This was my first Ishiguro, and I read it in four hours flat (one sitting- one short haul flight). It is a fast paced read. Without presuming to be a thriller, the book has an edge of the seat quality to it, and the sadness that permeates the book is too genuine to ignore.
The story is told by Kathy H a ‘donor’ who has been cloned along with hundreds of others for a purpose- to first care for similarly cloned donors, and then to donate their organs one by one, until they die or ‘complete’ (their life purpose). The narrative skips from our protagonist’s reminiscences of Hailsham- an exclusive boarding school that she attended- and her latter day experience of the world. These reminiscences are in the form of stories that go back and forth, spinning a web of nostalgia, and quite easily taking us into its awful centre. The stories centre around Kathy and two close friends- Ruth the willful, frightened girl who would much rather pretend the horror of their existence away and Tommy who struggles through his short life to keep his rage and outrage at bay. Kathy is the civilized pragmatist, and so far the survivor.
The premise is fantastic. The idea of liberally and wonderfully educated people subscribing to this dreadful design is hard to swallow. It would work if the school were a conditioning ground, or if the victims were brutalized into accepting their situation. This has happened through history. And it is not fair to the victims to question their subservience to apparently intolerable and sometimes incredible systems. But there is no indoctrination in Hailsham. The teachers are wonderful and love their pupils, the children are exposed to arts and humanities and science and have hopefully read about fascism and slavery. Yet, as a group they never question the system- even in order to achieve regular little desires like going to college or marrying a sweetheart. David Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas offers a more convincing explanation for this sort of unforced and unquestioned subservience. The clone-types in Mitchell’s future scenario are more humanoid than human, and drugged into accepting their state.
This seeming inconsistency continued to irritate me. As I tried to understand it, I picked up Ishiguro’s Booker winner- “The Remains of the Day”. The book concerns itself with an all too human butler of a ‘good man’ misguided enough to back Hitler. Heartbreaking as this story of a perfect English butler is, what was interesting to me was the parallel with NLG. The menacing overhang of a fascist system is palpable in both novels. For what else would you call a society that has a violent peace? Make soap out of bones, make people out of organs- it is systematic atrocity and narcosis that characterizes fascism.
A glimmer of understanding appeared through the clouds of confusion! Hesitatingly I propose that Ishiguro is deeply affected by the Second World War. I posit that he has tried to marry man’s day to day human experience with his brutal history. ‘Never Let Me Go’ talks of the working of an awful system through entirely plausible and comprehensible persons. The difference is that ‘Never Let Me Go’ is an elegy to the victims of oppression. ‘Remains of the Day’ tries and gets inside the head of normal, decent people who were part of the oppressing class. Is he fixated on Fascism in particular? I believe so, especially if you connect it up with Ishiguro’s own history of moving from Japan and growing up in post-war Britain.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Beloved by Toni Morrison
A post-bellum black settlement in the outskirts of Cincinnati: Sethe, a lone proud woman lives in house 124, with her withdrawn daughter Denver and the ghost of her murdered third child. Until Paul D turns up- another survivor of the Kentucky homestead across the river, the slave plantation from hell that Sethe escaped but is never free from. Paul D takes up with Sethe and drives away the ghost, upsetting Denver. But a semblance of normalcy and Paul D’s good humor are a powerful attraction; a thaw is coming. At this point a girl appears in Sethe’s yard calling herself “Beloved.” Sethe’s Beloved, adored by Denver, tormentor of Paul D.
This is the stunning setting for this complex novel that traverses time for each of its characters enabling them to ‘rememory’ what they have ‘disremembered’ in order to survive. And in as much as it reviles that most abominable of institutions and through its characters indicts an entire race, there is very little that is sensational. Terrible experiences, the heart breaking fates of those that could not make it, are rendered mainly through a quick telling or a reference, or a sad wondering. What Morrison achieves is focus on the aftermath. Who is Beloved? It is the name engraved on the baby’s gravestone. Is she the ghost returned with redoubled vigor? Or is she a child-woman, a victim of the Middle Passage and worse, who has mistaken Sethe for her dead mother? Does Beloved stand for all victims of slavery in America? Is she an allegory for the institution itself?
