Little Krishna’s caustic view of India and scathing sideways-squint at western culture in the time of great deceit.
Krishna leaves rural Bihar to work in a Delhi hotel. He’s the world’s best liar and soon learns the million and one ways of making a rupee. He loves and hates the foreigners he serves with beer and drugs, mimicking their slang and smoking their chillums as he robs them blind. There’s a peephole in the storeroom where he reads his blessed books, when he’s not ogling the girls or grooving to The Beatles.
He’s a little east, a little west. A black and white songster and a pick and mix poet; a joker-man who’s gonna be a big-shot. Or so he tells the crows each morning from his rooftop perch by the water tank.
A bomb explodes. Krisna stumbles upon his manager; ring fingers twitching. Riots break out but Krisna’s luck is in.
Mr. A. the gangster questions him. Krisna does what he does best. Now, his card reads ‘manager’ and he reads the Times, as the other boys clean up the condoms
A prostitute is murdered. Blackmail springs to mind. Krisna is sent to Mumbai and another bomb blast changes everything.