I must confess... I am disappointed with Indian writing in English. I recently finished reading Aravind Adiga's "White Tiger" and now I wonder whether the booker is only given to those Indians who write expressly with the foreigner in mind. Now, I am not xenophobic and I don't have a problem if authors want to explain a particular culture to alien audiences. However, the whole manner in which a majority of Indian authors seem to do it puts me off mildly.
Let me approach the topic from another angle. I also recently read two delightful books - The Purple Hibiscus and Girls of Riyadh. The former is set in the Nigerian civil war and the latter in Saudi Arabia. Third world societies both, parochial, patriarchal and anything but modern. But the authors wrote about their countries with a rare sensitivity. Describing culture but never judging it; introducing me to people and situations different from my own but never assuming that I did not have the sensibility to identify with human emotion without their having to dissect it threadbare.
In this sense, I think we still suffer from a colonial hangover. I see authors addressing Non-Indians, taking it upon themselves to educate others about Indian culture. And I find that demeaning to say the least. They could describe and leave the labelling of the culture to those of us who read; they could talk about an individual's like or dislike for the society and leave the reader to chose his/her side.
Why are Indian authors, or should I say the majority that I have read so cynical, so bereft of hope, so full of criticism? Why can they not look at the contradictions that characterise this society as a sign of its diversity, its acceptability and its resilience? I see a million things that make me smile and I think it is a pity that I hardly see them reflected in the stories I read about India.
Before I sign off, I am sure there are Indian authors who differ from the afore mentioned ones and I have been suggested a few. So shall get down to reading them in a while and hope that I am pleasantly contradicted.
Let me approach the topic from another angle. I also recently read two delightful books - The Purple Hibiscus and Girls of Riyadh. The former is set in the Nigerian civil war and the latter in Saudi Arabia. Third world societies both, parochial, patriarchal and anything but modern. But the authors wrote about their countries with a rare sensitivity. Describing culture but never judging it; introducing me to people and situations different from my own but never assuming that I did not have the sensibility to identify with human emotion without their having to dissect it threadbare.
In this sense, I think we still suffer from a colonial hangover. I see authors addressing Non-Indians, taking it upon themselves to educate others about Indian culture. And I find that demeaning to say the least. They could describe and leave the labelling of the culture to those of us who read; they could talk about an individual's like or dislike for the society and leave the reader to chose his/her side.
Why are Indian authors, or should I say the majority that I have read so cynical, so bereft of hope, so full of criticism? Why can they not look at the contradictions that characterise this society as a sign of its diversity, its acceptability and its resilience? I see a million things that make me smile and I think it is a pity that I hardly see them reflected in the stories I read about India.
Before I sign off, I am sure there are Indian authors who differ from the afore mentioned ones and I have been suggested a few. So shall get down to reading them in a while and hope that I am pleasantly contradicted.
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