India – findingtimetowrite

#20Books of Summer and #WITMonth: #16-18

I lost count a little bit while packing books, moving, finding books on my Kindle, but I think I’m nearing the end of my 20 Books of Summer (having read a few not on the original list as well). These three latest ones were all on my list, and had been buried on my Kindle for a couple of years at least. Don’t expect full-length reviews, however: my brain is still incapable of more than 10 minutes of coherent thought at a time.

#16: Milena Michiko Flašar: I Called Him Necktie, transl. Sheila Dickie

I was hugely impressed by this Japanese-Austrian writer when I read her book Oben Erde, unten Himmel, and when I saw her at the European Writers event at the British Library. This is an earlier book by her, drawing once again upon her Japanese heritage and set in Japan, exploring two widespread and sad phenomena in Japanese society: hikikomori (young people who shut themselves in their rooms) and the shame of aged salarymen who find themselves unemployed. A lot of the latter find themselves among the homeless camps in Ueno Park, as described in Yu Miri’s novel. Meanwhile, you can find more sinister, pitiful incarnations of the former in many contemporary Japanese manga and novels, including the two novels by Abe Kazushige that I read earlier this year, Mysterious Setting and Nipponia Nippon. This book also falls under the Women in Translation Month category.

Hiro is the young recluse, who lives in his parents’ flat but won’t eat with them (they have to leave food outside his door) and only comes out to shower when they are asleep. At some point, however, he decides to venture out of the house for the first time in two years, just walking in solitude and sitting in a park.

…it was about being by myself. I didn’t want to meet anyone. Meeting someone means getting involved. An invisible thread is tied. From person to person. Real threads. Back and forth. Meeting someone means becoming part of a web, and I wanted to avoid that.

As he sits on a park bench, he notices a middle-aged man in a suit and tie opposite him, who seems to fit the stereotypical image of the salaryman, yet for some inexplicable reason is spending the day just sitting in the park.

His well-pressed figure was like thousands of others who fill the streets day in and day out. They stream out of the belly of the city and disappear into tall buildings, whose windows break up the sky into separate pieces They are average, typical in their inconspicuousness, with smooth-shaven suburban faces, all of them interchangeable. He for example could have been my father. Any father. And yet here he was. Like me.

These two people, who feel out of step with the rest of the world, find each other and gradually develop an understanding of each other’s situation. They share the same need to find a brief respite from the anxieties of the burdens of social expectations and fear of other people:

The happiness of being freed for an indeterminate time from events and effects, from the interplay of causes and effects. Without an earthly aim before your eyes and without the need to reach one, to remain in a space where nothing happens. A ball lying still, off to the side and not colliding with any others.

Yet, as they share stories about their past friendships and relationships, the things they feel guilty about, they begin to wonder what effect their indifference to the world might be having on those nearest and dearest to them, and whether society really needs them and their contribution. It is a moving book about loneliness, grief, sense of displacement but also about finding connection, being listened to for the first time and finding some kind of hope. Above all, I resonated with these words, which could be the battle cry of all sensitive people everywhere, when they feel the world is crushing them:

Don’t be ashamed to be a person with feelings. No matter what it is, feel it tenderly and deeply. Feel it more tenderly, feel it more deeply. Feel it for yourself. Feel it for others. And then, let it go.

#17: Hema Sukumar: Minor Disturbances at Grand Life Apartments

Set in Chennai, India, I have to admit that I expected this book to also fit the Women in Translation bill, but it was in fact written in English. Minor disturbances indeed – this is very much a comfort read, with the gentle humour and mild dangers. Or rather, even if the dangers are not all that minor, they are resolved relatively easily.