I posit that the institution and her architects the slavers, brutalized a population to the point where they had to kill the child inside them to stay alive. They are now haunted by the presence of this loss- the loss of innocence, hope and happiness. This loss of their childhood and the capacity to be-loved is Beloved. She is as old as the first rape in the first passage of slaves across the Atlantic. Beloved is the ghost of excised humanity; she is angry and greedy to come back. But you cannot embrace her- she is not a child, she is her ghost, an ‘absence’. She will alienate her people and she will not allow them to pursue happiness for she is vengeful.
If Sethe represents the damaged past of a people- her back is a tree- Paul D can be seen as the optimistic side of his people. He lives in the here and now and has survived through practicing detachment. But he too is a prisoner of the past. He has survived in fact by refusing to revisit his past and is quite helpless before the seductive force of Beloved. His tightly locked up fund of bitterness and sorrow is soon pried open and he has no choice but to fly.
Denver as the undamaged future should be less vulnerable, but having grown up alone in a haunted house she knows no-one else. For her, Beloved is initially exciting and attractive but ultimately isolating and weakening. However, being undamaged, she has the resources and the power to resist the influence of this most heart rending of metaphors. With the help of the community she avoids self-destruction.
Beloved is a book of redemption that looks to the younger generation, the larger community and significantly women to heal an unspeakable wound. I found the book traumatic and therapeutic. And the staggering novel craft! The coinage of new words, the knotted narrative woven through with countless,seamless strands of story and allegory that move this way and that, glint this way and that, to produce an enchantment that is truly the work of genius. We could only marvel at it, analysis was beyond us.
We introspected and thought of what it would have taken to implement the Varna system in Aryan India.
As the unrecorded history of a subjugated people we agreed it was invaluable.
This is the stunning setting for this complex novel that traverses time for each of its characters enabling them to ‘rememory’ what they have ‘disremembered’ in order to survive. And in as much as it reviles that most abominable of institutions and through its characters indicts an entire race, there is very little that is sensational. Terrible experiences, the heart breaking fates of those that could not make it, are rendered mainly through a quick telling or a reference, or a sad wondering. What Morrison achieves is focus on the aftermath. Who is Beloved? It is the name engraved on the baby’s gravestone. Is she the ghost returned with redoubled vigor? Or is she a child-woman, a victim of the Middle Passage and worse, who has mistaken Sethe for her dead mother? Does Beloved stand for all victims of slavery in America? Is she an allegory for the institution itself?
I posit that the institution and her architects the slavers, brutalized a population to the point where they had to kill the child inside them to stay alive. They are now haunted by the presence of this loss- the loss of innocence, hope and happiness. This loss of their childhood and the capacity to be-loved is Beloved. She is as old as the first rape in the first passage of slaves across the Atlantic. Beloved is the ghost of excised humanity; she is angry and greedy to come back. But you cannot embrace her- she is not a child, she is her ghost, an ‘absence’. She will alienate her people and she will not allow them to pursue happiness for she is vengeful.
If Sethe represents the damaged past of a people- her back is a tree- Paul D can be seen as the optimistic side of his people. He lives in the here and now and has survived through practicing detachment. But he too is a prisoner of the past. He has survived in fact by refusing to revisit his past and is quite helpless before the seductive force of Beloved. His tightly locked up fund of bitterness and sorrow is soon pried open and he has no choice but to fly.
Denver as the undamaged future should be less vulnerable, but having grown up alone in a haunted house she knows no-one else. For her, Beloved is initially exciting and attractive but ultimately isolating and weakening. However, being undamaged, she has the resources and the power to resist the influence of this most heart rending of metaphors. With the help of the community she avoids self-destruction.
Beloved is a book of redemption that looks to the younger generation, the larger community and significantly women to heal an unspeakable wound. I found the book traumatic and therapeutic. And the staggering novel craft! The coinage of new words, the knotted narrative woven through with countless,seamless strands of story and allegory that move this way and that, glint this way and that, to produce an enchantment that is truly the work of genius. We could only marvel at it, analysis was beyond us.
We introspected and thought of what it would have taken to implement the Varna system in Aryan India.
As the unrecorded history of a subjugated people we agreed it was invaluable.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Devumma
Devu,
Devaki
Devumma
You were angry 'most always
And liked holding sway
Funny too,
Malice ne’er far away
But when you acted
You were entirely collected
Sophisticated
When it got complicated
When you supported
There was none to top you
But your moods fluctuated
Your moods fluctuated.
Humiliation
On occasion,
Characterised your
Childhood condition.
But anxiety,
Or Insecurity,
Caused no depression
Of a constant variety;
Mixing instead
Killer instincts,
In a wicked deportment;
Adaptability,
And generosity,
To an intelligent
Disposition.
