“She loved fine things and she had no doubt she deserved them.”

This is the opening sentence of the novel, and one which made me smile. A good, provocative opening sentence to reel the reader right in. This sentence alone encapsulates the protagonist’s personality and priorities, which is to shape her motivations, actions, and subsequent situations. Given a society like the Sri Lankan one with its rigid and hierarchical class structures and gender dos-and-don’ts, combined with the telling title, it was clear from the outset that our protagonist was going to break some rules, get into some trouble, and defy some societal norms.

As the novel develops, the reader soon realises that whether or not the 2 narratives have the same starting point in time, they are no longer running in parallel: Latha’s narrative moved in leaps and bounds, covering a period of about a dozen years in total; Biso’s narrative only moved through a 48 hour period. There is no actual problem with the different paces of narrative, but the fact the two storylines were unravelled in parallel, chapter for chapter, back and forth like a pendulum in the reader’s present, while being uneven in temporal and narrative terms, rendered this reading experience a little like watching a person walking with one foot slightly shorter than the other. Not unpleasant, just a little uneven. The novel did not need to stick quite so rigidly to its format of alternating chapters, and could have given itself the literary fluidity of interweaving the two storylines more organically and less mechanically. However, this is a first novel, and perhaps with growing literary confidence, Freeman will structure a plot more fluid and suitable to the material, rather than adhering to a set form at the expense of narrative balance, which ironically was just what it was attempting to achieve.

The novel comes across with an exceptionally feminine consciousness, demonstrating the author’s power of observation and attention to detail, particularly details close to the feminine heart and mind. By and large, it mostly manages to avoid cliché representations, which is a praiseworthy achievement in itself, and conveys its minutiae of detail with a real sweetness and gentle touch. Both the writing style and the protagonists created encapsulate a unique type of femininity, one associated particularly with a type of Sinhalese women. The depiction of Sinhalese women of a certain class, their movements, their actions, their mental processes and pre-programmed socialisations, their affections and allegiances, is remarkably honest and faithful. The novel’s strength lies in its ability to convey 2 convincing female protagonists, characters drawn with some elegance and tremendous sympathy. These characters are extremely believable, with strong, distinctive personalities.

Not all the novel’s characters are quite as well developed; some of the secondary ones are occasionally rather 2-dimensional and do slip into stereotypes (particularly the mother-in-law characters). The male characters are all rather weak, both by deliberate design as well as in terms of skill of depiction, lacking the power of conviction which infuses the 2 protagonists. As a consequence of this uneven skill in drawing and developing male and female characters, the gender-related comments in the novel are a little less convincing than its class comments.

The novel utilises low key but very effective elements of comedy to make class comments; an example of one such aptly observed and wittily delivered:
“…a shop whose bags announced it as a place called Barefoot, with price tags that indicated one had to be quite well shod in order to afford anything from it.”
Another amusing example, of a girl choosing a candidate as future husband-material,
“Colombo Seven is best. Next is Colombo Three, Colpetty. After that…well, Colombo Five and then maybe, if everything else is absolutely perfect, even the money, then Colombo Six. Nothing else. Amma would never tolerate it, so why bother?”
Hilarious as it sounds to select a spouse by geographical location, there is truth in this tongue-in-cheek flippancy, that certain residential areas provide rough indications of social status and wealth.

There is a curious insistence throughout the novel that class and good family seems to be immutable qualities/virtues owned by a person, privileges internalised and forever within them, which is an interesting if controversial opinion: in quite a few instances sprinkled through the novel, passages imply this view:

“There was that air of goodness about them, the inner quiet that stemmed from the things they never had to miss in their lives, like three meals a day and school supplies and places to go to on holidays. Yes, an air of charity and calm well-being…”.

“People always told me what a decent family we were, how my mother must have good blood, because she was quiet.”

“…not beauty, definitely not, but sweetness, which with the blessings of her parents’ wealth and privilege, endowed it with a comforting glow.”

The characteristic that makes Latha stand out and interesting in the society which Freeman sketches, is her refusal to accept her allocated class and incessant attempts to pass off as something better than the servant which she is, coupled with her vaunted ability to recognise these supposedly intrinsic class differences accurately and at a glance, “She could spot servants from a mile away…”. The novel seems to insist that because Latha’s background is not that of a lower class or a servant class, she intrinsically aspires to more, feeling a birthright to the finer things of life. It leaves a reader speculating as to whether such sentiments may be reflective of a deep-rooted implicit assumption held by the society itself.

Another interesting aspect of the novel is how Latha utilises the weapons of the weak in order to break rules, get more than would naturally be her lot in terms of consideration, respect, as well as material goods, and also in order to revenge herself on those she feels are depriving her of those aspirations. Latha uses a variety of these classic weapons – foot-dragging, sabotage, theft, deceit, betrayal, withholding of information, etc. And as so often happens in situations of acute power imbalance, she herself is damaged in the process of damaging.

Freeman is deft enough in her sketch of class differences between mistress and maid, of the chasm between the upper classes and the serving classes, using her skill with detailed observation and depiction to highlight class markers in materials as mundane as bars of Lux soaps and Sunlight block and flake soaps. Freeman refines the juxtapositions by going beyond a simple comparison of which soaps can be afforded by which class, and instead shows how each type of soap is invested with particular meanings and associations by Latha in her imagination, and therefore how they come to flagpost concrete and telling social differences in status. This theme of class difference between mistress and maid, the more painful because lived in constant and close proximity, has been worked through by quite a number of South Asian authors in the past (e.g. Thrity Umrigar’s The Space Between Us, Tahira Naqvi’s Dying in a Strange Country, Moni Mohsin’s The End of Innocence, Anita Nair’s Sister to the Real Thing in Ladies Coupe; and by Sri Lankan authors too; Elmo Jayawardena’s Sam’s Story, Romesh Gunasekera’s The Reef, Isankya Kodithuwakku’s How Mrs Senarath Called a Marriage for Mala in The Banana Tree Crisis). That said, Freeman’s addition to this discussion is a welcome one, far from being hackneyed.

