Indian writers are no longer just flash-in-the-pan.
Last year, on his
first visit to India after winning the Nobel Prize
for Literature, V.S. Naipal attended a New Delhi literary
festival organized by the Indian Council of Cultural
Relations in his honor. While listening to a discussion
between two well-known Indian women writers on the
affect of gender oppression on their work, and the
negative influence of the English language on regional
literature, Sir Vidia once again revealed that he
viewed many things Indian with an extremely jaundiced
eye and was not afraid of voicing his acerbic opinion.
“This thing about colonialism, this thing about gender
oppression, the very word oppression wearies me,”
he fumed, interrupting the pair of women writers.
“ If writers talk about oppression, they don’t do
much writing. Fifty years have gone by. What colonialism
are you talking about?”
Well, his trenchant
criticism notwithstanding, colonialism may have departed,
but it did thrust upon Indians the legacy of the English
language and, whether Sir Vidia likes it or not, it
is a mine that is still yielding a rich, varied ore
of fiction and non-fiction.
A cursory glance at the books published in 2002 prove
that writers, whose mother tongues may be Urdu, Parsi,
Bengali, Hindi, Telegu or Tamil, brought out fiction
and non-fiction written in a language that certainly
did not belong to their forefathers. Did these vernacular
languages suffer because the writers did not use their
mother tongues to flesh their work?
Naturally. But there is also no denying the fact that
the English language is immeasurably richer for the
presence of these gifted talents. Hinglish, as Indian
writing in English is sometimes slangily called, has
evolved into a genre of its own, and has transformed
itself into a distinct offshoot from its imperial
root.
Not that books by
Indians writing in English is something new, something
that just transpired a few years ago. After all, back
in 1913, the Bengali poet-writer Rabindranath Tagore
did win the Nobel Prize for literature, (becoming
incidentally the first non-Westerner to do so in that
category) for his collection of poems Gitanjanli,
translated from Bengali into English. But by the time
V.S. Naipal was bestowed the same prize in 2001, the
world of readers were more familiar with the names
of Arundhati Roy, Salman Rushdie, Amit Chaudhuri,
and a host of others rather than Tagore. Indian writing
in English had earned its place in the mainstream,
along with the chai served in Starbucks, the payals
and bindis on sale at the mall and the Bollywood or
Bollywood-inspired movies that keep popping up at
the local multi-plex.
The output of Indian writers publishing in 2002 starred
some well known names and some new ones, all of them
tackling a range of subjects that spanned different
continents, centuries and events.
There were a sprinkling
of new debuts, notably Stealing the Ambassador,
by Sameer Parekh; there were some familiar big-name
writers, including Chitra Divakaruni, who brought
out her novel Vine of Desire, a sequel to
her earlier novel, Sister of My Heart; Another
well-known name, Salman Rushdie, published a non-fiction
set of essays last year called Step Across This
Line: Collected Nonfiction 1992-2002; There were
some critically acclaimed books, like Canadian-Indian
writer, Rohington Mistry’s novel, Family Matters.
And then of course there were books whose pre-publishing
hype included not just the quality of their literary
content but also mentioned the stunning payments that
the author had negotiated, among them being of course,
Hari Kunzru, who pocketed a staggering advance of
£1 million for his first book, a historical novel,
The Impressionist. Kunzru’s book also went
on to win the Betty Trask Prize, netting him a further
earning of some £8,000.
Since the goal of this article is not merely to develop
a laundry list of names and books of last year’s crop
of Indian writing, I shall attempt to winnow down
the authors to a smaller group (highly subjective,
I might add), whose works caught the eye and entertained
the mind.
Foremost among the
fiction that was published last year was Mistry’s
Family Matters. Although it failed to win
its author the coveted Booker prize, this touching,
richly woven story of an aging Parsi widower’s last
days against the violent, shaky backdrop of Shiv Sena’s
Mumbai, is full of unforgettable characters and comic
poignancy. In a sense, Mistry’s book was just a continuation
of his nuanced, compelling style of writing that was
evident from his first published work, a collection
of short fiction, Swimming Lessons and other stories
from Firozsha Baag.
