The Indian Writer

I wrote a couple of months back in disgust after having read "3 mistakes of my life", about the appaling condition of Indian literature. I would like to retract my statements. I have since then read some Indian authors and am pleasantly surprised. Though its only the soft porn written by Ms. De and Mr. Singh which gets publicity, I have in the past 2 months read a few really good Indian books.

It's a revelation to read Indian authors and identify not just with emotions as you can in foreign novels, but with situations and places also.

I have read a couple of translations - both in their own rights were path breakers in the original language that they were written in. It should come as no surprise that one is a Bengali book called Chowringhee by Sankar (1962) and the other is a Malayalam book called Nallukettu by M.T (1958). These book date back nearly half a century and there is so much within them that still rings so true. It ought to be a source of shame for us that the appaling conditions of the demise of the Nair society that M.T describes so lucidly in Nallukettu and the underbelly of Calcutta that Sankar describes so vividly in Chowringhee still wouldn't require to be changed much if these books had to be re-written in today's day and age.

I've read a couple of stark commentaries on human nature and especially the Indian variant. Again these books Guide by R.K Narayan (1958) and The White Tiger by Aravind Adiga (2008), being 50 years apart mirror the Indian mentality that we are so seeped in. You start identifying with the aimlessness of Raju, who whiles away his life and time doing literally nothing noteworthy and sympathising with Balram, who kills his master and runs away with his money to start a business. These are characters that you know in your life, characters whose actions you can justify because you know the "system".

I also read "Ladies Coupe" by Anita Nair, where there were at least two characters whom I know personally and was disturbed by the accuracy with which sentiments of these lives, which are so typically Indian, were etched by the author.

Though I was disappointed with God of smalll things and have not yet been able to get through "A tale of two lives" by Vikram Seth and "The Great Indian Novel" by Tharoor, I have new found interest and confidence in Indian writers.