Siddarth Dhanvant Shangvi's second novel is an ode to brokenness and lost innocence, both in the heart of the titular city and in those of its inhabitants. Its three parts detail the rise and fall of a coterie of India's privileged, through the eyes of a young photographer who unwittingly becomes drawn into the center of the whirl. I was drawn to this book in part because the summary billed it as “Fitzgeraldian”-- the novel is fixated on the dissolute, decadent atmosphere of 1990's Bombay, more than vaguely reminiscent of the Western roaring '20's-- but I came away disappointed. Aside from the occasional transcendent image or insightful reflection, Shangvi's Flamingoes doesn't quite make it off the ground.

Shangvi's answer to Nick Carraway is Karan Seth, who takes a photojournalism job in Bombay because he desires to document the city with “an intensity powered by ravenous curiosity and a quality that was a lot like compassion but without its air of moral conceit.” This desire resurfaces again and again, stitching together Karan's personal odyssey; photographic-style imagery forms the backbone of the novel, and is thankfully Shangvi's chief strength. His descriptive language usually lends itself well to the visualization of not only the specific images Karan captures, but also the atmosphere he seeks to evoke in each, which is arguably more meaningful. In one powerful scene, citizens of Bombay watch as a flock of flamingoes flies over part of the city: “the birds had tight, spindled legs and large, serrated wings, and their graceful necks were so firmly held they looked like freshly serviced strings on a sitar.” Karan, moved at the sight, “[takes] out his camera from its case and furiously [clicks] at the scene around him.” He captures “three scrawny roadside tenors” who are rejoicing in a “forgotten bakwaas Hindi love song.” Scenes like this do an admirable job of capturing the passion Karan (and I suspect, the author) feels for his primary subject. The reader can feel a true sadness in the upheaval of India's vibrant and deeply-rooted culture as it experiences the throes of modernization; the city of Bombay aches along with Karan as the novel progresses.

Unfortunately, the supposedly scintillating beau-monde of Bombay which forms the other part of Shangvi's focus fails to intrigue. Karan Seth first comes into contact with his soon-to-be social set during a party at the trendy club Gatsby, which he has been assigned to attend and shoot for his job at The India Chronicle. Of course we are not to expect the regulars at Gatsby to be the most genuine people, but Shangvi has them trading political platitudes and cringe-worthy one-liners with abandon. For example, the reader is treated to the following paragraph in the midst of a perfunctory political conversation on the proposed “rechristening” of Bombay:

“But Mumbai was the original name of Bombay,' Priya said stiffly, referring to the fact that the Kolis, one of the earliest communities resident in the city, had named it in honour of the goddess Mumbadevi. 'This is about claiming our past back from the colonists.”

The explication and bald pronouncement stand out as particularly clunky in light of the fact that, throughout the rest of the novel, more obscure Indian cultural references and Hindi jargon go unexplained. As the scene continues to unwind, we come into contact with India's media giants as well, meeting “fashion bible” editor and divorcée Diya Sen, who tossed out her first husband because, in her words, “the only thing we had in common was a mutual adoration of me.” The most profound bit of wisdom she has to offer is that “not every fling comes with a bling quotient.”

As I stated before, my sense of the flaw in Shangvi's characterizations comes not from the mere fact that his Bombay elite appear superficial. I was instead put off by the method he chose to portray them in their flamboyant corruption and materialism. I did not feel, after reading scenes like the Gatsby party, that I had learned anything I could not have already imagined about these people before reading the book. I wasn't able to sense any substance in some characters beyond the flimsy stereotypes of a pampered Bollywood actress or corrupt political dynasty don, or what little conception of them I already possessed. True, the burnt-out piano prodigy Samar and screen goddess Zaira did exhibit dimensionality as the narrative delved into their private lives. But the characters I met in passing held no mystery, betraying no hint of the same depth as these main characters who were so clearly misunderstood by an idolatrous public. The all-important peripheries of the novel's world fell flat.

If I am to indulge Shangvi in the comparison he seems to invite, his novel falls short of Fitzgerald's masterpiece The Great Gatsby because he does not treat his admittedly flighty human subjects with the same earnestness. He never fully immerses himself in their perspectives; he never fully asks, about all of them, the critical writerly question, “what if this person's reality were mine?” and so this is ultimately the question he fails to answer. As the novel ends, the reader still has yet to achieve a sense of its whole population of characters as fully realized human beings, each with a full complement of strengths and weaknesses. And while this may be a tall order, it is no less than the difference, with respect to fiction, between earthbound birds and those that know the fulfillment of flight.