Bharati Mukherjee, on the other hand, has had her
ups and downs, and her last book, Leave It To
Me, which came out in 1997, got some negative
reviews. But in her 2002 novel, Desirable Daughters,
Mukherjee proved once again that when it came to evoking
the drama of immigrant Indian lives, especially women
living in North America caught between old and new
worlds, she is at the top of her game. True, Desirable
Daughters, has its flaws — an obsession with
the Bengali Brahmin way of life, an improbable ending
and a thriller -type suspense that is glaringly uneven
in parts — but ultimately, her story of three sisters
soars. Mukherjee weaves her plot deftly, with humor
and biting wit, moving back and forth between continents,
to reveal how family secrets can erode the strongest
of bonds.
Indu Sundaresan’s
debut novel, The Twentieth Wife, is also
about an immigrant family, this time set in 17th century
India. The daughter of a Persian refugee, Mehrunnisa
(she went to become the empress Nurjahan, the famed
wife of the Mughul emperor, Shahjahan), is chosen
to come into Emperor Akbar’s palace as a companion
to the queen and soon falls in love with his son,
Salim. But the book transcends into more than a romantic,
lightweight tale because Sundaresan uses her research
to effectively present an entertaining, action-packed
story of a young girl’s dream of marrying her prince.
Sometimes a book
takes you by surprise, slowly dazzling the mind with
its understated prose and images. Penguin India publisher
David Davidar’s first novel, House of Blue Mangoes,
was one such elegant, subtle book. Set in a small
town in South India, it skillfully takes the reader
into the world of 19th century pre-independent India,
using the prism of one man, Solomon Dorai’s, vision
of preserving his family and his village’s fortunes
in the face of changes that colonialism is ruthlessly
ushering into his universe. Davidar’s language is
quietly lush, spinning out poetic flashes of rural
life but his characters are strong and true to the
bone.
Sudha Koul’s Tiger Ladies, A memoir of Kashmir,
was one of the most eloquent, and lyrical works of
Indian nonfiction to come out last year. A fierce
sorrow that the home of her childhood has become one
of the most dangerous regions in the world, permeates
the soul of Tiger Ladies. But Koul does not
indulge in finger-pointing or rhetoric. Instead she
looks back nostalgically at the ordinary life of her
family during the 1950’s and ‘60s, infusing the book
with her passion for Kashmir’s natural beauty, its
unique folk stories, and peace-loving people. At a
time when mismanaged politics has pitched Hindus against
Muslims, Koul’s book celebrates their past amity in
a way that carries more than a grain of hope for their
future.
Tanuja Desai Hidier’s
book, Born Confused, points to a growing
future of fiction by Indians: tales from the viewpoint
of second generation Indians, children who have grown
up with the taunting label of ABCD (America Born Confused
Desi). Hidier’s heroine, a young girl from New Jersey,
battles with the angst of living in two cultures,
as she tries to build an identity for herself. Although
it has its cliched moments, Born Confused
is significant because its heroine’s preoccupation
with not being Indian or American, is being played
out in many different ways inside Indian-American
homes. In the end, it seems safe to say that last
year’s batch of books prove that Indian writers, living
both in and outside their homeland, are alive and
well-represented on the world literary bookshelf.
Indian writing in English is a niche that is growing
numerically each year, and in North America at least,
Indian writers are gaining acceptance in a way that
has gone far beyond the flash-in-the-pan speed of
the usual latest fad.
Last year, on his
first visit to India after winning the Nobel Prize
for Literature, V.S. Naipal attended a New Delhi literary
festival organized by the Indian Council of Cultural
Relations in his honor. While listening to a discussion
between two well-known Indian women writers on the
affect of gender oppression on their work, and the
negative influence of the English language on regional
literature, Sir Vidia once again revealed that he
viewed many things Indian with an extremely jaundiced
eye and was not afraid of voicing his acerbic opinion.
Well, his trenchant
criticism notwithstanding, colonialism may have departed,
but it did thrust upon Indians the legacy of the English
language and, whether Sir Vidia likes it or not, it
is a mine that is still yielding a rich, varied ore
of fiction and non-fiction. 