This novel is not without its flaws, but it is a high quality debut novel, providing a smooth, easy, highly enjoyable read, and one I will definitely be recommending to many others. The writing style is fluent even if not particularly lyrical, the Sinhalese words are contextually, thoughtfully included, and not brandished, and the novel as a whole is pleasantly free of heavy-handed exotica. It is, in fact, a novel distinctive for its unostentatious but easily identifiable Sri Lankan cultural flavours and markers, and for a fresh, gentle, charming depiction of Sri Lankan womanhood and femininity, and their circumscribed complexities.

Debarati Sengupta is a junior literary agent with Serendipity Literary Agency. She is looking for fiction and non-fiction dealing with multicultural themes with an international and universal appeal. She also has a keen interest in young adult and twenty-something themes in both fiction and non fiction categories

Soniah:
How long have you been an agent?

Debarati:
About one and a half years now.

Soniah:
How did you get started?

Debarati:
I have always, always wanted to be in the book-publishing business (and I don’t think I will ever get tired of this!) I started my career in the publishing industry as an editor in India. After moving to USA post marriage, I realized that if I wanted to be a part of the publishing industry here, I’d have to be in New York. I convinced my husband to move to New York from Florida, while I enrolled myself in a course in publishing at NYU. At the same time, I started interning at Serendipity Literary Agency, and soon, under the excellent leadership and infectious enthusiasm of Regina Brooks - our lead agent-- I started acquiring and developing projects.
In India, literary agents are still a rare breed, but here, I realized that agents have, in many ways, actually taken over the role that editors used to play. At the same time, being an agent gives me a certain amount of independence in terms of the project that I choose to work on. I think being a part of a literary agency also gives me an excellent overview of the entire industry – the creative as well as the business side, because I get to deal with all the major houses and editors, and work on a wide range of books. I work on books that I enjoy the most, and at the same time am able to be involved with a book project throughout all its stages – from when it is just an idea, to when it appears in a publisher’s sales catalog, to when it sits on the shelves of a bookstore - waiting to be picked up by the next reader.

Soniah:
What are the most important things an author might look for in an agent?

Debarati:
First off, authors can try to educate themselves on the whole process of publishing – and not just from discussion boards, blogs and the web in general, but from more reliable sources like the Publishers Marketplace, Publishers Weekly Magazine, the bestseller lists and various publishing house websites. Once an author has a basic idea about the kind of market she is writing for as well as the competitive books and the recent trends in the market, she should find out agents who specialize in those kinds of books. It always helps to check out thoroughly:

• Whether the agent has a wide network,
• The agent’s website,
• The agent’s sales,
• Agent attendance at various writing workshops, conferences, seminars etc.
• If the agent is a member of AAR (Association of Author Representatives).

Different agents have different working styles as far as their editorial, marketing, and publicity inputs are concerned. So research what suits you best based on your needs. Finding the perfect agent is quite like finding the perfect life partner – you would be taking the plunge holding your agent’s hands and once you take the plunge there should be no looking back and no thinking twice, so make sure you have complete faith in your agent.

Soniah:
What types of work do you represent and are you most interested in?

Debarati:
At Serendipity, we love to work on a balanced mix of non-fiction and both literary and commercial fiction. We also have a long list of very successful books for young adults and children. Genres that interest us most are politics, psychology and self-help, pop culture, health, science, women's issues, parenting, cooking, design and crafts, alternative spirituality, business. I am always very drawn to fresh, unique voices, with edgy and interesting story structures and to writing that moves me. I am very eager to work with international writers, on multicultural themes and am always interested in new and emerging writers. And oh, I also want to do a perfectly taut thriller, or a Dan Brownesque book set in South Asia, you know, a heady mix of history and adventure.

Soniah:
You must obviously love to read-- can you take us through a typical day at work?

Debarati:
Fortunately, if you are an agent, no day is like a ‘typical’ day, every day is a roller coaster ride and everything is very time sensitive. And because reading and working on books is more like a passion rather than a vocation, ‘work’ tends to spill over into all my waking hours. So I like to read manuscripts or the latest bestsellers on the train to and from work. Book ideas are always on my mind, so I may be developing book concepts while watching TV or surfing the Net, or even while catching up with a friend on the phone. And believe it or not, sometimes even in my dreams!
Otherwise, in the office, I read query letters, proposals and manuscripts, develop projects at various stages, negotiate contracts, brainstorm publicity ideas, and set up appointments with editors.
Then there’s the breakfast, lunch and after work drinks I have with editors so that I can establish a rapport and find out their literary likes and dislikes. And of course there are times when we breathe deep and nurse our wounds after reading a nice (and sometimes not so nice) rejection letter. And sometimes in the office we just plain chitchat! About books of course 

Soniah:
What would a dream client be like? A nightmare client?

Debarati:
I would like to think that there really isn't anything like a ‘nightmare’ client, or a ‘dream’ client for that matter. When we take on an author, we would like him or her to get a feeling that he or she is very special for us, and would get our personal commitment and support throughout the harrowing process of getting published and even after that, as if he or she is our only client. We tend not to take on authors with similar book ideas, so in that sense each author’s work is a unique element in our portfolio.
However, it always makes working with a client much easier if he or she is able to trust us completely and believe in our mission of a long-term development and lasting relationship. Yes, it’s quite like having a ‘relationship’ – each one needs to be equally committed and trusting.
And we love it every time an author is enthusiastic about learning, especially when it comes to the business aspect of getting published. In fact, we take in only those authors as clients who take up writing as a career, rather than a hobby. Who would, for example, maybe invest in a personal website or work on a you tube video or a blog and network to promote himself/herself as an author. This is for the very simple reason – any agent, editor, publisher would be more confident about investing their money, time and effort on a writer who is serious about the business of writing.
Authors who don’t respect the process and call us every day about the progress of the book, or authors who allow emotions to get in the way of the business can really be difficult. Also authors who don’t understand the power of the Internet can inadvertently sabotage their image by being too tell-all in public spaces, i.e. blogs, websites, and discussion boards.

