Indian writers. See, I know the type. They write about their protagonist moving to England/America/Canada/Italy/Spain and from there, they fill pages and pages with the discovery of the culture clash concept. I mean, NEWFLASH, DIFFERENT COUNTRIES HAVE DIFFERENT WAYS OF LIFE! Damn, call the cops, hold the press. Not interested. BUNKER 13. I've been wating all life for a book by an Indian author that's not about the boredom of the high rise flat dwellers of Bombay. Imagine Catch 22, make it snort a line of M*A*S*H, freebase some Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, drop in a truckload of drugs, booze, women, corrupt army officials with egos the size of Bournemouth, the Kashmir conflict, high tech weapons, injecting H while in freefall and then seeing who chickens out by releasing their parachute first and a sex survey. Done that? Well, you've just about got it. It's breathless, urgent, relevant, topical, important and laugh out loud funny and the pace moves like a steam train. It's utterly mental. Nothing else this year will come close. Order it man, what the hell you waiting for?