Long long ago, I used to enjoy Paul Theroux. And then I chose not to read him and others who view the world as through a film of scum. He is, undeniably, among those living authors whose works can be classified as Literature. Yet, like many such of these times, or, actually of a certain chunk of history, he manages, mostly, to leave one feeling distinctly soiled, leaves that which he writes about, tainted.
It was a random pick when I was in a bit of a hurry, that left me reading Sunrise with Seamonsters.
This is a book I would choose if I were to give one class on English literature. Theroux's pieces, of which this book is a collection, deal, as we are wont to expect from him, with his travels, on the one hand: Burma, Malaysia, Africa and India, among other places, lands he has traveled or lived in.
On the other side, the book has outstanding essays on authors like R L Stevenson and Henry James, to mention a few. One of my favourite chapters concerns the time he met Naipaul and how the latter became his mentor, in a way. I later found, by surfing the Internet, that they had a major feud along the way. So, this book is a great read for anyone who enjoys English language literature and a painless way for the amateur litterateur to acquire some knowledge about the great authors of that genre.
An added bonus is his splendid though sometimes noxious style. Little wonder that he chose to look upon Naipaul as a guru! And it is this trait which, of course, made the Singapore Government wary of him.
It's a delightfully gossipy and irreverent way to learn something of how famous authors, including Theroux, write, how they live and how the mighty can be flighty or just plain petty.
This is an excellent book for the traveler, the student of English and American literature, the reader who enjoys fine writing laced with piquant spice and anyone who enjoys a good read.
Given my attention deficit disorder when reading or watching movies or serials, I must confess that Stupeur et tremblements has held me in thrall so far. I am not in a stupour when I read Amelie's entertaining story but I do kind of quiver with amusement. Each line draws such a caricatural vision of a French woman trapped in a nightmare world of Japanese enterprise. It strikes a familiar chord in me as I have had close encounters with the sort of experiences about which she writes. This is surely also true for many other Indians who live largely via their English language (or other European language) selfs. For those of us who live this schizoid life, our own cultures are inscrutable to us many a time.
Almost every Indian who lives this duality feels faced with insanity when dealing with various situations in India. And often we apologise to visiting Westerners when we perceive their exasperation at the "mysterious" behaviours often encountered in India.
In the book, for example, the young lady is made to perform mindless chores and is humiliated at every turn. The person she considers to be friendly is actually her worst enemy. I recall experiencing a lot of bewilderment when I was a school teacher in India briefly as I often failed to process what I found to be very strange behaviour from other teachers. There are ever so many pecking orders, a lot of intrigue and most of it is processed via some prior socialisation that does not take place overtly. Indian bureaucracy is still strongly capable of confusing many (sometimes even those who are in on this phenomenon).
In more than this do I empathise with the heroine. Take for example the trouble she has in copying figures from a sheet on to the computer. I will, exactly like her, commit many mistakes. My mind freezes when it beholds numbers. But, for all that, I will look forwards to a chance to visit Japan. I will crave Japanese friends. And, for the moment, for want of all that, I have discovered a taste for Japanese dramas.
Although I have watched a few Japaneses films earlier it is only now that I have broached the dramas. I'm well into Bull Doctor, a series about forensics with two very strong female leads. I'm also thoroughly enjoying Gyne which as the name implies is about gynecology. Both far outrank House and other so called Medical TV serials that I've seen.
And in viewing these, I find myself at odds with Mlle Nothomb. It is so easy for me to follow the cultural subtleties these dramas portray. This is, obviously, not a world in which Mlle Nothomb would feel comfortable. She and her ilk perhaps think they invented the world and its cultures. Yet I will not condemn her and will hasten to recommend Stupeur et Tremblements as a very good read. Especially for those who cherish the special brand of French humour.
Alas that more Indians who reach this blog entry will turn to her book than to the dramas for we are still, for the most part of the population who easily interacts with the world beyond our borders, schizoid: the deeper being has cultural resonance with other countries which were once colonies of Europe and the external interactive being is conditioned to think that it vibes with the people on the shows one catches on Star World and the like.
When we lived in Gurgaon between the late nineties and the mid-2000s, I had a Bengali cook. She was a widow. Apparently she'd been married off to an aging Haryanvi. Although she had no complaints about her in-laws and stressed that she only took on such work to pass the time of day, her story opened my eyes to this sort of marriage in present day India.
We are told, time and again, by the media that the Indian sex ratio is very skewed. While the major blame for this has been laid at the doorstep of supposedly traditional practices like female foeticide, I have heard of other explanations. Be that as it may, I was curious to look at a film from another country which talks about a shortage of women.
The film is a little slow to begin with but that is not, in itself, a major put-off. There is a lot of tenderness, a pace of life so far from the rat race that there is time to chew on a straw and gaze at faraway hills. A farmer, in his late 30s, living with his mother and grandfather, finds that he has to go to Uzbekistan if at all he is to find a bride. And so he and his best friend set off and the film's pace picks up for a while.
We are deeply moved by the naivete of this man as is the heroine although she is struggling with her own issues. There are cinematically breathtaking moments throughout.
Which is why the end is rather abrupt and I wonder why it had to be so.