Not that books by
Indians writing in English is something new, something
that just transpired a few years ago. After all, back
in 1913, the Bengali poet-writer Rabindranath Tagore
did win the Nobel Prize for literature, (becoming
incidentally the first non-Westerner to do so in that
category) for his collection of poems Gitanjanli,
translated from Bengali into English. But by the time
V.S. Naipal was bestowed the same prize in 2001, the
world of readers were more familiar with the names
of Arundhati Roy, Salman Rushdie, Amit Chaudhuri,
and a host of others rather than Tagore. Indian writing
in English had earned its place in the mainstream,
along with the chai served in Starbucks, the payals
and bindis on sale at the mall and the Bollywood or
Bollywood-inspired movies that keep popping up at
the local multi-plex. 
There were a sprinkling
of new debuts, notably Stealing the Ambassador,
by Sameer Parekh; there were some familiar big-name
writers, including Chitra Divakaruni, who brought
out her novel Vine of Desire, a sequel to
her earlier novel, Sister of My Heart; Another
well-known name, Salman Rushdie, published a non-fiction
set of essays last year called Step Across This
Line: Collected Nonfiction 1992-2002; There were
some critically acclaimed books, like Canadian-Indian
writer, Rohington Mistry’s novel, Family Matters.
And then of course there were books whose pre-publishing
hype included not just the quality of their literary
content but also mentioned the stunning payments that
the author had negotiated, among them being of course,
Hari Kunzru, who pocketed a staggering advance of
£1 million for his first book, a historical novel,
The Impressionist. Kunzru’s book also went
on to win the Betty Trask Prize, netting him a further
earning of some £8,000.
Foremost among the
fiction that was published last year was Mistry’s
Family Matters. Although it failed to win
its author the coveted Booker prize, this touching,
richly woven story of an aging Parsi widower’s last
days against the violent, shaky backdrop of Shiv Sena’s
Mumbai, is full of unforgettable characters and comic
poignancy. In a sense, Mistry’s book was just a continuation
of his nuanced, compelling style of writing that was
evident from his first published work, a collection
of short fiction, Swimming Lessons and other stories
from Firozsha Baag. 
Indu Sundaresan’s
debut novel, The Twentieth Wife, is also
about an immigrant family, this time set in 17th century
India. The daughter of a Persian refugee, Mehrunnisa
(she went to become the empress Nurjahan, the famed
wife of the Mughul emperor, Shahjahan), is chosen
to come into Emperor Akbar’s palace as a companion
to the queen and soon falls in love with his son,
Salim. But the book transcends into more than a romantic,
lightweight tale because Sundaresan uses her research
to effectively present an entertaining, action-packed
story of a young girl’s dream of marrying her prince.
Sometimes a book
takes you by surprise, slowly dazzling the mind with
its understated prose and images. Penguin India publisher
David Davidar’s first novel, House of Blue Mangoes,
was one such elegant, subtle book. Set in a small
town in South India, it skillfully takes the reader
into the world of 19th century pre-independent India,
using the prism of one man, Solomon Dorai’s, vision
of preserving his family and his village’s fortunes
in the face of changes that colonialism is ruthlessly
ushering into his universe. Davidar’s language is
quietly lush, spinning out poetic flashes of rural
life but his characters are strong and true to the
bone. 
Tanuja Desai Hidier’s
book, Born Confused, points to a growing
future of fiction by Indians: tales from the viewpoint
of second generation Indians, children who have grown
up with the taunting label of ABCD (America Born Confused
Desi). Hidier’s heroine, a young girl from New Jersey,
battles with the angst of living in two cultures,
as she tries to build an identity for herself. Although
it has its cliched moments, Born Confused
is significant because its heroine’s preoccupation
with not being Indian or American, is being played
out in many different ways inside Indian-American
homes. In the end, it seems safe to say that last
year’s batch of books prove that Indian writers, living
both in and outside their homeland, are alive and
well-represented on the world literary bookshelf.
Indian writing in English is a niche that is growing
numerically each year, and in North America at least,
Indian writers are gaining acceptance in a way that
has gone far beyond the flash-in-the-pan speed of
the usual latest fad. 