Who's loss is it anyways?

While my house was being turned upside down by the packers (actually, it was the first time I saw some of the stuff that I though had vanished into a black hole – including the missing sock of a pair- which I’d promptly thrown away the other leg of. So I was still a missing a sock in a pair), Mother-in-law (the brave soul) offered to baby-sit Pickwick.
Now if you’re wondering what packers were doing at the house- well, apparently hubby was once again bitten by the one-year-itch and had the look of wanderlust in his eyes. (No. no, you dirty minds wanderlust!!!) So we’re upping and moving.
But I digress (what’s new?). Back to the glee on hearing MIL will take Pickwick off my hands for a bit. Hmm… so what can I do that I haven’t been able to do for ages? And there’s no contest! I gleefully switch on the telly! (Again, dear readers, wanderlust. Also, with packers there? You MUST be joking!). So, I look forward to watch Oprah generously hand out mansions to her studio audience uninterrupted.
The packers sensing I was going to fight tooth and nail before I handed over the remote packed everything else around before warily approaching the telly. I was outnumbered six-to-one and gave up the remote with some reluctance. With a sigh I picked up the day’s papers and the first thing I read (My eyes just glaze over anything to do with the world Cup. So my mind automatically skips those sections of the newspapers and in effect I’m left with just 3.2 pages of newsprint to choose from) is some gloriously delusional article written by some socialite who cribs coz she has to travel from town to Lower Parel for work- which she claims isn’t in real Mumbai at all.(What’s she doing on my planet??)
I disgustedly toss the paper aside and with nothing else to browse thru’,I pick up my unfinished copy of Kiran Desai’s Much hyped, much awarded, much praised ‘Inheritance of Loss’. Now call me old fashioned, but I like stories to have an end. At least do the decent thing by pretending to have an end.
Half-way thru’ this book I realized that this book had no such intensions. For all practical purposes, this book was like an Indian soap- spectacular visuals, opulent sets and no end in sight. Skip a couple of episodes, and you wouldn’t have missed a thing!
What’s also annoying is that most of the characters in the book are the sort who let things happen to them. Well, if you’re going to write a book about people who let things happen to them, at least let interesting things happen to them. If everyday things that happened to you and me made for an interesting read, every diary ever written would be a darned bestseller! There’s a reason the book is categorized under fiction, I just desperately wish the author would realize that! Even an Adoor Gopalakrishnan movie has some pretensions of conclusion for crying our loud! And NO, a ‘My salaams’ page at the end of the book does NOT classify as a suitable end.
Just so you can partake in my righteous indignation, I’m penning this post that has no point to make and has NO end. HA!
PS: Please be warned- All the hate mail I will be receiving for this post is liable to be printed, quoted verabatim, rediculed and twisted beyond recognition and pointed and laughed at.