Soniah:
How might an author sabotage their image?

Debarati:
I feel blogs and the Internet in general is a great place to network, to get your talent out there and to bond with other authors, organization, to generate an audience - to sum up, a very efficient and important tool. The only reason an author perhaps may be somewhat careful while communicating on the net is because the internet is a very public space, and as with all ther public spaces, it always helps to be cautious about what you say and how you present your opinion. Of course, all of us have seen how a careless comment can generate prejudiced public opinion against you. We also have known authors who have quoted our communication with them, through emails or over the phone, word by word, on blogs and discussion boards, and we feel quite uncomfortable with that.
Here are some pointers on how to use blogs and online tools:
- While blogging use more conversational tone, and end with open ended questions which can lead to fruitful discussions and encourage readrs to question and comment.
- Add links to every keyword and link to each other's blogs, and in a creative way so that more people can know about your to-be-published book (but give out your book idea only after you get a deal)
- Try to prove your interest/ expertise/ passion for the subject you are writing about. That will give an editor/agent/publishers reading your blog the feeling that the subject will generate wide interest
- If you have a book already out, offer to give away/ sell at discount/signed-personalized copy of the book from the blog
- Add as many images/ videos etc possible - readers generally have short attention span and cannot read long posts at a stretch. Keep paragraphs short
- If you have accounts/ profiles in any other social networking site (myspace, facebook, linkedIn), add your information to your blog, and add your regular readers to your network

Soniah:
Is being an agent everything you expected? If you will share-- so far what has been your highest high and lowest low?

Debarati:
Being an agent gives me the satisfaction of being a part of the creative as well as business aspect of the publishing process. I get to choose to work on only what I believe in, which is amazing. And believing in the project completely allows me the opportunity to help an author develop a story and provide editorial suggestions. I also get to help editors push the sales of a book or plan events and even tie in the author with organizations to help promote the work. I also get to negotiate the contract on behalf of the author so that he/she gets maximum revenue. Also, I try to sell the book to overseas agents or sell rights of books from foreign countries to publishers in USA.
Working on each project is a unique experience, and I learn a lot from each project. It’s a joy when you see a proposal on which you have worked hard being sold, and again, it’s somewhat heartbreaking when you cannot make others believe in a project as much as you do. Also, at times you strongly feel a book should be out there because the words in it have something magical about them, but then it’s disappointing when other marketing dynamics prevent it from happening.

Soniah:
What is your process for taking on a book? -- Or is every case different?

Debarati:
In case of fiction, we like to see a query letter, a synopsis, a few sample chapters and the author’s background. If the idea seems to be interesting, we ask for the entire manuscript.
In case of non-fiction, we ask for a proposal which will have the publishing rationale of the book, a description of the project, the author’s background, the target audience, marketing ideas and what we call the author’s ‘platform’ – which summarizes why the author is the best person to write the book, what he/she can offer along with a great manuscript that will make the book sell. The platform is important for non-fiction especially because thousands of aspiring writers are trying to get a book published. So we have to be convinced that the author has made a strong case for why the publisher should invest in her idea, and what would give her an edge over the other authors.
Once we love the book idea and feel confident, we then make a commitment. This commitment is solidified by signing of an agreement for representation. Thereafter, we are the client’s champion, come what may.

Soniah:
In the U.S. there seems to be a strong market for non-fiction set in South Asia. Would you agree the same is true for fiction given the popularity of authors such as Lahiri and Hosseini? Or is the U.S. market interested only as long as fiction, and even memoirs, address the quintessential topics of arranged marriages, immigrant angst, or the 'terrorist' angle?

Debarati:
Now that the world is becoming increasingly smaller and South Asian countries are more often in the news, thanks to the booming economy or the political episodes, South Asia is definitely in the front pages. Also, one cannot deny fact that there has been a steady growth in the number of authors from South Asia whose works are internationally successful. So I definitely think there is a greater interest in South Asian books written in English or those dealing with South Asian themes. But then, it is difficult to say with 100% conviction that books, especially fiction, that deal with themes that are quintessentially South Asian and that are completely alien to US readers here would really work, unless the book has been written keeping in mind an international readership.
If we think about it – would a reader in South Asia or belonging to any other culture be able to connect easily to books that are quintessentially American? We are all, to some extent, prejudiced about ideas and cultural experiences that we have trouble relating to. But again, publishers are always ready to publish books which they feel would have a universal appeal, if it is a great story which readers will be able to relate to. It depends on the author how s/he presents his/her ideas, experiences and unique perspective keeping the international readership in mind. After all, readers look forward to a good story, does not matter where the story is set. And if it were not for books, how would our horizons broaden?

Soniah:
It seems that, in recent years, there are more short story collections available and that they're doing well...What are your views? Is this just a trend?

Debarati:
Honestly, again and again we have realized that it is very difficult to work on short stories, unless they come from an author who is established, or they are a part of an anthology, which deals with a theme that will generate immense interest. We do not work on short stories or poetry for adults – they are just too difficult to sell and don’t generate great revenue.

Soniah:
What advice would you give anyone who wants to be an agent?

Debarati:
First, you have to love books – not just reading but the whole process of making a book happen, of visualizing an idea or concept as printed words between covers. You have to be curious about everything, have a sense of wonder and the ability to connect with people easily. You’ll have to learn the language of various departments in the publishing house, i.e. editorial, marketing, legal, production and sales. Not only the language but also the temperament of a business that is chock full of characters. You’ll need to know how to think on your feet, and enjoy the two year lifecycle that books typically enjoy. I’m always motivated by the passion for making that one good book happen, for discovering and molding that one talent, for making a product that is completely unique. Agents often see themselves as project managers. They will have authors who are at different stages of the process, so you need to know how to multitask, how to be organized, and how to develop a strategic plan.
But please don’t feel intimidated – this is actually a very exciting business, and you get to be the very first reader of a book! And of course, if you are lucky enough to have an excellent mentor like Regina, the whole process would become twice as exciting and enjoyable.

