Transmission - by Hari Kunzru

When you run across a book by a London-born, Indian-origin, hip-enough-to-be-on-the-jacket-cover writer who is praised by the Financial Times, published in the New Yorker, you buy that shit..and quick.

A few bucks and several hours later, it struck me I was not reading. I was eating. I was dipping my eyes into a rich curry of language and filling my mind to bursting point. Since the meal was a short one, 300 pages of elegant spice and careful cooking, I thought I would savour the flavours by recounting them:

1. The base - creamy with the tales of white affluence: models, mercedes, marketers, masochism and masturbation, oily with the strivings of the Indian middle class: Delhi, Noida, cyber cafes, bollywood, call centres, pushy parents, virginity, Amerika.

2. The spices - a bollywood diva looking for a way out, a bollywood star looking for a way in- between every woman's legs, a lost Delliwallah trying to make his way in Silicon Valley, a virus, global communications meltdown, rich Arabs, Dubai match-fixers, blowjobs, sympathy sex, leggy whores,lesbian programmers, trippy hippy programmers, Bulgarians, Russians, Brussels, the EU.

3. The lamb - chunky, tender and full of flavour - a young boy in search of love, affection and touch, a young woman looking for a foothold on reality, a jaded mannequin of woman trying to be human again, a coked up entrepreneur trying to stop his life from slipping off the rollercoaster and a virus that does not mean to harm, but pause.

In short, one fucking amazing experience.

Now that I mention it, might have left a spoonful in the bowl. Will write soon, feeling peckish again.