Written from the viewpoint of an anglophile Indian fleapit hotelier, his dope-smoking guests and journalists in Calcutta at the time of the metamorphosis of East Pakistan into Bangladesh, this is a witty combination of whodunit suspense and brutal experiences of war written in the laid-back style appropriate for the hippy trail. This is life interpreted through the fog of hashish and Bob Dylan lyrics.
'So what is your purpose?' asked Deviani as the boys wandered away. 'What brings you all here?'
'I travel for travel's sake, said Gordon. 'The great affair is to move.'
'That sounds like something someone else said,' said Deviani.
'Yup, Robert Louis Stevenson. But there is something seductive about getting on a bus or a train in the morning and not knowing where you are going to end up sleeping at the end of the day. To be freed of your own ... er ... controls, I suppose.'
'But what exactly do you fellows do all day?' she asked.
'Well, you spend a lot of time planning your next move.'
'Like chess but slower.'