Soniah:
What do you think is the best approach an author can use to break ties with an agent?

Debarati:
Nothing works better than being honest. You should assess the reasons for breaking with the agent very carefully. Prepare a list of pros and cons, and be sure to go over it with your agent. Often times you’ll find that once you communicate your dissatisfaction the two of you can come to an amicable departure. But you may also find that you hadn’t really shared your expectations and once you do, the agent can make adjustments. If all else fails, as in any relationship, it’s always best not to let it drag out too long. You’ll be wasting both your time and the agent’s.

Soniah:
If there was only one piece of advice you could give an author, what would it be?

Debarati:
I believe every story in the world has been told, what matters is how you tell the story. All you authors, I have realized again and again, are extraordinary people, you are gifted, you make the ordinary around us magical, and you can make us readers see what we cannot see otherwise. So when you have a story to tell, a book to write, see that you do enough groundwork to make sure that yours will not get lost in the crowd. And brace yourself for a long process – but enjoy every step of it.

Soniah:
What would be a dream submission?

Debarati:
A great story told in a way that is completely fresh and that touches me forever.

Soniah:
Any parting words?

Debarati:
I’m aggressively looking for fiction dealing with multicultural themes and have an international and universal appeal. I have a special interest in young adult and twenty-something themes in both fiction and nonfiction categories. I like books that are quirky and fresh, can also really dig into a juicy thriller or conspiracy theory book. But I am always ready to take a look at a good book idea, so please don’t hesitate to reach out to me if you have a good platform and a good concept.

Soniah:
What is the best way to submit to you/Serendipity?

Debarati:
Through the website: http://www.serendipitylit.com/Old/contact.aspOr via email at debarati@serendipitylit.com
We prefer electronic submission – it’s faster, and we save trees that way.

Happy Writing.

On the 26th of November terrorists attacked various places in Mumbai, India. This is not the first attack on the city but it is the largest and the most well planned. Hostages were taken, civilians were murdered in cold blood, and many are injured. These terrorists are equal opportunity murderers, no one is spared-- all religions, creeds, races, colors are fodder. As investiagtions begin on who and why, Suketu Mehta writes why Mumbai is targetted

Mumbai is a “soft target,” the terrorism analysts say. Anybody can walk into the hotels, the hospitals, the train stations, and start spraying with a machine gun. Where are the metal detectors, the random bag checks? In Mumbai, it’s impossible to control the crowd. In other cities, if there’s an explosion, people run away from it. In Mumbai, people run toward it — to help. Greater Mumbai takes in a million new residents a year. This is the problem, say the nativists. The city is just too hospitable. You let them in, and they break your heart. In the Bombay I grew up in, your religion was a personal eccentricity, like a hairstyle. In my school, you were denominated by which cricketer or Bollywood star you worshiped, not which prophet. In today’s Mumbai, things have changed. Hindu and Muslim demagogues want the mobs to come out again in the streets, and slaughter one another in the name of God. They want India and Pakistan to go to war. They want Indian Muslims to be expelled. They want India to get out of Kashmir. They want mosques torn down. They want temples bombed. read rest here

In reference to my post 'Publishing Now, and Then' sales of Aravind Adiga's The White Tiger should increase even more since it has won the 2008 Booker Prize.

In The Guardian:

Jonathan Ruppin, of the book shop Foyles, said: "This is a refreshingly unromanticised portrait of India, showing that a vast gulf between rich and poor is not an exclusively western phenomenon. It's a very exciting winner for bookshops as it's so commercial." read rest here

There will of course be many who will say The White Tiger won just because the 'West' wants to tarnish the image of India Shining. I found The White Tiger an enjoyable, fast paced read which offered a very real picture of inner India-- indeed inner any country where the rich are very rich and the poor really really poor with not many chances of upward mobility. Also the main character Balram's voice is fun:

from The White Tiger

It is an ancient and veneratedcustom of people in my country to start a
story by praying to a Higher Power. I guess, Your Excellency, that I too
should start off by kissing some god's arse. Which god's arse, though? There
are so many choices. See the Muslims have one god. The Christians have three
gods. And we Hindus have 36,000,000 gods.

And of course in the day and age of 600 page novels it is delightful to come across a short novel. However that said as delightful as brevity can be a short novel is kept short because the author chooses to tell the story from one character's point of view rather than through multiple characters. The White Tiger could have been a much deeper novel had Adiga chosen to tell the story through other characters' perspectives as well as delving deeper into how they have become who they are in the course of this novel, but this is a choice each author makes and the reader can only vote whether the author's choices have whetted their appetite fully: a not too long novel and one point of view versus a much longer read with many characters telling the story at the same time?
In the case of The White Tiger, says a Booker judge:

As Booker judges, though, we are playing the numbers game with other peoples' art, not our own, and although we are doing our best to avoid it, with the pressure mounting it is hard not to feel that size matters. At a judges' meeting this week, as books were mentioned round the table, it was often with a guilty ps, ‘...and it's short' or ‘... but it is rather long.' read rest here

Most review of The White Tiger are raves, but here's a not-rave by Amardeep Singh

