Out came a thought and then another...

Ms.K, ex-blogger, email pal, partner in learning, wrote to me a few days ago about her ambivalence to Indian Writing. I don't think she would call her view ambivalence but that is how I choose to describe it. I had warned her earlier that I might use what she writes in a guest post on the blog and she said, do with it as you please. So here are her words, straight from her email onto this page:

I am sure it must have started much earlier, but the earliest memory of me reading (Indian writing or otherwise) is that of sitting in a poorly-lit and dusty library inside Ramakrishna Mutt (not sure if I got the place right) in Madurai. It was conveniently located away from the hustle of the heart of the city. I didn't know where it was located, having never travelled alone. Even if I had, I wonder if I could have remembered that little detail for ten years now. Given that it was "Ramakrishna Mutt", there were books on religion and spirtuality. I didn't know what they were back then. (And I don't know what they are now). But they had an amazingly rich collection of books on Indian Mythology for children (much more than the Amar Chitra Katha ones, which many of my cousins still savour). Contrary to popular belief, those books would never qualify for "moral science" text book. They had colourful illustrations, and I liked them a lot. And most importantly, they were in Tamil. I was allowed to carry a few of them home, and I sat there in sweat and dust choosing which ones I'd have. It had none of the comforts that the Young Learner's Centre at British Council offers but I enjoyed the experience there. This process happened regularly, until I had to move to a still farther location from that library. Having no means of going there frequently, I had to give up those much cherished visits and the interlude with Indian writing ended quite abruptly.

I reserved my comments on Arundhati Roy for the fear of being murdered by some of her fans, chose to turn temporarily deaf when some one mentioned 'A Suitable Boy' and crinkled my nose when suggested to read Salman Rushdie (that I eventually read and gave up again on Rushdie is another story - I couldn't take in The Satanic Verses; I just couldn't ) ; Other writers - Kiran Desai for instance, I assured the folks who suggested that I'll get to them at a later date. Come to think of it now, I actually read (and still read) very little.

One idea I carried on for a long time is that irrespective of how much of an "English upbringing" you have, or how much time you spend in an alien land, the fact that you "think in your native language" and then translate it means that even the best of Indian writers do not express themselves with the flair that a native speaker of English does. It is for this reason that I find British authors to possess a greater sense of narration in English than an American, or an Italian - so to speak the structure of prose is so smooth that you begin to wonder if they used French curves ;-) Erm...don't get me wrong, I do agree that there are some people who can write in any language with ease, and some translations do make awesome reads, but I do, structurally feel, for example, that Agatha Christie's prose is far superior than Erle Stanley Gardener, although plot-wise they are nearly matched neck to neck. (I nearly broke the heart of a friend when I said this) While this may dissuade a bunch of budding authors from India, I'd like to point them out to one Mr. R.K. Narayan.

Secondly, and mainly is the lack of variety for me. I certainly do not want to read one more novel about an Indian immigrant in the States or about the slums of India or the partition and its consequences. I am yet to come across the sort of Georgette Heyer novels for India - you know, set in the 1800s, involving missing family heirlooms and young men travelling on horse backs, set in the Mughal occupied India - or a E. Nesbit style fantasy story set in a village close to Madurai (I've heard a good many from my Grandma) that sort of stuff (in English, I mean) never gets published, or if it does, scarcely is brought to the knowledge of non-bibliophiles like me. I'm tired of Indian writers who take the sole responsibility of presenting India to the West; E.M. Forster, for one, took care of that part. A couple of months back, I chanced upon "Interpreter of Maladies", which was so frightfully dull that I gave up midway. It seemed to me that Jhumpa Lahiri achieved bringing out the contrasts and inequalities, and just that. I have a small collection of books, but it reflects my dilettantish interests - Whodunnits, Historical-fiction/war, science-fiction, post-modernist works, lots and lots of children's fiction, classics, non-fiction, rough science guides and sea-epics. I certainly do not want to pile up Indian writing, if Indian writing in English is going to confine itself.

So a combination of subject matter and the treatment of it both matters to me (although I can discount either in some cases), and I probably need a 12000 Volt inspiration to pick up an English book by an Indian author. Inspite of all this, quite accidentally, I have lined up in my bookshelf, 'Shalimar the Clown', 'Midnight's Children', 'The Moor's Last Sigh' and 'Two Lives'. I may read them, I may not. However, I am yet to erase my ideas on Indian Writing just yet.

P.S.

A number of people have accused me of holding the notion of not reading Tamil literature as widely as English. I am fairly acquainted with the language, can speak and read common-day stuff, but literature, no sir, I had no formal education in Tamil to be that familiar with structure and composition. Other than that, no grudge against any language. I make fun of French language liberally (I don't find it logical as against my brother who loves French more than English), but I love French movies. I hold several paradoxical ideas ;-) Heck, why can I not contradict myself?

Posted by Echo/Lavanya on Wednesday, January 17, 2007 at 6:53 PM | Permalink