The residents at the Grand Life Apartments are: devoted mother Kamala, a dentist who is very proud of her daughter studying at Oxford but also wishing she could see more of her than just one week of annual visits; Reva, a software engineer who is being constantly reminded by her family and acquaintances that she is getting past the marriageable age; Jason, a shy young British man who came to Chennai to improve his knowledge as a chef after a traumatic breakup; and their landlord, who is fighting to keep the apartment block, which is being targeted by developers. Their stories intertwine in a charming way, reminiscent of Alexander McCall Smith’s style, while pointing out the differences in attitudes between generations or social classes in contemporary India:

What Reva had come to realise was that being a certain kind of liberal-minded person as an adult was usually the byproduct of having a childhood where mothers spoke fluent English and fathers ferried you around in air-conditioned cars to swimming lessons. This then manifested itself as online dating in adulthood, accompanied by complaints about old-fashioned parents who didn’t approve of live-in relationships.

There was also a little bit about cross-cultural misunderstandings, as Jason becomes more familiar with the local culture, and as Kamala travels to England to see her daughter. Nothing particularly ground-breaking in terms of plot or style, but it was a pleasant palate cleanser between more serious books.

#18: China Mieville: The City and the City

I knew this was going to be an interesting exercise in world-building, but I was not expecting it to be so full of historical and anthropological references. Set in a fantasy world somewhere in the Balkans, one that bears many similarities to ours, this book seems to be all about artificial divisions that we have created: I spotted allusions to the war in Yugoslavia (the same language in essence, but written in two different alphabets), or to the Wall in Germany, and Berlin in particular (being so close in certain streets, but having to ‘unsee’ the others), or Jerusalem of course. The difficulties and ‘training’ required for visitors to even gain access to the two cities of Beszel and UI Qoma are also reminiscent of Albania in the old days and North Korea (still). As for Breach, that much-feared unseen force sweeping in when people don’t conform to the rules, it reminded me of course of all the Stasi, KGB, Securitate forces… and that sometimes the fear of repercussions acted as more of a deterrent and led to self-censorship than anything they could actually do in reality.

I had to smile at the references to American imperialism and how they viewed these ‘crazy’ countries that they have to nevertheless pretend to respect for the sake of their economic interests:

Any explanation carried out in my presence would have to be moderately polite: alone with other Americans he could stress to them how ridiculous and difficult these cities were, how sorry he and his colleagues were for the added complications of a crime occuring in Besel, and so on. He could insinuate. It was an embarrassment, an antagonims to have to deal with a dissident force like Breach.

Aside from this fascinating backdrop, the plot itself is a mash-up of traditional murder mystery/police procedural, spy thriller and conspiracy novel (in the Dan Brown type of genre). It does get kind of messy towards the end, but for the most part it is mind-bendingly great fun, with enough social commentary and satire to keep me satisfied. I can see why it won so many awards, and I think it’s high time I returned to Embassytown, a book I attempted to read a long time ago but didn’t quite finish. I have the feeling he might be better in high-level concepts and premises, but not always quite land the execution of it in his novels.

#InternationalBooker: Plight of Women

Reading these two books one from the International Booker longlist one after the other was quite gruelling, so I’d recommend a break in-between with some lighter reading and viewing matter.

Banu Mushtaq: Heart Lamp (Selected Stories), transl. Deepa Bhasthi, And Other Stories, 2025

Published between 1990 and 2023 in India in the Kannada language (a minority language spoken by 65 million people, so a much larger language than Romanian, for example), these are stories of everyday lives and struggles and very few joys of women in Muslim communities in southern India. In the translator’s note at the end of the book, we read that the author does not see herself as writing only about a certain kind of community, but that women throughout the world experience similar problems. ‘The particulars may be different, but at the core is a resistance to being controlled, “tamed”, or disallowed the exploration of our full potential.’

The stories are not linked, and present different aspects of a women’s lives, at different ages and in different social circumstances, but there is a certain repetitive pattern to them. Taken all together, they build up a patient description of the many, many ways in which women are neglected and scarred, as if they are objects, which is the power of this book. The daily humiliations they are subjected to: by husbands, in-laws, their own families, make for a depressing read, but at least there are no scenes of graphic violence or brutal rapes as in the Mexican book.