Anita Desai's novels were being published in India in the 60's, 70's and 80's, she says in her opinion piece in Outlook India, to no fanfare at all. Instead, rather than get excited about Indian writers writing in English, Indian readers continued reading Austen and Hardy and Wodehouse. It took major literary prizes awarded by the West, as well as big advances, for Indian readers to develop an interest and Indian-English writing (a trend which continues: it took Arvind Adiga's The White Tiger being long and short listed for the Booker Prize for it to begin to sell in India). Since then times have changed in many instances but this change comes with its own set of drawbacks. Were Adiga not short listed for the Booker and did not begin to recoup the big advance Harper Collins India gave it, would it be tough for his second novel to sell as is the case for authors whose first novels do not sell their advance out in the U.S.? Though the Indian publishing houses, still in their nascent stages in many rosy respects, may yet give their authors a second and third chance that U.S. publishers, with their look-to-the-bottom-line-only, no longer do. Will it follow that midlist American authors, finding it hard to get published in the U.S., increasingly turn to India for book deals and readers? How easy might it be for an 'American-Southern writer' to get a book deal in the Indian market? Will the book have to follow a 'Steel Magnolia'/Ya-Ya Sisterhood/Sweet Potato Queen stereotype'? Might it then be the Indian readers turn to 'exoticize' the U.S.: give us mint juleps and iced teas, give us family sagas where all the women stick together till death do they part, give us long shots of magnolias and big hair? After all 'exotification'-- be it mangos or veils or arranged marriages-- is still a challenge that South Asian writers, indeed writers from many cultures, still face-- though perhaps not as pervasively as before-- when trying to be published in the U.S.

Now that worldly success has been made acceptable and popular, something to be courted, it can too easily follow that the publisher will demand books that earn back those advances and justify the expenditure on publicity and distribution, and slowly, but surely, turn the writer into a good financial bet just as one actor may prove to be such a treasure and another may not. The pressures exerted on both the publisher and the writer today simply did not exist 40 or 50 years ago. But there is no free lunch and the writer soon learns that if he wishes to earn, he must learn to please. An insidious pressure, this, not one that encourages freedom or fearlessness. Somewhere along the way, respect for such difficult qualities as these has been lost, and must be recovered, and cherished—repeatedly and steadily and passionately—because it is from that that literature grows.

The cast consists of 7 main characters: first, there is Appa, the ‘big lawyer’ Saar, Oxford educated, son of an Indian immigrant to Malaysia who had built up a veritable fortune. He chose to marry his lower-class and much poorer neighbour’s daughter, who struggles with class-angst, suffering continuous feelings of being the interloper, as well as Appa’s infidelities. Opposing this marriage is Appa’s widowed mother, Paati, who disdains Amma, and enjoys her role as “dowager-dragon”. Paati builds a strong relationship with Uma, her eldest grand-daughter. Uma, at the narrative’s present, is on the verge of departing (escaping?) Malaysia to attend Columbia University, on full scholarship. Uma is watched and shadowed by her adoring, despairing 6-year-old sister, Asha, who is too-aware of ghosts, who sees too much, hears too much, knows too much for her tender years, and is consequently, infused by a confusion of guilts and hopes and fears. The most unaffected – comparatively speaking – member of the family is Suresh, the middle child, who is perhaps the most natural in his behavior, and given his positionality, the only one who can remain relatively unaffected. The last ‘member’ of the family, is Chellam, the ill-fated servant-girl (“Chellamservant”), hired to look after an increasingly decrepit and incontinent Paati, and about whom rumours circulate as unhealthily as a swarm of flies. The supporting cast are no less interesting: Chellam’s toddy-drinking father, Uncle Ballroom (Appa’s spendthrift younger brother), Amma’s own family members, and so on. Each character is well drawn, skillfully depicted, with piercing clarity and a sarcasm which rangest from the light to the biting.

Samarasan has a very distinctive writing voice already, and develops her tale slowly, but with impressive degrees of authorial control. There are strong echoes of Arundhati Roy’s stylistic influences in this novel; for example, the particular kind of word play:

“BrotheROARsister, BrotheROARsister.
That was the noise that echoed in the baby’s little red ears as it swam around in Amma’s belly, fingers and toes splayed like a frog.”

Samasaran also creates hyphenated words, like “Amma’s wrath-for-visitors”, which is reminiscent of Roy’s bus railings with their “sour-metal-smell”.

Samarasan does not play with words to the extent that Roy does, and there is only a light sprinkling of such instances in this novel, but they are there, and quite charmingly so. Occasionally, the Roy-echoes are heard in the way she constructs her thoughts and sentences, in the nuance of them, the brittle humour, the ironic tone:

“Perhaps there is a new hopelessness in her eyes. Or fear. Or disgust. Then again, perhaps it is just the old hopelessness. Hopelessnesses are so difficult to tell apart these days, particularly when one has no help from the hopeless.”

Like Roy, Samarasan also comes up with phrases and words that are loaded with extra meaning; Amma’s “please” is very like Ammu’s “Jolly Well” (in The God of Small Things), which hints at dire consequences.

“Can you please get up and bring your grandmother a tumbler of hot water, please?
Please once is bad enough. Please twice, in the same sentence, is terrifying.”

Like Roy, Samasaran also uses her sharp wit to neatly peel back and expose a society’s hypocrisies and self-righteousness, serving this up with cutting humour and uncompromising candour. Some of Samasaran’s political comments, although ostentatiously spoken in the 1980s in this instance, are topical, particularly in the light of the series of Indian protests in Malaysia in 2007.

“Wait, wait, don’t tell me – you’re back because of Visit Malaysia Year 1980, aren’t you, Balu? You must’ve seen the ads. In New York London Paris wherever you came from? The only time you’ll see Indian faces on TV. Local colour, what? The Bharatnatyam dancers and the teh tarik sellers and the Thaipusam crowds. The rest of the time we’re supposed to shut up and hide our faces.”

Samarasan unhesitatingly utters oft-thought, commonly held, but politically sensitive views at point blank range:
“..as Appa has oft explained to all who will listen, the Malays get all the government jobs, the Chinese have their businesses, and the stupid donggu Indians are left empty-handed to slog in the factories and ditches and rubber estates…”
Her novel depicts the racial tensions and mutual suspicions of the multi-cultural nation, the classist discriminations within races, the minefield which is the country’s inheritance from colonial days. Her political comments are barbed, hilarious, and uncompromising, making for a riveting read.

