I was considering the title Booker for idiots. Lest someone should accuse me of being unkind to several compatriots who have made it a habit of winning it, I decided this since it went to someone wet behind the ears. Considering that I am not likely to win any prizes in the creative writing department, I can afford to be critical of all who pass on the fruits of their labour for others to read. The readership of this blog has grown from two to three in the last six months and at this rate it would take about 25614 years for me to qualify as a popular writer. Ever since I have started this blog, I pay a lot more attention to the style of others. I am also convinced that it is a painful effort to create good, flowing prose. It is much easier to write the critic’s brand of English. First let me present a grading sheet for all the winners.
1. V S Naipaul - It is so far back in time. I haven’t read the book for which he won one. For his other works I give him an A. He wields the pen like a surgeon. Is a national movable monument like Nirad Chaudhary, who, alas stopped moving sometime back.
2. Salman Rushdie - A Plus for Midnight’s children. Negative marks for writing tortuous English in later works. A plus for Shame
3. Arundhati Roy - A Plus The God of Small things. Yet to produce another creative work. Wish she would go easy on shrill political positions.
3. Arundhati Roy - A Plus The God of Small things. Yet to produce another creative work. Wish she would go easy on shrill political positions.
4. Kiran Desai - B for the Inheritance of Loss. I could read only half of earlier work. So no comments
5. Aravind Adiga - B for the White Tiger. One & only work wins Booker. Wait for the next one for grades
One might ask, whether I, who never learnt English Grammar with all its’ rules and structure, whose claim to passable English is only the fleety reading of many bestsellers and some exquisite works, someone who nowadays concentrates on communicating with all four limbs in sanitized bureaucratic English in Office, is fit enough to stand in judgment of these worthies. The answer is a resounding no. I learned my English without a rulebook. I wouldn’t know what is a past continuous, preposition or adverb or whatever. The English I come across these days in Office have its’ origins in Assistants and Section Officers of the Central Secretariat Service, a wonderful group of people ill treated and ignored by the Bureaucratic elite. I always believed that an Officer of the Government ought to strive to present a vision. Somehow the bosses tell me that one ought to stick to the original language in the file so that facts are not distorted. The original language emanates from an Assistant and gets carried through. If one reads files in South Block, one is inclined to think that the milk of human kindness flows from the Government. The word Kind is used in all sorts of places and every occasion. Director may kindly see please: Joint Secretary may like to kindly peruse…The plea for kindness becoming more and more obsequious as one goes higher and higher. The Honourable Minister may kindly like to indicate a suitable decision please… And so on
Surprise, the one Indian writer who has consistently produced three beautiful novels falls short of the Booker. Yes I am referring to Amitav Ghosh. Someone who has matured and grown in his craft- someone who weaves a beautiful story with careful research- someone who recreates great periods in forgotten corners of history. Yeah, he doesn’t qualify. To understand why, we need to understand the Booker Prize system itself.
I read P D James’ autobiography called “Time to be in earnest” long back. We bought it recently from a second hand bookshop. She, as part of the Booker Management Committee found the “God of Small things” lush and overwritten. She confesses she couldn’t appreciate books seen through children’s eyes. But I suspect it is the cultural disconnect: just as I wouldn’t be able to appreciate the books Ian Mc Ewan. I could empathize so much with Estha and Rahel in The God of small things. Having uprooted myself from an alien culture at the age of eight and transplanted in a Kerala village, my eyes were moist as I read parts of the book. Her style is lyrical, her prose metered like poetry and the novel reads like a dream. She once put it evocatively ” I had a book in me and it wrote itself out”. Only I wish she had stopped at that and refrained from writing anything on issues political. Her political positions aim to traverse the contrarian and adventurous path. Sitting on this side of the fence, although with strong anti establishment instincts, I find them ludicrous. Elsewhere in this blog I have been harsh on her, but I truly rate her “God of Small things” as a great work. So much for where I stand on Arundhati Roy.