Devaki
Devumma
You were angry 'most always
And liked holding sway
Funny too,
Malice ne’er far away
But when you acted
You were entirely collected
Sophisticated
When it got complicated
When you supported
There was none to top you
But your moods fluctuated
Your moods fluctuated.
Humiliation
On occasion,
Characterised your
Childhood condition.
But anxiety,
Or Insecurity,
Caused no depression
Of a constant variety;
Mixing instead
Killer instincts,
In a wicked deportment;
Adaptability,
And generosity,
To an intelligent
Disposition.
You lied and you spied
But never traumatised
Those you victimised.
This is no surprise-
A steely saint
Was your mother
Your backbone was hers
My dear grandmother.
Witty’n gregarious
Mischievous, vicious
But not pitiless.
As a concoction
Totally delicious
You learned from mistakes
Forsake superstition
Admired your enemy
Channelled your envy.
Prickly and proud
Yet never removed,
You were interesting.
Most interesting.
You had a reprieve
(Of a partial description)
When you did marry
This other institution
Of which elsewhere
Let’s come back
This is for you
This narration
You traded up.
Angst for worries,
Casual treatment
For self-suppression.
Yet your competence
Ensured your promotion
Joys of motherhood a
Full deliverance.
You took a ride
On a roller Coaster
Quietly triumphant
On your advancements
Silently fearful
Of your setbacks
Faith and belief
An obsessive compulsion
A by product of
Tumultuous existence.
Were these the demons that drove you?
What was the spirit that buoyed you?
Tripped by disease
Time and again
Pox, Hansen, Sugar
You did contain
Friedrich however,
Couldn’t be restrained
A child’s life blighted
I think broke you.
Yet you did not cave in
You never clung to
Fiercely independent
Hyper you became
You were manic
Manic
Of course I don’t know
You told me some
I guess the rest
But this I aver
You were aspirational
Sometimes inspirational
Cruel but fun
Embarrassing mum
A Cool grandmom
My grandmom
Monday, February 16, 2009
Dumbslog Luminaire
I was alright with the movie except that I felt it would have been better if it had been made in Hindi and by Bollywood. Otherwise no complaints really. It is escapist fare that manages to convert horror to entertainment. Par for the course.
I think the single most horrific scene is the blinding one. At least it would have been traumatic for most people who grew up in India. I am not sure if children are actually maimed by beggar gangs but I was assured that this was the case through my growing up years. In a country that has exposes on everything from poll rigging to human trafficking to corruption in high places, how does something like the deliberate blinding of a child never make news. Are beggar gangs part of a powerful mafia that has effectively muzzled a nation- leaving aside a few novelists and film-makers?
I find it hard to believe that breaking limbs can translate to good economics for anybody. The explanation for the droves of miserable beggars in India maybe lies in the fact that this is a huge population with zero social security. With large scale migration to cities, the old family-clan-caste support framework has also been eroding. Someone sufficiently below the poverty line and very physically unfit will be left to fend for themselves. Childhood cataracts, accidents, polio- think of the number of such cases in a population of 300 million. These people will in all likelihood subsist on charity and band together and maybe there are gangs that get into the business of organising them and sending them out to beg.
Please God let this be the explanation for the legless beggar who sits stoned at Bandra station, mouthing softly the worst of curses at the auto line wallahs as he holds out his grimy cupped hand. Let him be someone who fell off a train and lost his leg and now spends his days in a heroin high rather than...god I don't know what I ask for, forgive me.
Lets get back to Slumdog. I wish it had been made in Hindi with English accents rather than the other way round for that would have reflected reality. The teenage Salim and Jamal speak like South Bombay convent boys and that really took away from what could have been a gritty and witty punch in the solar plexus. Then again the grown up Jamal is so cute and cool. And his English! It is not just in England that we can place a person by the way he speaks that language. Most foreign educated boys from excellent Indian families will make an effort to mask their 'accents' in India, so they do not stand out. Jamal comes across like that kind of elite but not elitist boy. Chaiwallah-no!
Which brings us to the character of Anil Kapoor. Why would a TV presenter so crassly put down a young fresh faced kid who most of his audience is rooting for? I have seen Amitabh Bachchan unbending to barbers from Bombay and teachers from Delhi. And the audience snickering whenever AK sneers Chaiwallah is quite unbelievable.