Stylistically, the novel contains many sentences which catch at the reader’s consciousness and linger there, extremely quotable, quite original, and beautifully expressed. Samarasan demonstrates a real knack for delicately picking apart and unpacking complexities:

“In all of these graces billow something flimsier than an invitation but more substantial than a dream.”

Here is another example of Samarasan’s mastery over the language and fresh, skilful use of imagery:

“…her [Amma’s] growing dislike of Chellam, which continues to acquire layers of varying color and density, like a rock formation: on the bottom, her diamond-hard anger at Chellam for stumbling upon secrets she has no right to discover; in the middle, her distaste of the girl’s alleged dalliance with Uncle Ballroom; on top, the soft surface of everyday annoyances.”

There are also fantastic instances of the peculiarly Malaysian-English, or Malaysian slang, which are authentic and quaint enough to make one laugh aloud:

“You want means you go and give them to her lah.”

“Want to lie also cannot lie properly,” Suresh sneers.

A telling passage occurs when Uma, who has not been taught any Malay because English was the language of the rulers at that time, comes across a sign which reads, “Keretapi Tanah Melayu”,
“What does it mean, Amma? Uma asked. “Carry-Tuppy Tanah Me-lay-oo?”
“Uma, don’t start,” snapped Amma, You know I don’t know all that. I didn’t study their wonderful Malay language in school.”

“Keretapi Tanah Melayu means railway lah thanggachi,” the man went on. “Means Malay Land Railway. Malay Land that means Malaysia lah, thanggachi, that also you don’t know-ah? Looking at me with eyes so big, your own country also you don’t know the name, is it? Aiyo-yo thanggachi, your own Na-tio-nal Language also tak tahu ke? No shame ah you, living in Malay Land but cannot speak Malay? Your mummy and daddy also no shame ah, living in Malay Land and never teaching their chirren Malay?”

Samarasan accurately sketches the lingustics tensions of that period, which parallel the racial tensions.)

The consciousness in this writing is an Indian one, but a Malaysian-flavoured Indian consciousness, as rich and deep as the best of Malaysian-Indian dishes. There is a strong colonial/postcolonial element in the writing which rings out clear and true. The mentions of Malaysian places, dishes, common-brand names, social and cultural norms, etc, are particularly pleasing to those who have experienced the same.

Overall, it is an excellent piece of writing, charming, insightful, controlled, deeply intelligent. This is a novel which merits re-reading and would reward close analysis. I would recommend this novel without hesitation, and salute Samarasan as one of the most promising of the current Malaysian literary talents.

Although this novel is thankfully free of villains and tyrannical elders, it is also unfortunately free from literary intensity, structural interest, depth of authorial or reader engagement. It is an easy read, but unremarkable. The language in particular falls very short, being flat, prosaic, mostly correct and straightforward, but lacking in natural writing grace. There is no suspense, no build up, no climatic point, no point of focus in fact; the novel simply unrolls in a linear and fairly mundane manner. While it is pleasing to have a narrative free from overdone histrionics and sensationalized exoticas, it is not quite so pleasing to have a novel which is verging on the disengaged.

Plomin observes the ebb and flow of the Indian diasporic community reasonably well, but does not display the ability to depict it or comment upon it with originality or sparkle. It is therefore a novel one is unlikely to regret reading, but it is equally a novel one is unlikely to regret missing.

It comes across as one of those magnificent ‘epic’ novels, breathtaking in its sweep, breadth, range, and richness of detail. I will freely admit that I was eager to read this latest from Ghosh; The Glass Palace was one of his works I enjoyed very much, but not quite a masterpiece; The Hungry Tide however, the novel preceding this one, was very close to perfection in its form and execution, and I exulted in the reading of it. I definitely hoped (even while trying to quash the hopes lest they failed to be fulfilled) this novel would scale the same dizzying heights – and oh my, what an amazing feeling when one’s hopes and expectations are not only met, but exceeded!

Having finished reading Sea of Poppies, I sincerely believe very few novelists can rival Ghosh at the height of his considerable powers. His work transcends genres, and in this latest, he seems to have unleashed the full might of his literary powers: this novel is dazzling and exquisitely sculpted. Ghosh is simply a consummate storyteller. His language is gorgeous, fluent, sweeping, rich, beautifully controlled, never a heartbeat off pace – in fact, there is not a single faltering note in this very grand symphony, with its vast cast of diverse characters, each so marvelously wrought to life.

The novel pushes off very quickly, it doesn’t appear to have any ‘shallows’, and it was a thrill to be immediately caught up in this novel’s mighty flow, cresting its energy and momentum, until its conclusion deposited me, exhilarated and tinglingly alive. I just cannot wait for an opportunity to reread it again – and again – and again.

The first story, ‘Monsoon Rains’, is perhaps the most unforgettable. Not because of its protagonist, who is such an everyday character that one could easily ‘pass him by again without recognition’, as are indeed all the protagonists in this collection. The charm of Sheikh’s writing is precisely in these very average, ordinary characters, whose experiences are rendered so vividly in his stories, whose internal turbulences and dramas are played out in the narrative with immediacy and violence. No, the charm of Monsoon Rains is in both its structure and its selection of narratives. It depicts the sordid with exceptional beauty and translucence, focusing in on minute details until the intensity of the focus reveals the hidden fragility and terrifyingly knife-edge-balance contained within those details.

It is the atmosphere Moazzam Sheikh is able to create which set him apart from so many other short story writers. Amidst the mess and grime and grey-browns of the landscape, this author brings us flashes of colour, as troubling as they are compelling.

