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mafiabadgers 's review for:
The Unexpected Inheritance of Inspector Chopra
by Vaseem Khan
mysterious
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Plot
Strong character development:
No
Loveable characters:
No
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
No
First read 11/2024 for Farnham book club
Overall, a deeply unimpressive murder mystery novel that never manages to justify its central gimmick.
Inspector Chopra was Vaseem Khan's first novel, and it reads as though, having come up with a general idea of what he wanted to happen, he made it up as he went along and never bothered to check for continuity. On page 9 we are told that "In the way of things in the Brihanmumbai police, [unpleasant Assistant Commisioner of Police] Rao had been promoted whilst Chopra himself remained in post." And yet on page 31 we learn that Chopra "had declined a promotion to ACP three times in his career. He hated the politics that came with seniority in the Mumbai police force; he had always preferred the hands-on aspect of policing."
On page 83 a mother explains that her daughter has been acting evasively, lying to her, and throwing up in the mornings. Are you sure? her sister asks. "A mother knows," is her response, suggesting that there has been no confirmation of the suspected pregnancy from her daughter. But on the next page, it becomes apparent that the pair of them have discussed the situation, that the daughter wants to give the baby up for adoption, and that they've made arrangements to keep this secret. Either the mother has suspicions that her daughter is pregnant, or she knows it. Either your protagonist is a good officer passed over by a corrupt system, or he's a well-regarded officer who stays on the streets of his own volition. You can't have it both ways!
Furthermore, "Chopra had been a meticulous police officer, a man of method and painstaking procedure. Usually all it took to crack a case was this attention to detail that had become legendary among his fellow officers." (pp. 91-92) When his investigation hits a dead end, however, he resigns himself to having no options. Curiously, though, his next clue is found amongst the business cards he took from the victim's possessions, which it seems he hadn't bothered looked at. A better character writer could have reconciled this contradiction, but Khan is not that writer. The book tries to generate some drama by having Poppy, Chopra's wife, come to the conclusion that he's cheating on her, when he is in fact quietly investigating the murder. Chopra is aware only that she is unhappy with him, but knows he should tell her what he's doing. What ensues is tiresome, and frustrating because it could be so easily resolved. If Chopra were better fleshed out, his reluctance to talk to his wife about, well, anything, might be more sympathetic.
So in addition to the eminently sensible and rational inspector, we have his emotion/intuition-driven wife, the nagging crone of a mother-in-law, the henpecking, controlling widow who oversees his apartment complex, the lurking suspicion of the Other Woman, and frequent disdain for various "whores" and "floozies". It's like a roundup of sexist character tropes. Poppy's principal storyline (I can't call it a character arc) revolves around her tragic infertility, and how their marriage has never been quite complete because she couldn't give her husband a child (preferably a son). Add to this the suspected affair, and it you have a lovely pair of 'generic woman angst' storylines. Poppy doesn't do much else in the novel.
The villain also doesn't do much. He's a generic bad guy with a cane and an obligatory history with the protagonist. In addition to his responsibility for the initial murder, it turns out he's also an orphan trafficker. This book has no right to make as many derogatory comments about Bollywood potboilers as it does.
Khan spent ten years in India, which has no doubt gone into this book, but he is ultimately a Londoner and this bleeds through in little ways. "Remember what is real and what is maya, illusion, is only a matter of perspective." (p. 25) Using a word that requires immediate explanation is something you'd expect to see from someone trying to educate the reader, not from an elderly uncle writing a letter to his nephew. On page 113 we learn that Chopra made the acquaintance of someone during the 1993 riots, and the story stops so that we may be told about said riots. In Inspector Chopra, there is always the slight sense that India is something viewed at a remove, rather than a setting in which the book is deeply immersed. It would perhaps be putting things too strongly to say that this is not an Indian novel but an English novel about India, but that would be the most straightforward way to summarise my feelings. Perhaps this ties in to Chopra's deeply reactionary tendencies. The book admits, once, that "the universal problems of corruption, caste prejudice and poverty were historical ones. And yet he couldn't help but feel that however untenable his idea of India might seem, it was nevertheless the real India, the one that he loved, and the one that was fast disappearing thanks to the mantra of progress." (p. 24) This 'good old days' attitude crops up extensively from here on, and is never meaningfully challenged.
There is also, of course, the elephant. On page 297, the author says that he gatecrashed the book. If Khan had taken 25-50 pages to establish the sort of story he was telling, and then had the elephant appear, I could understand this description. Reading the novel, however, the elephant is there from the very first line, and is immediately shunted into the background. Chopra spends most of his time strolling around the city and investigating, periodically returning home to not talk to his wife and make perfunctory efforts to care for the beast. Aside from a few instances where the elephant's strength comes in handy, it is essentially an unconnected subplot. Writing a bland murder mystery novel I could tolerate, but suboptimal pachyderm deployment is unforgivable. You want animals that intrude into the text? Try Tanith Lee's The Book of the Mad. Good luck.
