The rhythms, colors, scents of India entice me, tho' I have never been there except through the vehicle of the written word. Initially I admit to the lure of crisp white clothing in British Colonial movie sets, cotton, sheer and cool, a distant game of cricket, and the lilt of English accents, a la Passage to India and Gandhi. And doesn't the word "memsahib" hold your breath? Conversely, I have an affinity for rickety trains packed with humanity, belching steam or smoke, slicing the far horizon. All these elementary, but immature attractions led me past V.S Naipaul to a 20th century India. Amulyah Malladi's "A Breath of Fresh Air" set in Bhopal first intrigued, then her "Song of the Cuckoo Bird" set in an ashram, and "Serving Crazy with Curry," an American rendition. These were followed by "Stealing the Ambassador" by Sameer Parekh and the prose of Rohinton Mistry's "A Fine Balance," "Bitter Sweets," "the Corner Shop" by Roopa Farooki, and then others. Arranged marriages grew predictably center-stage, and I bottomed out with Monica Pradhan's Hindi-Bindi Club. The title alone should have sent me running scared, but I tendered a look inside her world and relished her liberal use of Indian terms. So began a love affair with the whole plethora of diaspora writers, expounding Indian ways and traditions while trying to survive and acclimate in a modern and/or western culture. Here I don't claim expansive knowledge, only affection.
While I have not journeyed into Bollywood mania, Monsoon Wedding was a pinnacle to my addiction as I laughed at the embrace of rain. And the Darjeeling Limited gave me that unforgettable rickety train ride with 3 lost brothers. I have only just now gasped at the stark and startling Slumdog Millionaire, replete with memorable faces. For once I agree with The Academy's Best Picture citation.
Now that they have my attention, after the first flush of infatuation, I desire a maturing glimpse, depth and insight, honesty. Perhaps I prefer memoir, or less eye-catching fiction. I have now basked in Indu Sundaresan, who brings a fresh taste to this question of ethnicity, an honesty, ripe and overdue. Incomparably, Pulitzer Prize winner, Jumpa Lahiri's "Interpreter of Maladies" paints the tale of India for me. http://www.bookreporter.com/reviews/039592720X.asp
But I have been ignoring the plaintive call of R.K. Narayan, whom I must soon embrace, out of respect and refusing further ignorance of his greatness. Where this leads can only be revealed after this nod to a genre that has gripped my interest wholly, appreciatively.
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