Indian Balm: Travels in the Southern Subcontinent

This book was ‘harder' to read than expected. It has some real positives - it has short chapters, which are focussed on an event or a theme, which means the book moved forward relatively easily - it is the story of travel to an area of India seldom visited by tourists - there is an interesting connection between the author and his family history of the area. Really this should work out great.
For me, it works out ok. Not better. It isn't straight forward why.

The author connection is interesting - the author is English and an ancestor (great great grandfather I think) was the manufacturer and distributor of Indian Balm, a medicinal salve which is applied or taken in various ways to cure a myriad problems (in NZ when I was a kid we had a salve made by Rawleighs, googling it now, I find it is still available!! http://www.rawleigh-products.com/herbal-skin-remedies.html.) The fine details are lost on me now (yes, i have literally just finished the book, and yet can't recall - a clue as to its lack of success), but the journey is established around the author travelling to India to trace the family history. It doesn't really happen. There are a lot of times he refers back to the family members, and he definitely identifies the places and people they interacted with, but the whole Indian Balm story really fell apart for me - maybe I missed something crucial?

I had expectations of the secret ingredients being divulged (it is long out of production), of there being an explanation of the manufacturing process, of the raw ingredient collection etc. Nope, none of this.

The other issue for me is the writing style - it was fine. Just fine, not beyond. It was at times overly wordy, but at the same time seemed very level, and didn't introduce much excitement. It sort of bored me.

Having moaned about those things, there were some really interest chapters, and some of the descriptions were great.

Here is one from near the end: P227: The author has been responsible for the driving of his cousins car.
By Wilful amnesia I'd emptied my mind of the British Highway Code. Now I enjoyed driving on my nerves, and off the top of my head. I savoured moments of improvisation that untied knots of incompatible vehicles, sudden extemporary swerves that preserved both life and momentum, impromptu expedients made all the sweeter by the slackness of the gear-shift, the almost whimsical play on the steering, the exhilarating laziness of the brakes. The very lack of immediate response afforded by the controls made control itself a doubtful notion and immediacy an imperative one.

Three stars.