The 2nd half of the collection features 4 stories of diasporic Pakistanis in USA. Once again, the stories have a very internal resonance to them, following the workings of the protagonist’s mind, observing the external details and how they impact upon him, while constantly threaded through with the musings and interpretations of the protagonist. That internal, mental, quality of Sheikh’s writings has an echo of Anita Desai’s work (such as Fire on the Mountain, Clear Light of Day, etc), though the stream of consciousness here is much less feminine and flowing, and much more jagged and stark. Sheikh’s depiction of a diasporic person’s sense of alienation, confusion, loss, and longing are quite different from those which have gone before in the genre; this depiction pushes the boat further, dramatizes the sense of displacement and despair to a higher level, and is charged with an undercurrent of the dark and the sardonic, which characterizes this writing voice.

However, not every story in this collection was of the same standard. ‘Snakeskins’, for example, was one which merged the real with the surreal, which would have worked if the story had a clearer purpose or meaning within it. ‘The Idol Lover’ was another which lacked the elegance of the rest; it is one of the longer stories in this collection, and very delicately conveyed a particular experience and character, but its form was problematic and threw its own internal rhythm off beat a little.

That said, the majority of the stories in this collection had a luminescence which draws the reader in, an originality which renders it a good reading experience, and a strength of personality combining dark humour and a very light touch.

And ‘mediocre’ would be a generous estimation of Sidhwa’s An American Brat. The protagonist is Feroza, a 18-year-old Parsee from Lahore. Her mother, fearing Feroza is becoming too timid in her surroundings, sends her to America for 3 months, under the care of her uncle, studying at M.I.T. Feroza’s experiences and encounters form the main plot line of the novel.

“When Feroza talked of the condition of blacks and Hispanics, the poverty and the job insecurity prevailing even among the whites in America, her family and friends looked at her with surprised, unsparing eyes. They had their own vistas of uncompromising poverty and could not feel compassion for people in a distant, opulent country that had never been devastated by war….seeing the filthy conditions in the tattered jhuggees that had sprung up on the outskirts of the Cantonment and between Ferozepore Road and Jail Road, Feroza understood their reaction. Poverty had spread like a galloping, disfiguring disease. Every kind of poverty in the United States paled in comparison. Yet it did not mean that the condition of the poor in America was trifling, or the injustice there less rampant. Feroza tried to clarify her thoughts. Poverty, she realized, groping for expression, was relative.”

This is one of the strongest, best written, and most thoughtful of passages in the novel. This is where Sidhwa actually allows her protagonist to reflect, compare, slowly understand the situational differences. Regretfully, such passages are very few and far between in this novel, and perhaps I have done the reader a disservice by quoting the best passage in the book, leaving all the rest to be a let down.

There are, regretfully, so many parts which are lacking, poorly executed, badly thought out in the rest of the narrative. The weakest element is perhaps character development. Feroza’s character is supposed to have undergone sea changes, especially when she stays on in America for some years, studying. However, for most part, the reader is informed of this, rather than witnessing through Feroza’s actions, thought processes, internal identity negotiations. It is a much more superficial method of developing a character, and much less convincing. Feroza is a singularly unsympathetic character, curiously enough, and not one easy to identify with, except on a surface level. It is a pity, because the backbone of the novel rests on this protagonist and her experiences.

The other side-plots and associated characters in the novel are even more poorly developed. We are told of Gwen, a former-apartment-mate of Feroza’s, who has a mysterious wealthy lover, but this story goes nowhere – the reader never gets any explanations, there is no follow up, and one day, Gwen simply vanishes without trace, this story has no purpose, direction nor conclusion. There are all together too many side tales of this type in Sidhwa’s novel. We are told that Feroza’s uncle has a darker, more dangerous side to him – but this piece of information also goes nowhere. There is tension in the relationship between niece and uncle, perhaps even sexual tension, but again, that just peters out without trace, and builds up to nothing. It is a most unsatisfactory novel on many counts. Even the initial portrayal of Khutlibai, Feroza’s grandmother who is potentially a woman of strong personality, is left hanging and undeveloped – Khutlibai fades from the narrative rather abruptly, and is no longer spoken of, after that promising introduction to the reader. There are altogether too many hints not followed up, side stories going nowhere, pieces of information that do not tie together, in this novel. It detracts from what could have been a rich narrative, becoming instead a sketchy, rather amateurish piece of writing.

Sidhwa also gives a rather distasteful depiction of how international students behave in America, attempting to beat the system. Shashi from India annually disguises himself as a starving beggar and appeals to the guilt and sympathy of Americans to give him money, while Feroza’s uncle routinely goes to expensive restaurants, intending to refuse to pay his bill on some trumped up excuse, to get a free meal. And it is not only international students, but American ones as well – Jo, Feroza’s first room mate, teaches Jo to shop lift regularly. It is unclear why Sidhwa stresses and repeatedly depicts such behaviour, unless perhaps the author is convinced this is the norm rather than the exception.

A far more rewarding line of narrative could have been developed through an analysis of the character of Feroza’s uncle, who seems to have developed a split personality to cope with his Pakistani and American identities. But alas, no, the reader is given little opportunity for greater insight into this far more interesting character than the protagonist.

The depiction of the Parsee community in Lahore is by and large clichéd and stereotypical, but humorously done for most part. Although not problematic, it does add relatively little of value to the narrative. If Sidhwa had given the reader more insight into, say, Feroza’s father’s views, for instance, which may in turn have informed Feroza’s own, this would have lent the novel some much needed depth. If she had moved beyond stereotypes of Parsee expectations, and treated culture as fluid and multi-interpreted, rather than a reference point set in stone, the novel could have developed into a narrative worth rereading.

Overall, this novel adds little which is new or particularly worthy to the spectrum of diasporic literature, to cross cultural understanding, even to the good reading in general. The writing style is unremarkable, unmemorable, uninteresting. I must admit I expected more of Bapsi Sidhwa. Quite a lot more.

There's an excellent short story "The Shelter of the World" in The New Yorker. It's a fictional account of the Emperor Akbar and his relationship with his wife Jodhabai. While Bollywood has its own take of the relationship, Rushdie's interpretation is outstanding. It's lyrical as only Rushdie can do, the characters are complex, sexy, and elusive. He touches on great concepts and emotions that belong to kings, and shows how "uneasy lies the head that wears the crown." Rushdie's brought Jodhabai into a mysterious woman who we all understand.

