? That maybe you've read other books with similar story lines and aren't sure if this has anything that will interest you? That you don't want to waste more time or money looking for an Indian author you may fall in love with? What can I say to convince you?
Maybe I can tell you that this is a beautiful book...a story told with nuance and restraint. I could tell you that the characters are well-drawn, that the novel flows, nay glides, taking you along with it. I could tell you that the prose is luminous, that it will have you gasping at the sheer poetry on the page. But maybe I should just get out of the way and give you a few little excerpts from the book - something tickle your taste buds, so to speak.
Time is tricky.
You organize it into days. You break it down to a second, build it up to a century. A millennium. You shift, and stack, hoarding time into holidays and long weekends.
You peel away the calendar pages. Carry it around in smartphones and computers. It has shape. A design. Hands and digits. Glowing figured. And yet, it can't be tamed.
Isn't that what we all search for? A sign, a purported signal of things to come, a pointer, a market of how life would unfurl before is.
Prophesies are the most scientific of supernatural phenomena, for they, like science, invest in a single outcome. The one truth.
And yet. And yet the universe is forever shifting, swelling with infinite possibilities and infinite outcomes. The power of prophesies lie in their self-fulfillment.
Stations, airports, and docks are sites of infinite departure, reservoirs of potential journeys, of possible events, the slippery and fleeting, worlds aborted and almost born.
I looked at the train tracks, joining and parting, reflecting light.
How difficult was it to comprehend this web of connections? This complicated intersection of lines.
At some point we feel compelled to account for every decision, every circumstance that places us in a particular moment.
We paint a surface and leave no free spaces. Horror vacui. The fear of the empty.
In the end, we are all cartographers - looking at a map of our lives. Marking out the uneven course of our existence, hoping there'll be no disappearances, of ourselves and the people we love.
Have I convinced you yet?