The Indigo Spell (Bloodlines, #3)

  

Let's face one undeniable fact. I'm a sucker for a happy ending. I have a cynical soul lined with a border of idealism. When I pick up a romantic read, I expect the pair that I am rooting for, to overcome all the obstacles, indulge in a few jealousy-fuelled rants, have each others back in a crisis and finally walk off into an Instagram-worthy sunset.

And so, I am an absolute sap for the duo of a strait-laced, super-intelligent human girl and a seemingly unhinged, smart-talking bad-boy vampire crumbling the odds stacked against them. And if, along the way, I have to deal with page-fillers about conspiracy theories, covert operations and rescue missions of young girls from youth-obsessed witches, then I shall do so without an ounce of regret.

Let's face another fact. I unabashedly ship the Sydney Sage-Adrian Ivashkov pairing. I think they are stinkin' adorable. Honestly, I do. And the author has kindly catered to all the loyal fans by devoting enough pages to the witty (and sometimes, teeth-grittingly cheesy) repartee between the star pairing. Adrian professes his love at regular intervals. Sydney shoots him down. And then she mouths some unnecessary jibber-jabber about it being wrong! and shocking!! and unacceptable!!! And then she proceeds to promptly snog his face off. And indulge in more.
 Fangirls, rejoice.

I was expecting the arrival of Marcus Finch to be the third point of an impending love triangle. I was hoping for Sydney to have a clash of wills between her love for the wholly unsuitable Adrian and the irritatingly appropriate rebel Marcus. Sadly, all that Marcus contributed to the love saga was to be..........irritating. And every time he put it in an appearance, this was what I wanted to do to him:

More screen time for the infinitely likeable Eddie Castille and his unrequited love for Jill would have been nice. Sadly, it meandered around the story's edges but rarely took hold.

The rest of the book reads like a regular teen supernatural drama. It's entertaining but not exactly gripping. At the end of the book, I regret nothing. Adrian Ivashkov remains one of my favourite anti-heroes (and now, full-fledged hero). He is glamorous enough to seem unattainable, trustworthy enough to be likeable, flawed enough to be believable and sassy enough to make cynical ladies crack a smirk. And then he manages to breathe Ivashkov charm into the following exchange:

"...and as for who you are, you're the same beautiful, brave, and ridiculously caffeinated fighter you've been since the day I met you. "Sweet talker," I scoffed. "You didn't know anything about me the first time we met." "I knew you were beautiful," he said."I just hoped for the rest."

Okay yes, mush-overload. But, for a minute there, I got all:

Those Pricey Thakur Girls (Anuja Chauhan)

 

Set in the eighties, Those Pricey Thakur Girls is the tale of the five beautiful (albeit chaotic) daughters of retd. Justice Laxmi Narayan Thakur as they flit in and out of their bungalow on Delhi’s prestigious Hailey Road. More precisely, the story revolves around the fourth daughter Debjani (Dabbu): the lover of losers, the messiah of stray dogs and the bearer of an Aruna Iraniesque mole on her chinny-chin chin.

Dabbu has just landed the much coveted job of newsreader at Desh Darpan (DD), the ONLY news channel in the country. Following her first, nervous newscast, the general opinion of her doting family and the odd chaat-wala is positive and brimming with praise. However, the scathing review by a columnist in the India Post newspaper rips Dabbu’s maiden venture to shreds.

Disheartened, dismayed and downcast, dear Debjani is alliteratively enough down in the dumps.

So what happens when the idealistic Debjani crosses swords with her father’s best friend’s son, the cynical investigative reporter, Dylan Singh Shekawat? And what happens when Debjani discovers that the brimming with wit and rippling with sinews Dylan is the pen behind the vitriolic piece that described her as “Miss Dolly dotted chin with a basilisk gaze?”
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 Anuja Chauhan pretty much rocks. This book is yet another gem from the lady who writes like a dream. 

She has the ability to push together a spunky heroine and a deliciously devilish hero and infuse their pairing with enough chemistry, wit, chutzpah and interfering busybodies to create a memorable love story.

The strength of her stories lies in the plethora of supporting characters who are so well-etched that you long for individual novellas of their very own.

Those Pricey Thakur Girls is a complete package. There are varying shade of humour ranging from droll wit to outright bawdy innuendos. The story effectively skirts the line between frothy chick-flick and gritty political gameplay. There are generous splashings of Hinglish that never sound pretentious or forced. Finally, the setting. Anuja Chauhan’s books are set in nostalgic patches of old Delhi that make you crave girly gossip nights atop terraces and hormonal neighbourhood boys who mature from puppy dog affection to wolfish admiration.

As always, I come away from a Chauhan romp with the replete sense of *paisa-vasool*. The book made me happy and at the end of the day, that’s a satisfying blessing indeed.