Rushdie can't stop here. This tale has to continue, so I'm sure this will be part of a larger work!

Although less often explored, this is by no means completely virgin territory; Chitra Divakaruni had explored it in her short story Mrs Dutta Writes a Letter (which appeared in The Unknown Errors of our Lives, 2002), featuring a grandmother from Calcutta moving to her son’s home in San Francisco; and more recently, this theme was also the storyline of Thrity Umrigar’s eloquent novel, If Today be Sweet (2007), which unfolds Tehmina Setha’s cultural journey, making the transition from her lifelong Bombay home to Cleveland, her son’s home, after the death of Tehmina’s beloved husband.

Mr Justice Murthy, as he wishes to be called, is proud of his adaptability,
“…when my story begins, I had been living in U.S. for three months. Already I had opened my own bank account, obtained a law library card, and successfully settled the living arrangements with my daughter, Kirin, and her American husband.”
However, when a young girl serving in a fast food place fails to show him the respect he deems he should be accorded, Mr Justice Murthy is outraged, and further incensed when he finds he has little empathy from others around him.

The story is well told, exposing Mr Justice Ram’s value system and expectations, which he has clearly transposed wholesale from India, and juxtaposing these with the conflicting ones of the community around him. His particular Indian-inflected English lends an authentic ring to the story, “What are you talking, Manmohan?”, and “I am considering quite seriously of suing that restaurant.”

Another nice little study along similar lines is that of Arundhati, widow of the ex-chief minister of Andhra Pradesh. Coming from a family of landlords and accustomed to a life where she held a position of substantial social status, Arundhati struggles to accept her new life in USA, where her grandson shows her no respect, where she feels alienated, and where even her dutiful son fobs off his responsibilities to her by asking a virtual stranger to ferry her around.
“ “Rukmini says she comes every Saturday [to the temple]. She’ll pick you up. She lives only ten minutes from us.” The words paralyzed Arundhati. But Venu [son] was smiling and Kamlesh [daughter-in-law] too, seemed pleased. The young woman, this Rukmini, looked at her sweetly. What sort of shame was this? Since when had she needed help from people she did not know?”

Finding that no one understands her values, and no one cares to abide by them, and lacking the power to enforce any, Arundhati resolves to return to her village, in spite of her son’s stubborn refusal to allow this, and in spite of uprisings around her old home. Her story is much like Mr Justice Murthy’s, in that both feel their pride injured, both miss the deference they were accustomed to in India, both feel a disrespect (whether intended or otherwise) due to a disregard of them by the community they now live in, and both very much feel their identities being compromised in USA.

Reddy also devotes 2 of her short stories to the working age group. One of these tell of a very traditional housewife, Lakshmi, who has lived most of her adult life in USA but almost wholly by Telugu conventions, and mostly within a Telugu community. Lakshmi touchingly finds her inner self when she dares to pursue a friendship with a person outside of her community, and with surprising ease, shakes off the shackles of tradition, which she had willingly lived within, for so long. The other story of this age group has a male protagonist, Shankar, who would have been a professor of colonial history in India, but has been unable to keep his jobs thus far in America, as a check out clerk in a convenience store, and a taxi driver. Reddy hints that for this age group, the inability to swallow what her protagonist regards as very serious affronts to his dignity, carries a very severe penalty, beyond feelings of alienation and sorrow. Shankar is reduced to near poverty, suffering both personal and financial humiliation.

The rest of Reddy’s stories are given over to relating the experiences of the 2nd generation American born Indians, and these stories are somehow less compelling than the others. They deal with fairly well-hashed themes of being simultaneously insider-outsider, of being culturally misunderstood by the larger community, of wanting to subscribe to Western values while being pulled in another direction within the family sphere, etc. Nothing ground breaking here, in fact.

However, this is a collection worth reading, for the handling of the 3 different generations’ experiences, and the relatively nuanced and multi-layered depictions of situations and personal responses. As a debut effort, it is praiseworthy, and I look forward to even more subtle and sophisticated offerings from this author.

The Times Online UK has a moving excerpt from Benazir Bhutto’s book Reconciliation: Islam, Democracy & the West. Perhaps an eight year exile did mature Benazir and she would have, had she made it into office for the third time, proved to be a leader truly working in the best interests of Pakistan nationally and internationally. It is strange reading this particular piece which enumerates who might want to kill her, her decision to return to Pakistan never the less, and her reaction to the first assassination attempt as well as the reactions of her husband and kids (i.e. her daughter waking up to an insensitive SMS by a never the less concerned friend asking ‘ is your mother all right?”) It is chilling to read how the suspected ‘bomb’ in this attempt is a baby strapped with explosives– whose baby was it? Was it a baby whose mother was forced to give it up or did she do so with pride? Was it a unwanted baby? Often these days one is forced to ask which sort of person willingly risks death for the sake of a cause– Benazir’s cause was a democratic Pakistan and her decision to return home and trust in God admirable, courageous, fanatic…

from the excerpt:

My husband, watching the live coverage on television in Dubai, begged me not to expose myself directly to the crowd from the top of the truck. I said no, that I must be front and greet my people…

I had been traumatized by my father’s arrest, imprisonment and murder, and I know that such mental scars are permanent. I would have done anything to spare my children the same pain that I had undergone – and still feel – at my father’s death. But this was one thing I couldn’t do; I couldn’t retreat from the party and the platform that I had given so much of my life to…

The burning twin towers have become a dual metaphor for both the intra-Islamic debate about the political and social values of democracy and modernity and the looming potential for a catastrophic showdown between Islam and the West. And for both of these epic battles, my homeland of Pakistan has become the epicentre – the ground zero, if you will – of either reconciliation or disaster. rest here