Overall, a deeply unimpressive murder mystery novel that never manages to justify its central gimmick.
Inspector Chopra was Vaseem Khan's first novel, and it reads as though, having come up with a general idea of what he wanted to happen, he made it up as he went along and never bothered to check for continuity. On page 9 we are told that "In the way of things in the Brihanmumbai police, [unpleasant Assistant Commisioner of Police] Rao had been promoted whilst Chopra himself remained in post." And yet on page 31 we learn that Chopra "had declined a promotion to ACP three times in his career. He hated the politics that came with seniority in the Mumbai police force; he had always preferred the hands-on aspect of policing."
On page 83 a mother explains that her daughter has been acting evasively, lying to her, and throwing up in the mornings. Are you sure? her sister asks. "A mother knows," is her response, suggesting that there has been no confirmation of the suspected pregnancy from her daughter. But on the next page, it becomes apparent that the pair of them have discussed the situation, that the daughter wants to give the baby up for adoption, and that they've made arrangements to keep this secret. Either the mother has suspicions that her daughter is pregnant, or she knows it. Either your protagonist is a good officer passed over by a corrupt system, or he's a well-regarded officer who stays on the streets of his own volition. You can't have it both ways!
Furthermore, "Chopra had been a meticulous police officer, a man of method and painstaking procedure. Usually all it took to crack a case was this attention to detail that had become legendary among his fellow officers." (pp. 91-92) When his investigation hits a dead end, however, he resigns himself to having no options. Curiously, though, his next clue is found amongst the business cards he took from the victim's possessions, which it seems he hadn't bothered looked at. A better character writer could have reconciled this contradiction, but Khan is not that writer. The book tries to generate some drama by having Poppy, Chopra's wife, come to the conclusion that he's cheating on her, when he is in fact quietly investigating the murder. Chopra is aware only that she is unhappy with him, but knows he should tell her what he's doing. What ensues is tiresome, and frustrating because it could be so easily resolved. If Chopra were better fleshed out, his reluctance to talk to his wife about, well, anything, might be more sympathetic.
So in addition to the eminently sensible and rational inspector, we have his emotion/intuition-driven wife, the nagging crone of a mother-in-law, the henpecking, controlling widow who oversees his apartment complex, the lurking suspicion of the Other Woman, and frequent disdain for various "whores" and "floozies". It's like a roundup of sexist character tropes. Poppy's principal storyline (I can't call it a character arc) revolves around her tragic infertility, and how their marriage has never been quite complete because she couldn't give her husband a child (preferably a son). Add to this the suspected affair, and it you have a lovely pair of 'generic woman angst' storylines. Poppy doesn't do much else in the novel.
The villain also doesn't do much. He's a generic bad guy with a cane and an obligatory history with the protagonist. In addition to his responsibility for the initial murder, it turns out he's also an orphan trafficker. This book has no right to make as many derogatory comments about Bollywood potboilers as it does.
Khan spent ten years in India, which has no doubt gone into this book, but he is ultimately a Londoner and this bleeds through in little ways. "Remember what is real and what is maya, illusion, is only a matter of perspective." (p. 25) Using a word that requires immediate explanation is something you'd expect to see from someone trying to educate the reader, not from an elderly uncle writing a letter to his nephew. On page 113 we learn that Chopra made the acquaintance of someone during the 1993 riots, and the story stops so that we may be told about said riots. In Inspector Chopra, there is always the slight sense that India is something viewed at a remove, rather than a setting in which the book is deeply immersed. It would perhaps be putting things too strongly to say that this is not an Indian novel but an English novel about India, but that would be the most straightforward way to summarise my feelings. Perhaps this ties in to Chopra's deeply reactionary tendencies. The book admits, once, that "the universal problems of corruption, caste prejudice and poverty were historical ones. And yet he couldn't help but feel that however untenable his idea of India might seem, it was nevertheless the real India, the one that he loved, and the one that was fast disappearing thanks to the mantra of progress." (p. 24) This 'good old days' attitude crops up extensively from here on, and is never meaningfully challenged.
There is also, of course, the elephant. On page 297, the author says that he gatecrashed the book. If Khan had taken 25-50 pages to establish the sort of story he was telling, and then had the elephant appear, I could understand this description. Reading the novel, however, the elephant is there from the very first line, and is immediately shunted into the background. Chopra spends most of his time strolling around the city and investigating, periodically returning home to not talk to his wife and make perfunctory efforts to care for the beast. Aside from a few instances where the elephant's strength comes in handy, it is essentially an unconnected subplot. Writing a bland murder mystery novel I could tolerate, but suboptimal pachyderm deployment is unforgivable. You want animals that intrude into the text? Try Tanith Lee's The Book of the Mad. Good luck.