I did not find this book terribly interesting stylistically. The author is a lawyer and activist as well as a writer, and a lot of it is reported in a journalistic style, while the emotional scenes sometimes feel wooden. Some of the women launch in speeches which feel like they are accusations being spoken out in court, railing against the inequality between the sexes. Here is a woman whose husband has abandoned her, who sees that her family are not willing to take her back in or do anything to help her:

That means you are all not in a position to do anything, right? I fell at your feet, saying that I didn’t want to get married. Did you listen? I said, I will wear a burkha and go to college. I begged you not to make me stop studying. None of you listened to me. Many of my classmates aren’t even married, and yet I have become an old woman. I have the burden of five children on me. Their father is roaming around, and I don’t have a life. When a man is doing such a haram thing, are none of you able to ask him why he is doing this?

But perhaps this also creates a distancing effect which diminishes some of the horrors of these women’s existence. An interesting if gloomy insight into a world where the only weapons at a woman’s disposal are the so-called ‘weapons of the weak’ – the silent protests, foot-dragging, small acts of sabotage and rebellious thoughts, which only occasionally are uttered aloud.

Written over 33 years, I have to wonder whether the situation of women has improved at all since she first started writing these stories.

Dahlia de la Cerda: Reservoir Bitches, transl. Heather Cleary & Julia Sanches, Scribe, 2024

If I thought that there would be any respite from domestic violence, abandonment and powerlessness of women in these stories (most of them inter-linked) from Mexico, then I was very much mistaken. While the women here are speaking in first person and are loud and frank and unafraid of proclaiming (even parading) their uninhibited sexuality, they are often just as much prisoners of their environment as the women in southern India, and more often than not become the victims of domestic abuse or femicide. As the author (and one of the narrative voices) says towards the end of this volume, ‘every two hours and twenty-five minutes a woman in Mexico is strangled, raped, dismembered, burned alive, mutilated, beaten to a pulp, and left with bruises and broken bones’.

Money and social status don’t matter as much as one might expect. One of the narrators is the wealthy daughter of a cartel boss, but she finds herself remarkably powerless to do anything when she witnesses her best friend being beaten to death by a boyfriend. A girl from a well-connected political family finds herself trapped in faking indigenous roots to better support her politician husband’s career, but is in constant danger of being blackmailed. Older women living alone in a dodgy neighbourhood are terrified by a break-in and bludgeon the burglar to death – but we also hear the story from the point of view of the burglar, who turns out to be a young woman desperately trying to feed her family.

I suppose the original language is highly vernacular, quirky and slangy, and the translators try to render this with very up-to-the-minute English slang. While it may work reasonably well this year (and the excessive use of the word ‘fam’ does sound slightly annoying and try-hard – but that might be the case in the original too), there is the danger that in a few years it will feel very dated. However, it does convey some of the almost manic energy and cynicism of the protagonists:

The moments I spent with Regina were the best in my life. Our friendship was brief, but it was top shelf. There was affection, respect, and genuine love between us. The memory of her saying ‘Fierro, periente!’ makes me want to cry. She never lost her high-class accent, not even while acting all ride or die. She didn’t play any angles, and that’s hard thing to find in this business, fam.

Among the noise and bluster and obsession with sex, drugs and money, a rather grim portrait of Mexican society emerges, with entire neighbourhoods being gentrified and the poor or ‘darker’ people being pushed into ghettos, while meritocracy is a completely alien concept.

In these parts, it’s the folks who rattle the cage that get ahead. Not far ahead, but it beats nothing. You clock that the gangster one block over who robs banks has a nice truck or that your neighbor the thief has a flatscreen TV or that the guy turned sicario started wearing designer shoes. Then you compare them with the donas who work from sunup to sundown in the factory or cleaning rich folks’ shit-crusted toilets in their bougie houses or selling donuts and never catch a break. You compare what a burglar makes with what you do busting ass and, real talk, mijo, you get the itch to rattle the cage, grab the bitch by the scruff, roll the dice.

