Mr Majestic: The Tout of Bengaluru is the kind of crime fiction one can read when sick in bed and deliriously high on antibiotics. While sickness and drug- and alcohol-induced highs are common themes in the novel, it’s the hilarity of Zac O’Yeah’s plot and characters that provide the best medicine, that is, laughter. Add to this, the author’s spot-on comic timing, and you have yourself one hell of a therapeutic read.

The plot revolves around Hari (aka Harry, aka Mr Majestic), a small-time tout of such consummate resilience that he even manages to con a priest in a desert. Operating out of a pokey CD Road Internet parlour, in an office belonging to his Uncle Mamool (once an aspiring lawyer, now a full-time drunk), Hari is having what could be the worst day of his life. His online scam luring budding actors to a drama course in Bengaluru brings a big-muscled thug to his doorstep. This sets off a string of unfortunate events so unbelievable that one might be tempted to put stock in the words of Pandit Pundit, an astrologer who warns Hari of the difficult times ahead.

Hari’s valiant efforts at rescuing the beautiful and misguided wannabe actor Madhuri are set against the backdrop of mindless public fury against the failing health of Jagatprasiddha, the most revered actor in Bengaluru. Mr Majestic is at once a seasoned tout and a gallant knight: a combination that leads him into the arms of trouble repeatedly, but sadly, not once into the arms of the troublemaker. He falls in love with Madhuri, but not before he accidentally kills a man who is crucial to his mission, chops off another’s nose and adopts a tiny rat-like dog who plays Snowy to Hari’s Tintin. Along the way, you will meet would-be pornographers, an autorickshaw driver with a passion for Michael Jackson, a chain-smoking decaf-craving vamp, an impressionable parrot and a pink Porsche; your brain will be sharpened, and your gut ought to enjoy the roller-coaster ride.

O’Yeah holds the plot together; his writing completely in tune with Bengaluru’s underbelly, it rings with the authentic creak of the cogs on which the city’s miscreants run its machinery. Reading Mr Majestic is the closest you might ever come to downing a quarter of Gagarin of Gokak Falls in the back room of a shady bar in Bengaluru. So do it.