Need a life-changing book? Pick something else. Read The Liquid for its irreverence, wit, tone and brutal honesty

“I REMEMBER having some ‘happy pizza’ in Cambodia once and being stoned for a whole day, but I didn’t relive 10 years of my life in a hallucination. Not even close. I just giggled a lot and thought the central pillar at Ankor Vat looked like the chute of a magic beanstalk. But that was easily attributed to what I’d ingested: the product of some magic seeds.—Dave Besseling, author of The Liquid Refuses to Ignite. That was Besseling puzzled— Ankor Vat’s hallucinogenics gave him the ‘giggles’. Varanasi’s innocuous lassi led to a series of slo’-mo’ to super-fast flashbacks, filmishtyle. Of course, there is that small possibility that the flashbacks were induced by what Besseling ate/drank/consumed the evening before. Or, they were the early symptoms of the severe stomach flu which would flatten him later. (Caution; if you are tender-hearted then read the lurid descriptions of his flu symptoms at your own risk.) Those who wonder why there are so many tourists and truth-seekers in all the Indian ‘holy cities’ or in South East Asia—this book will not provide you with any answers. And thank the lord for that. Besseling’s The Lquid Refuses To Ignite was not written to enlighten— neither the inhabitants of the host country nor its guests; those who come to ‘holy places’ to seek answers or hallucinate their way to Nirvana. The Canadian-born, tattoo artistcum- journalist’s first book is a compilation of essays some of which have already been published in Tehelka, Caravan and MW. It would be wise to treat this book as just that—a selfindulgent act of looking back at the trippy days that were. And be thankful that it is being cleverly told. The Liquid is quite evidently a western tourist’s tale—whether he is backpacking across the Far East or in this tropical mess of a country of ours. His currency and its exchange rate gives him a scope to see the world in relative comfort. And let’s face it, when he walks, he walks along a ‘substance route’. His is a road trip fuelled by drugs and sex, which makes for an interesting read. Somewhere along the way there is that bit of epiphenomena thrown in—problem is unless you care enough about Besseling, this book would not do much for you. However the fact that the book is nostalgic is not problematic. Comparing Besseling’s first attempt to the life-changing work of a certain Hunter S Thompson is. The Liquid follows Besseling on his travels from Varanasi to Tokyo, Amsterdam, Prague, Kathmandu, Chiang Mai, Luang Prabang, Paris, Manali and Kashmir before ending in Nepal. Well yes, if you are thinking drug trail, you are not too far from the truth. Unlike Thomspon’s Fear And Loathing (the jacket makes the reference. So let us harp on this a bit more, shall we?), Besseling’s tone lacks solidity. Which is a disappointment because one hopes he would do better. Both Besseling and Late Hunter Thompson share a passion for trippy substances, interesting routes and eccentric companions. However, is it enough? Can we compare a boat to a fish; both move in water. Besseling is a bit too moored—to pragmatism, his past and to the fact that he is white and privileged to be unique. Result; he ends up sounding like a ‘tourist’, that creed he pokes fun at. Of a Varanasi bar he writes; “The beer is bad. The whole scene is bad… Not the kind of place you’d bring a girl on a date.” You would rather avoid bringing a woman in a bar frequented by men raised in a compartmentalised, patriarchal system with strict ideas/definitions of gendered spaces and leisure? Thou art wise, Master Besseling (you wish to say). The Liquid consists of stories of stomach flues, nostalgia, lassi, Tokyo hotels and stray dogs—not necessarily in that order. At the risk of repeating myself, unless the reader is invested enough, the book will not make sense. But if s/he is, The Liquid’s raw, visceral appeal is clear. (Though for the love of Buddha, I cannot pretend to understand Best selling’s agenda-ish jibes at Buddhism.) The author is a hyperactive man. That aspect comes through clearly in his prose. His descriptions especially of Varanasi can make you cringe and laugh at the same time.