I wish the movie makers had developed the plot (a very good one, to give Mr. Swarup his due) better. For starters let Jamal's character have been someone more credible and less saleable. A more hard-bitten face with harsher lines would have worked better in increasing our wonder at his knowing the answers and explained the presenter's skepticism. And then we could have seen that Jamal's cockiness (are you nervous?) was getting under the presenter's skin. The movie could have shown better how the anchor's attitude changes from benevolent to patronising to doubtful to skeptical to angry to rancorous.
Anyway all this is likely to have been lost on an international audience. How would it matter if the constable spoke Bambaiyya or no, or if Salim looked more in character than Jamal? Maybe the outlandish effects (shit covered kid), corny cracks (Mumtaz Mahal dying en route to the hospital to have a baby), a shocker (spooning the eyes out) and good music is enough.
I think the single most horrific scene is the blinding one. At least it would have been traumatic for most people who grew up in India. I am not sure if children are actually maimed by beggar gangs but I was assured that this was the case through my growing up years. In a country that has exposes on everything from poll rigging to human trafficking to corruption in high places, how does something like the deliberate blinding of a child never make news. Are beggar gangs part of a powerful mafia that has effectively muzzled a nation- leaving aside a few novelists and film-makers?
I find it hard to believe that breaking limbs can translate to good economics for anybody. The explanation for the droves of miserable beggars in India maybe lies in the fact that this is a huge population with zero social security. With large scale migration to cities, the old family-clan-caste support framework has also been eroding. Someone sufficiently below the poverty line and very physically unfit will be left to fend for themselves. Childhood cataracts, accidents, polio- think of the number of such cases in a population of 300 million. These people will in all likelihood subsist on charity and band together and maybe there are gangs that get into the business of organising them and sending them out to beg.
Please God let this be the explanation for the legless beggar who sits stoned at Bandra station, mouthing softly the worst of curses at the auto line wallahs as he holds out his grimy cupped hand. Let him be someone who fell off a train and lost his leg and now spends his days in a heroin high rather than...god I don't know what I ask for, forgive me.
Lets get back to Slumdog. I wish it had been made in Hindi with English accents rather than the other way round for that would have reflected reality. The teenage Salim and Jamal speak like South Bombay convent boys and that really took away from what could have been a gritty and witty punch in the solar plexus. Then again the grown up Jamal is so cute and cool. And his English! It is not just in England that we can place a person by the way he speaks that language. Most foreign educated boys from excellent Indian families will make an effort to mask their 'accents' in India, so they do not stand out. Jamal comes across like that kind of elite but not elitist boy. Chaiwallah-no!
Which brings us to the character of Anil Kapoor. Why would a TV presenter so crassly put down a young fresh faced kid who most of his audience is rooting for? I have seen Amitabh Bachchan unbending to barbers from Bombay and teachers from Delhi. And the audience snickering whenever AK sneers Chaiwallah is quite unbelievable.
I wish the movie makers had developed the plot (a very good one, to give Mr. Swarup his due) better. For starters let Jamal's character have been someone more credible and less saleable. A more hard-bitten face with harsher lines would have worked better in increasing our wonder at his knowing the answers and explained the presenter's skepticism. And then we could have seen that Jamal's cockiness (are you nervous?) was getting under the presenter's skin. The movie could have shown better how the anchor's attitude changes from benevolent to patronising to doubtful to skeptical to angry to rancorous.
Anyway all this is likely to have been lost on an international audience. How would it matter if the constable spoke Bambaiyya or no, or if Salim looked more in character than Jamal? Maybe the outlandish effects (shit covered kid), corny cracks (Mumtaz Mahal dying en route to the hospital to have a baby), a shocker (spooning the eyes out) and good music is enough.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
THE WHITE TIGER
We come from different parts of India. The Rajput speaks of her ancestral home. About one hundred and fifty praja still come and pay their respects to her father and brother daily. I ask her if some of them offer massages too. She looks at me quizzically and says reproachfully, “Kya K”. For those who are still wondering, this means no. And no she has not been kept in the dark because she is a woman. She is a hard drinking, straight talking hedge fund manager who suffers to see high school graduates cleaning toilets in her home town because 'who else will take over their mother's job?'
We all agree that the book is an amazingly fast read. That a lot of it rings true. That it offers us zero insights. And maybe tells us to watch our backs. We knew that too.