Back to Booker prize.Basically the publishing houses submit books. Number of books per publishing house is limited; no matter how big the house. Then you have self-published works, books on Internet etc. Now you know how huge and daunting the task is before the committee. There would be many books not fit enough to reach the shortlist. But read one must. And trudge along until you see that flash of brilliance. And the important thing is, first time writers have an advantage. Aravind Adiga’s book is a nice quick read. What clinched the issue, I suspect is the ability of the esteemed committee to relate to it. And not to the period work on opium business with a path breaking love story in part Bhojpuri. No, don’t expect the stiff upper lips to understand that easily. Letter written to Wen Jiabao by a driver telling the story of his life in two Indias looks more like their scene. Adiga tells a story with part exaggerated satire, part dark humour and part keen observation. But the Booker for that? No way. Amitava Ghosh is miles ahead. What we need is an Indian Booker to recognize homegrown talent in the Queen’s language. Meanwhile, Amitav Ghosh, Vikram Seth, Vikram Chandra (Red Earth & Pouring Rain/ Sacred Games etc) and others can join the long list of talented writers who never made it. After all Gandhi never won the Nobel peace prize…
PS : Happened to read The Private Patient by PD James; her latest. Maybe PD James may not live much longer and this could be one of her last Adam Dalgliesh stories. I loved it. Also read The Burmese days by George Orwell. Before the year is out, I am determined to finish other works by Orwell. Trudging through the entire Peter Robinson series now. Spotted the Missus reading “Empires of the Indus” by Alice Albinia. Didn’t pay much heed. One day before it had to be returned to the Eloor Lending Library, I scanned through it. Found it gripping and spent the entire Saturday night reading it. It is the discovery of Indus by a young white female journalist following its’ course interwoven with the history- Quite a remarkable book. When an outsider writes about us, we see ourselves a bit more clearly. I am sure if an Indian had written it, the work wouldn't have got my attention since we take the awareness of readers for granted. She traverses the entire length of the river at great personal peril. There are poignant moments when she finds that the Chinese have halted the origin of the river by building a dam. The Indus we see are the sum total of the tributaries which flow into it and not the original one stopped in its’ tracks
Surprise, the one Indian writer who has consistently produced three beautiful novels falls short of the Booker. Yes I am referring to Amitav Ghosh. Someone who has matured and grown in his craft- someone who weaves a beautiful story with careful research- someone who recreates great periods in forgotten corners of history. Yeah, he doesn’t qualify. To understand why, we need to understand the Booker Prize system itself.
I read P D James’ autobiography called “Time to be in earnest” long back. We bought it recently from a second hand bookshop. She, as part of the Booker Management Committee found the “God of Small things” lush and overwritten. She confesses she couldn’t appreciate books seen through children’s eyes. But I suspect it is the cultural disconnect: just as I wouldn’t be able to appreciate the books Ian Mc Ewan. I could empathize so much with Estha and Rahel in The God of small things. Having uprooted myself from an alien culture at the age of eight and transplanted in a Kerala village, my eyes were moist as I read parts of the book. Her style is lyrical, her prose metered like poetry and the novel reads like a dream. She once put it evocatively ” I had a book in me and it wrote itself out”. Only I wish she had stopped at that and refrained from writing anything on issues political. Her political positions aim to traverse the contrarian and adventurous path. Sitting on this side of the fence, although with strong anti establishment instincts, I find them ludicrous. Elsewhere in this blog I have been harsh on her, but I truly rate her “God of Small things” as a great work. So much for where I stand on Arundhati Roy.
Back to Booker prize.Basically the publishing houses submit books. Number of books per publishing house is limited; no matter how big the house. Then you have self-published works, books on Internet etc. Now you know how huge and daunting the task is before the committee. There would be many books not fit enough to reach the shortlist. But read one must. And trudge along until you see that flash of brilliance. And the important thing is, first time writers have an advantage. Aravind Adiga’s book is a nice quick read. What clinched the issue, I suspect is the ability of the esteemed committee to relate to it. And not to the period work on opium business with a path breaking love story in part Bhojpuri. No, don’t expect the stiff upper lips to understand that easily. Letter written to Wen Jiabao by a driver telling the story of his life in two Indias looks more like their scene. Adiga tells a story with part exaggerated satire, part dark humour and part keen observation. But the Booker for that? No way. Amitava Ghosh is miles ahead. What we need is an Indian Booker to recognize homegrown talent in the Queen’s language. Meanwhile, Amitav Ghosh, Vikram Seth, Vikram Chandra (Red Earth & Pouring Rain/ Sacred Games etc) and others can join the long list of talented writers who never made it. After all Gandhi never won the Nobel peace prize…
PS : Happened to read The Private Patient by PD James; her latest. Maybe PD James may not live much longer and this could be one of her last Adam Dalgliesh stories. I loved it. Also read The Burmese days by George Orwell. Before the year is out, I am determined to finish other works by Orwell. Trudging through the entire Peter Robinson series now. Spotted the Missus reading “Empires of the Indus” by Alice Albinia. Didn’t pay much heed. One day before it had to be returned to the Eloor Lending Library, I scanned through it. Found it gripping and spent the entire Saturday night reading it. It is the discovery of Indus by a young white female journalist following its’ course interwoven with the history- Quite a remarkable book. When an outsider writes about us, we see ourselves a bit more clearly. I am sure if an Indian had written it, the work wouldn't have got my attention since we take the awareness of readers for granted. She traverses the entire length of the river at great personal peril. There are poignant moments when she finds that the Chinese have halted the origin of the river by building a dam. The Indus we see are the sum total of the tributaries which flow into it and not the original one stopped in its’ tracks
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