India, Sept. 13 -- As the novel begins, we find the protagonist, Nirvana, waking up on a Sunday afternoon, nursing a hangover from a three-day binge. He's in his single room apartment in Chuim Village, a Catholic settlement in Khar. The events of the weekend come to him in flashes: the launch of a designer store, an after-party on a Worli terrace, a rum-soaked brunch at Sea Princess, and an altercation at Janta bar in Pali Naka, Bandra. He rummages through "an overflowing ashtray for last night's half-smoked spliff, finally locating it within the folds of the bedsheet, which now has a large hot rock burnt through it. Said hot rock has also penetrated the surface of the mouldy mattress underneath." He locates the lighter in his shoe. This downbeat opening sets the tone for an unusual tale of sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll that takes Nirvana, a '90s kid, on a cross-country search (Bombay, Calcutta, Shillong and Benares) for a 1970s band called The Flow, and it's enigmatic self-destructive frontman, Max Bulandi. Along the way, it becomes a story about Indian scenesters and musicians of different generations: the late '60s, the '70s and the '90s, up until 2019, the year in which the novel is set. This is a carefully structured (and researched) novel, which begins in contemporary times and travels back to the previous century in concentric circles, whirl within musical whirl, until it reaches the core of the pioneers of the Indian rock scene. Nirvana, pushing 40, is a disillusioned acid-tripping journalist with a tabloid called Mumbai Tasveer. He chances upon an article in an old issue of Junior Standard, about an anarchic gig that took place in Dadar in 1970, featuring bands from across the country. After wrangling a month of paid leave, he sets out on his journey, tracking down the remaining band members and musicians who knew them, the reporter who wrote the JS piece on India Beat '70, and Belinda, Max's girlfriend, who hails from British nobility, unearthing their fascinating backstories. Some are dead, some have become alcoholics, while others have accepted the inevitable fading of rock 'n' roll dreams and slipped quietly into the bourgeois life. The journey takes us to the heart of the jazz scene in Park Street, Calcutta: Trincas, Blue Fox, Skyroom, Moulin Rouge; the Anglo-Indian influence; the strikes, unionising and labour struggle of the Naxalite era, which swallows whole Max Bulandi aka Makrand from Benares (musicians don't exist in a vacuum); the Bauls of Bolpur; the missionaries, planters, and "tea-bands" of Shillong: "Let me tell you about that wonderful instrument my old man had fashioned out of an empty tea-chest, a broom stick and a length of cord." Vikram Baxi, musician and school teacher, ticks off milestones in his hedonistic voyage, using historical markers. "I smoked my first cigarette during the Chinese incursion of '62, my first drink was had during the war of '65 with Pakistan, my first hit of heroin arrived with the liberation of Bangladesh in '71 and my first stint in rehab was during the Emergency of '75 - where they gave me electro-convulsive therapy, which seems to have f****d my head for good." At a Communist rally in Calcutta, Joe Nongrem, former member of The Flow observes, "Beneath the surface ran a strong undercurrent of sexuality. This was not just a place to complain about the inequalities of society; it was also a place to find potential partners." Along the way, the book becomes a potted history of the hippie trail. Then, there is the '90s kid angle. Anyone who is a part of that generation will experience a wave of recognition: going to watch Parikrama and Indian Ocean; the "Cyber Mehfils" of MIDIval Punditz in the Aughts; cult haunts such as Fire 'n' Ice in Mumbai and Fireball in then-still-developing Gurgaon. This is that rare novel, full of twists and turns, readable and relatable, an authentic wild ride, not marred by the phoniness which often plagues Indian literary fiction. Sidharth Singh has a story to tell, and he tells it like a rockstar....