The Punjaban from Calcutta- She is quiet as the discussion gets underway, then saunters to the powder room and back. Her eyes are red and swollen, her face is rubbed raw. What happened? She shakes her head; we coax her to speak. She is choked up and her voice wobbles. She makes a false start and then speaks more clearly, "It is the lives of these people- the poverty- I cannot handle it.." "But you grew up in India," someone interjects. "Yes and it bothered me..and then I went off to America and it has become worse for me and when I come back- these people have terrible lives, drinking the water they have shat into.." She is momentarily horrified by what she has said and then gathers strength -from the realisation perhaps that she speaks the truth. "So what have you done about it," she is asked. "When I am asked I give," she says. "My mum objects, she says all of them will line up outside your door, and I say I will give them too. Until I can I will."
The urban cow belter- They had a driver in Mumbai. He was the same age as her husband and his life had followed a similar course to theirs. They expected babies at the same time, the driver had a boy while they had twin girls. No doubt the driver congratulated himself and commiserated with the blameless master who was still being punished. Nobody contradicts her conjecture- of course people think like that. (No doubt this is news to the world). Anyway the driver had a seizure one day, was rushed to the hospital and died. It was a bad time. They were hounded by the driver's family, neighbours, local goondas and a minor politician. They managed to locate the wife and pay her one years' wages. But they emphasised that they did not want to be contacted again. We are phobic about protracted involvement, and rightly so. Take your eyes off the ball and it will be you who is asking for one year's keep from the extended family. But she says she regrets the incident and the nastiness that came with it, "The whole responsibility thing did not allow us to mourn him. He was a good employee and a part of our lives. But the anxiety and the ultimate relief in resolving a bad situation overshadowed all the grief that we might have felt."
The East UPite- As close to "darkness" as you can be she says. For her this happens all the time. She tells us of a servant who stole money and then fed phenyl to the Nepali servant in order to paste the blame on to him. Hmmm the Nepali-cow belter feud in The White Tiger is not made up then.
I contribute my own driver story. Very irrelevant but I am bitten by the talking bug. And I wish to take a few minutes off to mourn him. Rajesh was an unscrupulous, lying, lazy thieving and unpunctual person. He had an affair with my maid- something that brought his wife in a flaming fury to my house but that is a different story. Rajesh was a god behind the steering wheel. . He could negotiate the streets of Mumbai like nobody ever could or will ever be able to. When I see other drivers I think of him and think of that talent that is no more. Rajesh committed suicide two years back. I will always wonder why. They tell me it was in a fit of passion- he was arguing with his wife and then he jumped into the sea from the Gateway of India. There was never a driver like him.
We speak of other crimes committed by servants. We agree that Ashok's character is impossible. And Pinky Madam playing badminton with her driver is laughable. In your dreams Balram. Or she was a whacko- either a slut or a foreigner who did not know any better.
"We know this", we say. "But you have been inured to it", objects the Calcuttan Punjabi. The Rajputani disagrees. The UP-ite concedes that the book 're-sensitises' us.
I have to leave. I call in and make one point. The structure of the story - the letters to Wen Jiabao format. Why did he do that? Was the novel born when Adiga was mulling a China vs. India business article? Is this a device to deflect possible criticism that the book has been written for a predominantly western- white- audience? Or is this a way of underlying the freedom of thought and expression that is enjoyed in India, despite its brutalised society?
That is the discussion. Our take is as follows
Primarily that it is incredibly contemporary in its style. This is one reason it is such a fast read- one can imagibe a drawing room conversation veer this way. Secondly the book does not contain anything new. Most Indians are quite mystified by the Booker buzz about the 'fresh 'angle from which Adiga has written. It came as a surprise to us that the book came as a surprise to some of the (more influential from the awards perspective..) readership. In terms of a greater understanding of the great Indian under class, I would still rate Mistry's A Fine Balance better. The difference is that Adiga avenges that neutered sub-class portrayed so well but so darkly by Mistry. If you think of White Tiger as a parallel version of the tell all art-house movies people carped about- the movies were better researched. And by the sheer power of the medium more hard hitting. Damul, Aakrosh, Ardha Satya, Godhuli, Paar, Sadgati, Thanneer Thanneer, Ankur, Manthan- oh the list is endless- all informed me about an India I did not know. WT does not. But not to take away from the sheer entertainment value of reading a well written, very modern and relevant story in a very very comprehensible idiom.
We all agree that the book is an amazingly fast read. That a lot of it rings true. That it offers us zero insights. And maybe tells us to watch our backs. We knew that too.
