Neither a novel nor a collection of stories, it's a world of fantasy that takes you in six directions simultaneously, making you exuberant and intensely sad at the same time. The book encompasses different journeys, more within than outside. There is a journey into childhood space in 'Sapne Mein Sansmaran'; an intense, heartbreaking sweetness of being in love in 'Abhi Jugalbandi'; a sweet lyrical conversation between a man and a woman in 'Beech Raat Ki Lori'; a take on present days in 'Adhunik Lok katha'; a hugely entertaining comic satire on the present Hindi literary scenario in 'Patansheel Sahitya'; and an immensely sad yet amazingly uplifting emotional yet detached tale of longing, yearning and something lost forever in 'Kitabon Ki Aalmari'.

In all this we get a potent visual delight that has the flamboyance of the flaming setting sun and at times the soft sepia colors of sadness, something like Pamuk's huzun. As he writes, it is also as if he were creating a film. The book is an example of minute details, amazingly insightful satire and an innocent, almost childlike exuberance of craft. He breaks and invents and experiments with words, with form, with narration all the time.

The use of quaint esoteric words, the extremely acerbic dry wit, the sharp humor, the breaking of all barriers of conformed writing all the time with extreme ease and impunity, his not caring a fig for what is termed as serious writing, is what this book is all about. And in doing all this he creates an idiom which is sharply his own, very clearly delineating it from all that is being written now in Hindi literature.