There is a deep need in the novelist, contrary to the conventions of their chosen form, to not present a complete picture of a life or an event, not dutifully serve up fleshed-out characters, not explain everything...
--Amit Chadhuri
Started Amit's latest book with some trepidation-since I don't usually read desi writers (couldn't read Bilal's book either, even though he's a dear friend). The whole notion of a genre makes you want to throw up. Chick-lit, post-colonial stuff, gay and lesbian, sci-fi (which is never, as Le Guin notes, real literature).
Part of the problem with this book was also, it has to be said, that it was too close to home (London in mid 80s, Warren Street...well, that was me, give or take one or two streets. The Indian restuarants...in my case it was Anwar's, a grotty takeaway that served kebab rolls for one pound fifty-and there was no arguing with that, no matter how rubbery the naans were, no matter that there was a question over the genuineness of the declaration that the meat was halal. And there was old Anwar, behind the counter or in the back room doing some calculations. The Indian man who used to serve me, gaunt, his hair plastered back with oil (not gel), the droopy eyes, the thin moustache..would always warn me in advance if the food was fresh or not with a simple nod (so that Anwar wouldn't know).
As it turned out, you went to Anwar's house (in Wembley) to see his daughter as a potential marriage prospect. All a bit of a haze now. But when the food was wheeled in (on the iconic trolley that is a part of this whole humiliating ritual) you couldn't help wonder if the food had come from the restaurant!
~~
What gets you about desi writers is that they'll prostitute themselves in order to be liked by white people; jump on to any bandwagon as long as there's money or recognition in the offing. So, it's either fundamentalism, women's rights, oppression, minority rights or some other bullshit because that makes a few middle- Englanders happy that there's, you know, liberlaism still alive and kicking back there in the jungle.
This might all sound like sour grapes. Why should you, after all, begrudge anyone their little spot in the limelight when all is said and done. But there is malice towards none.
Back to Amit. James Wood...can't go wrong there. But fifteen pages in and already something's grating on my nerves (yes, the gentleness and geniality is something you can warm to..but).
It's lines like this:
"The other side of that road [Euston road] was so still and dark (notwithstanding the sabre-like hissing of passing cars) that it might have been the sea out there for all he knew."
Now, that just doesn't ring true. The cars on Euston road do not "hiss". But that's not it. It's this: for all he knew. Seriously?! I mean, what the fuck!
Then there's the endorsement by your guru, Sen, and you have to wonder: Calcutta, Bengal? So much for 'public reason'. You just don't buy it..the whole 'industry' is full of back scratchers.
Then there's that aunty, Hilary Mantel with her tuppeny's worth of showmanship. She may be a great writer-though I take dougal's word for it that she's shite- but her whole appearance suggests to me a kind of frumpishness that turns you off (how superficial is that!). The whole "history-genre"..historical fiction..making people from the past look "sexy".
[A few pages of Breece as an antidote].
But, no, give it time. Let's see.
--Amit Chadhuri
Started Amit's latest book with some trepidation-since I don't usually read desi writers (couldn't read Bilal's book either, even though he's a dear friend). The whole notion of a genre makes you want to throw up. Chick-lit, post-colonial stuff, gay and lesbian, sci-fi (which is never, as Le Guin notes, real literature).
Part of the problem with this book was also, it has to be said, that it was too close to home (London in mid 80s, Warren Street...well, that was me, give or take one or two streets. The Indian restuarants...in my case it was Anwar's, a grotty takeaway that served kebab rolls for one pound fifty-and there was no arguing with that, no matter how rubbery the naans were, no matter that there was a question over the genuineness of the declaration that the meat was halal. And there was old Anwar, behind the counter or in the back room doing some calculations. The Indian man who used to serve me, gaunt, his hair plastered back with oil (not gel), the droopy eyes, the thin moustache..would always warn me in advance if the food was fresh or not with a simple nod (so that Anwar wouldn't know).
As it turned out, you went to Anwar's house (in Wembley) to see his daughter as a potential marriage prospect. All a bit of a haze now. But when the food was wheeled in (on the iconic trolley that is a part of this whole humiliating ritual) you couldn't help wonder if the food had come from the restaurant!
~~
What gets you about desi writers is that they'll prostitute themselves in order to be liked by white people; jump on to any bandwagon as long as there's money or recognition in the offing. So, it's either fundamentalism, women's rights, oppression, minority rights or some other bullshit because that makes a few middle- Englanders happy that there's, you know, liberlaism still alive and kicking back there in the jungle.
This might all sound like sour grapes. Why should you, after all, begrudge anyone their little spot in the limelight when all is said and done. But there is malice towards none.
Back to Amit. James Wood...can't go wrong there. But fifteen pages in and already something's grating on my nerves (yes, the gentleness and geniality is something you can warm to..but).
It's lines like this:
"The other side of that road [Euston road] was so still and dark (notwithstanding the sabre-like hissing of passing cars) that it might have been the sea out there for all he knew."
Now, that just doesn't ring true. The cars on Euston road do not "hiss". But that's not it. It's this: for all he knew. Seriously?! I mean, what the fuck!
Then there's the endorsement by your guru, Sen, and you have to wonder: Calcutta, Bengal? So much for 'public reason'. You just don't buy it..the whole 'industry' is full of back scratchers.
Then there's that aunty, Hilary Mantel with her tuppeny's worth of showmanship. She may be a great writer-though I take dougal's word for it that she's shite- but her whole appearance suggests to me a kind of frumpishness that turns you off (how superficial is that!). The whole "history-genre"..historical fiction..making people from the past look "sexy".
[A few pages of Breece as an antidote].
But, no, give it time. Let's see.
No comments:
Post a Comment