HUNTING FOR A THRILLER Suhit Sen’s
book aims to be a police procedural set in contemporary Kolkata
The genre prowls about under many aliases: crime novel, detective fiction, police procedural,
policier, neo-noir, etc. However you identify it, there are a few key elements that make a crime thriller gripping. The story transports you to a dark, usually urban or peri-urban world of crime and violence; a hypnotisingly mysterious plot that gnaws at you till it reaches resolution; characters that hook you; electrifying action; fascinating investigation procedures; a narrative that immerses you into a particular city and its sub-cultures through tellingly observed detail; and, in the best ones, stupendous writing, which is in itself a reward.
For anyone teaching crime fiction writing, Suhit Sen’s The Hunter of Lalbazar is a book that must stay close at hand, like a loaded pistol in the topmost desk drawer. Astoundingly, Sen ticks every item in the list above—but in the negative; across 365 long pages, he manages to achieve not even one criterion.
The protagonist, Tanya Samanta, is a joint commissioner of police, in charge of the Detective Department of Calcutta Police. A hooch tragedy probe leads to the uncovering of a larger crime network controlled by someone in authority.
The pursuit of the (thinly set-up) master-villain into Bangladesh hits a dead-end. The story then abruptly switches to a series of attacks on women in the city. The two strands are finally brought together for a contrived and under-spiced denouement.
None of this should distract us from the deliciously rich offerings of a must-buy book. Central to the collectibility of this volume is the sprinkling of randomly kidnapped jargon from western crime novels: “So why were the hoods doing the omerta crap all over the city?”; “Any guesses?” Tanya asked [her team] “What’s the shakedown?” (perhaps the word the writer wanted to use was ‘lowdown’, a ‘shakedown’ being the intimidating of someone to extract something from them); two low-ranking Kolkata cops interrogating a suspect, “Who used to protect you, who did you pay off? The whole shooting match, pal. And we don’t have all day to spend with pissant scum”; two small-time Bangladeshi gangsters speaking to the Chief Baddie, again, presumably, in Bangla, “You’ll have to take care of your loose ends yourself. We’ll supply you with new passports. Kosher.” The electricity generated by Raymond Chandler, Mario Puzo and Elmore Leonard spinning in their graves could power Calcutta for an entire Durga Puja.
I could add examples of where the non-plot falls through holes, or how much of an anodyne non-place Calcutta becomes in the descriptions, but I think I’ll do the omerta crap, keep it all cosa nostra and let the whole shooting match sleep with the fishes.
A couple of other things need mention. First, Sen clearly wasn’t operating alone—the editor must be named as an accomplice perpetrator. Second, both the writer and the editor should share genuine credit for weaving actual political parties and politicians into the book in a matter-of-fact way without resorting to pseudonyms—this is perhaps the only good thing about the book. ■
For anyone teaching crime fiction writing, Sen’s book must stay close at hand, like a loaded pistol in the desk drawer