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Take a scale. By placing it vertically against the spine of Jaishree Misra's book titled Accidents Like Love & Marriage, check its depth. One and a half centimetres. It fits. As a scathing social narrative about the cultural habits-largely mating habits-of Delhi Punjabis, this book is about as deep as a paneer pakora. As a social satire on the clash of civilisations (read Puppy vs Madrasi), it has all the significance of a single gol gappa. As far as the plot and dialogue go, it is as original as butter chicken at Pandara Road.

Misra is not a mediocre writer, but sadly, has written a book as insipid as the idli sambar in a downmarket Udipi restaurant. It is supposed to parody the nouveau riche Sachdevas who buzz around town in Beamers and the quaint charm of the academically eccentric Menons whose Standard Herald is mocked by the servant Moolchand of the errant penis-whose erotic fantasies about the zaftig Swarn are rather boring.

ACCIDENTS LIKE LOVE & MARRIAGE By Jaishree Misra Penguin Price: Rs 250 Page: 213

The hirsute Jagdeesh likes to sleep naked while his wife hates sex, Neena and Rohit love sex but Rohit loves it a bit too much with Tracy on a wayward trip to London. The gorgeous Gayatri, returning from Oxford with a broken heart, is wooed by the young Tarun Sachdeva of the winsome forelock, only to be stymied by the Punjabi arrogance of his mother. Tarun joining aerobic classes to woo Gayatri is a puerile idea, reminding one of the worst of Mills and Boon. He reveals his true Puppy colours by manhandling Moolchand and calling him a "behenc..d", shocking his gentle southern visitors. Towards the end, everyone is leaving home as the Sachdeva household comes unstuck-Tarun to a motel, his father, later, to the same motel, the daughter-in-law to her parents.

Misra's prose is clean and swift, her descriptions of characters candid but predictably funny. Writers trying to be witty unfortunately end up with caricature, and family vignettes as a cultural commentary on the times are best left to Austen or Seth. Eating club sandwiches at the Taj coffee shop can hardly be termed a "grand meal" and the "sweetie" and "babe" get rather tiresome. The reader schleps around the Delhi social landscape without really getting an idea of what the novel is all about. Barfis, airconditioning, jnu, discos-they're all there, but what's the point of this book? Maybe the title gives us a clue. An accident of prose? Perhaps.