Confessions of an Epic Indian

Currently listening to Incubus, Bombay Rockers (still), Bob Seger & The Silver Bullet Band, Oasis, Nine Inch Nails, old Hindi film music, and some classical.

Currently reading a lot of history tomes. Just finished The Rise and Fall of the British Empire by James Lawrence (I’d read his Raj: The Making and Unmaking of British India), Soldier Sahibs by Charles Allen, still working through Empire by Niall Ferguson and The Honourable Company by John Keay. Somewhere in the midst of all that, a book I’d been awaiting for awhile arrived, and I pounced on it like a hungry leopard on a gazelle - Africa: A biography of the continent by John Reader.

Brilliant, simply brilliant. A must-read for anyone interested in evolution, paleoanthropology, geography, and of course, human history itself. At times, it’s hard to digest because of the inevitable disgust that overwhelms you over the brutality of white peoples against the natives of that beautiful bright continent. And the legacy of that brutality remains today, in the incessant wars, epidemics, genocides that ravage Africa itself, as well as the omnipresent reminder of ten million abducted, abused, and enslaved souls, whose descendants live on as modern-day African Americans, and people of African descent across the world.

A great book, even if it is written by a non-African - and I make that point because it is itself a comment on Africa’s subordination and subjugation that we continue to be shown its history through the eyes of its exploiters and enslavers. At least, John Reader is aware of that irony and takes pains to address the issue of balance without eschewing the racial issues inherent in his undertaking.

Now, if only we could get Max Muller to rescind half of - no, make that all of - his historical writings on Indology, we might have a biography of the Indian sub-continent that was as valuable as this book.

Also happened to pick up a copy apiece of On Death and Dying and Life Lessons by Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, reprints of the classic non-fiction books about dealing with death and learning from it to enrich our lives. Kubler-Ross, for those of you who still remember the Seventies, was the psychiatrist-author who first named the five stages in which all human beings deal with death and dying: Denial (and Isolation), Anger, Bargaining, Depression and Acceptance.

Worth a read, even if you think the topic isn’t for you, or, like most of us, that death is something that happens to other people, not you. (In short, if you’re still stuck in the first stage, like most of us are most of the time.)

And then of course there’s the TP reading that I do to cleanse my palate between books.

Like The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon which I finished a couple of nights ago. Enjoyable, if over-translated (I don’t really care if the translator is Robert Graves’ daughter,but either she or the original text was trying way too hard for ‘literary’ effect) and readablewithout being particularly memorable.

It’s invited comparisons to Borges - which is laughable, because I can think of single short-short stories by Borges which are masterpieces, which this entire 500+ page novel isn’t - and Dumas, which is actually more accurate, except that Dumas’ novels had much more action and suspense.

The problem with Shadow of the Wind is that it takes entirely too long to deliver on an initially promising premise. By around the halfway mark, you’re itching to skip pages, and if you don’t, as I didn’t, you end up wondering why the hell you didn’t.

Too many italicized sections, narrating flashback events that get repititive, and just plain uninteresting, despite the fact that they’re actually more interesting than the present-day goings on.

What it did remind me of, in voice and tone, was The Secret History by Donna Tartt.

But oh wow, Secret History was a book and a half, a great read that didn’t promise too much and ended up delivering more than the sum of its contents. While Shadow of the Wind hands out blank cheques left, right and centre, most of which end up bouncing and leaving you with a bankrupt feeling. Still, worth a dekho if you’re in the mood for fashionable lit-fic.

Seen any good movies lately? I saw a teen comedy - I love teen comedies - the other night, Harold and Kumar Go To Whitecastle. Fun! Sure, vulgar as hell at times, gratingly offensive in parts, and with gratuitous everything throughout, but it was still a good TP film - just don’t see it with your parents or kids around, and you’ll have a good snorting laughfest. It’s especially nice that an Indian character gets to co-star in a major comedy and comes off without making too much of an ass of himself - he makes asses of the white guys instead, which is part of the film’s crossover appeal.

Speaking of history and comedy and white writers who take it upon themselves to tell us our own histories (ah, that white man’s burden), couldn’t help but pause and stare at this line in The Rise and Fall of the British Empire by James Lawrence.

Now, Lawrence is one of the most respected British historians, and an acknowledged expert on British Indian history, but clearly he doesn’t know a word of Hindi or this minor infelicity would never have crept in.

From Page 127, the last sentence, and I quote verbatim:

“Seizing Calcutta was a surprisingly easy operation and astonished the Bengalis, who afterwards mocked the British as ‘banchots’ (cowards).”

Perhaps someone should let Mr Lawrence know that ‘banchots’ doesn’t mean ‘cowards’.

Somehow I doubt he’d have used that word if he knew what it really means. Unless he’s trying to make amends for the way the British acted in India, in which case, I can live with them referring to themselves as, ahem. Cough, cough, sneeze.

And on that solemn note, I’ll say bye-bye bhaiyon-aur-behenon for now.