This past
year I have been exposed to a lot of writers about whom I had never heard of before…
some good, some very good and some passable.
First off,
introduction to a whole range of British best-selling children’s writers was
the biggest find of all for me. Julia Donaldson,
Tony Mitton, John Fardell and the American Dr. Suess… the simplicity of the prose
and poems, the audacity of the imagination, the brilliance of the ideas, the
sense of humour which appeals to a 30 year old as much as a to a three year
old. Aliens love underpants, Stinkysauraus, Manfred the baddie, the Gruffalo
and lots more are an exquisite delight to read. I look forward to my weekly visit to the childrens section of
Kingston Library as much as my kid. The excitement of finding these gems,
bringing them home and then reading them every night till the next weekend is
something that find childishly innocent.
The other
big discovery for me was Alexander McCall Smith. The No.1 ladies detective
agency series has been one of the most enjoyable reads I’ve had in a long time.
Botswana, a hitherto heard of but not retained in memory for any cause, country
was suddenly the most desirable country in the world. I have always loved the
ability of an individual to write from a perspective which is completely
opposite of their self. Not that I claim to intimately know Mr. McCall Smith,
but I would daresay he does look and read a lot different than Precious
Ramostwe. Reading any one of this gentleman’s books has a therapeutic effect on
me.
Then there
are the horrible history series. I am not one for actually recollecting
anything that I read in those books with any precision – in fact I am bound to
get British history all muddled up adequately for them to throw me out of the
country with immediate effect, but are they a riot to read. I have never read
such callously funny renderings of gruesome killings in my life. One doesn’t
know whether to laugh or be horrified after reading the series.
The Indian
markets are flooded with American authors and thankfully a lot of indian ones.
I do miss the Indian writers. I wonder if there is a new Vish Puri novel or if
Mr. Robin Einstien Varghese has been able to mess something up again or if
Mr.Ravi Subramaniam has exposed another underbelly of the Indian banking
industry or Mr.Adiga has another delightfully realistic expression of Indian
life. I agree I am not into heavy philosophical books, but historical or
mythological interpretations like The Pregnant King, the Palace of Illusions
are excellent reads.
So I have always been quite ignorant of British writers.
Maybe other than the old timers (Dickens, Jane Austen et al.), I actually have
not read any modern authors. I have obviously been an ardent worshipper of
Frederick Forsyth and Jeffery Archer in their heydays, but their books are far
too global to give you a feel for the real British life. So when I came across writers
like Ann Cleeves, Anna Dean, Sue Townsend (all women, which I didn’t realise
till I actually jotted their names down), I was pleasantly surprised. It is a
very different depiction than what Indians reading Western fiction are used to.
We are so used to the American way of things that to digest and then slowly
enjoy the British way of things is a bit difficult. But when you’ve lived here
for some time (at least through one glorious seasonal cycle), you understand
the bleakness, the greyness, the propriety, the addiction to a cup of tea, the
social structures, the conflict of the cultures – both within generations and
within populations. And when you understand some of this, then you start
enjoying their murder mysteries, novels penning their mundane daily affairs. I
am not sure if I would yet extend this courtesy to British telly which I am
staying steadfastly away from, but maybe I ought to give Downton Abbey and Dr.
Who a chance at least J
Amongst all
these, was a book called A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian. This is
written by a migrant Ukrainian who is settled in UK and I don’t believe I have
read anything so remotely funny in the near past.
I am sure
there are many American writers who do good work and continue to churn good
intelligent material for masses (and I do not include James Patterson as one of
these writers), but for now, I am basking in glorious British literature
(not sure if modern day novels are to be referred to as literature). In this
country where telly is oh so rubbish, it’s these writers who keep my sanity
intact.