The Punjaban from Calcutta- She is quiet as the discussion gets underway, then saunters to the powder room and back. Her eyes are red and swollen, her face is rubbed raw. What happened? She shakes her head; we coax her to speak. She is choked up and her voice wobbles. She makes a false start and then speaks more clearly, "It is the lives of these people- the poverty- I cannot handle it.." "But you grew up in India," someone interjects. "Yes and it bothered me..and then I went off to America and it has become worse for me and when I come back- these people have terrible lives, drinking the water they have shat into.." She is momentarily horrified by what she has said and then gathers strength -from the realisation perhaps that she speaks the truth. "So what have you done about it," she is asked. "When I am asked I give," she says. "My mum objects, she says all of them will line up outside your door, and I say I will give them too. Until I can I will."
The urban cow belter- They had a driver in Mumbai. He was the same age as her husband and his life had followed a similar course to theirs. They expected babies at the same time, the driver had a boy while they had twin girls. No doubt the driver congratulated himself and commiserated with the blameless master who was still being punished. Nobody contradicts her conjecture- of course people think like that. (No doubt this is news to the world). Anyway the driver had a seizure one day, was rushed to the hospital and died. It was a bad time. They were hounded by the driver's family, neighbours, local goondas and a minor politician. They managed to locate the wife and pay her one years' wages. But they emphasised that they did not want to be contacted again. We are phobic about protracted involvement, and rightly so. Take your eyes off the ball and it will be you who is asking for one year's keep from the extended family. But she says she regrets the incident and the nastiness that came with it, "The whole responsibility thing did not allow us to mourn him. He was a good employee and a part of our lives. But the anxiety and the ultimate relief in resolving a bad situation overshadowed all the grief that we might have felt."
The East UPite- As close to "darkness" as you can be she says. For her this happens all the time. She tells us of a servant who stole money and then fed phenyl to the Nepali servant in order to paste the blame on to him. Hmmm the Nepali-cow belter feud in The White Tiger is not made up then.
I contribute my own driver story. Very irrelevant but I am bitten by the talking bug. And I wish to take a few minutes off to mourn him. Rajesh was an unscrupulous, lying, lazy thieving and unpunctual person. He had an affair with my maid- something that brought his wife in a flaming fury to my house but that is a different story. Rajesh was a god behind the steering wheel. . He could negotiate the streets of Mumbai like nobody ever could or will ever be able to. When I see other drivers I think of him and think of that talent that is no more. Rajesh committed suicide two years back. I will always wonder why. They tell me it was in a fit of passion- he was arguing with his wife and then he jumped into the sea from the Gateway of India. There was never a driver like him.
We speak of other crimes committed by servants. We agree that Ashok's character is impossible. And Pinky Madam playing badminton with her driver is laughable. In your dreams Balram. Or she was a whacko- either a slut or a foreigner who did not know any better.
"We know this", we say. "But you have been inured to it", objects the Calcuttan Punjabi. The Rajputani disagrees. The UP-ite concedes that the book 're-sensitises' us.
I have to leave. I call in and make one point. The structure of the story - the letters to Wen Jiabao format. Why did he do that? Was the novel born when Adiga was mulling a China vs. India business article? Is this a device to deflect possible criticism that the book has been written for a predominantly western- white- audience? Or is this a way of underlying the freedom of thought and expression that is enjoyed in India, despite its brutalised society?
That is the discussion. Our take is as follows
Primarily that it is incredibly contemporary in its style. This is one reason it is such a fast read- one can imagibe a drawing room conversation veer this way. Secondly the book does not contain anything new. Most Indians are quite mystified by the Booker buzz about the 'fresh 'angle from which Adiga has written. It came as a surprise to us that the book came as a surprise to some of the (more influential from the awards perspective..) readership. In terms of a greater understanding of the great Indian under class, I would still rate Mistry's A Fine Balance better. The difference is that Adiga avenges that neutered sub-class portrayed so well but so darkly by Mistry. If you think of White Tiger as a parallel version of the tell all art-house movies people carped about- the movies were better researched. And by the sheer power of the medium more hard hitting. Damul, Aakrosh, Ardha Satya, Godhuli, Paar, Sadgati, Thanneer Thanneer, Ankur, Manthan- oh the list is endless- all informed me about an India I did not know. WT does not. But not to take away from the sheer entertainment value of reading a well written, very modern and relevant story in a very very comprehensible idiom.
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