The one grouse I might have had against this little gem of a book is its somewhat open-ended, un-final ending, but when love and life are so open-ended and never quite final, why should a book about them be any different?
After the literal amputation of it in August 1947, what happened in Ayodhya on December 6, 1992, is arguably the most grievous, still-festering, self-inflicted wound on the original idea of India. I believe most Indians, in their heart of hearts, would wish to see it healed. I know that most Indians, in their heart of hearts, believe that this is wishful thinking.
Lend me your tears. I come to praise Netaji for they've buried him, and the good he did they've interred with his memory.
Let us concede that Stalin killed Bose. Imagine the moment. Imagine you're Stalin. You've got Bose. Maybe you have him under arrest. Maybe you have him as a guest. But you have him. You've got <em>Bose</em>. You probably like him. At the very least you like him more than you do Nehru. Bose probably likes you too. Hell, maybe it was Bose who gave you the idea in the first place, to use the old <em>ad baculum</em> fallacy to make Nehru fall in line.