If this reminds you of the work of Selva Almada, this is no coincidence, and the author, particularly her book Dead Girls, is referenced in the final part of this book. My verdict: a high-octane, brutal read, with the different narrators in each of the stories providing a great variety of voices (and depressing similarity of experiences), while their inter-connectedness create an interesting red thread for us readers.

#1940Club: The Secret of Dr Honigberger

Mircea Eliade: Secretul doctorului Honigberger (The Secret of Dr Honigberger)

Before Mircea Eliade became a philosopher and historian of religions, he was primarily known as a fiction writer (and playwright) in his birth country, Romania. 1940 was a bit of an odd year for him – he had recently been released from prison for his support of the right-wing Iron Guard, but was then rehabilitated and even sent to London and then Lisbon as cultural attaché when Romania lurched to the right and later became military dictatorship during the Second World War.

This slim novella was written during this troubled period and perhaps that’s why it contains hardly any references to the politics of its time: it is pure escapism, with the future professor of religions very much in evidence. It is a story within a story and features mysterious disappearances, dusty and potentially dangerous manuscripts, time shifts and surreal/ghostly elements that are now common-place in fantasy literature, but which were perhaps rarer at the time.

The narrator is a young scholar of Oriental Studies (like Eliade himself), who has recently returned from a lengthy trip to India. He is invited to the house of Mrs Zerlendi, a widow, who would like him to examine her husband’s extensive library of Oriental treasures and determine if it might be possible to complete the monography he was writing about Dr Honigberger, who had travelled throughout India and the Arabic countries in the first half of the 19th century and was believed to have attained a transcendental state and special psychic powers.

The narrator is somewhat sceptical at first, and considers the deceased Mr Zerlendi a rank amateur. However, as he grows familiar with the valuable collection and even stumbles across a secret journal, he realises that things are not quite what they seem. Zerlendi did not die, but mysteriously disappeared all of a sudden in 1910, without a word to his family or friends, without taking any of his papers or clothes or money with him. From his journal, it emerges that he was following many of the ascetic and yogic practices described by Dr Honigberger in an attempt to reach the hidden world of Shambala, which some scholars thought was an actual location somewhere in the north of India, but which the narrator is starting to think is something like Enlightenment.

Just as the narrator thinks he might be uncovering the secret, he is suddenly kicked out of the house and library (under the pretext of spring-cleaning and that Mrs Zerlendi has fallen ill). He keeps trying to get past the gatekeeper, the fierce, limping housekeeper, but no luck. And then, when he passes by the house again after a few months, he discovers something very strange indeed: the Zerlendi family (still without the father of the household) in something resembling the future or perhaps an alternative universe.

There is no resolution to the mystery of what actually happened to the narrator or to Zerlendi, and readers often asked Eliade for an explanation, which he refused to give. Clearly the author’s professional interests in esoteric practices got the better of him, for there are far too many lengthy descriptions of those. There are times when the narrator seems to be critical of the fascination with all things Oriental that Zerlendi displays, but I wonder if Eliade the author is aware that he and his narrator are displaying all the same symptoms.

If anyone could manage to make an exciting premise boring (even in a short novella), then it is Eliade here. After he became a lecturer in religious studies, his literary output decreased dramatically. On the other hand, his academic works often read like novels, so…

For an updated and even more intriguing take on this story, with a science-fiction twist, I would recommend Paul Doru Mugur’s short story ‘zerlendi@shambhala.com’, the first in his short story collection Psychonautica, recently published in the US by New Meridian. (And I say that not only because I translated that book).

A translation of Eliade’s novella by Ana Cartianu was published in 1992 under the title ‘Doctor Honigberger’s Secret’, as part of an omnibus edition of Eliade’s Mystic Stories. Probably only worth seeking out if you are deeply interested in the subject or in the author. However, you can see an entirely different (and funnier) side to Eliade by reading his barely disguised youthful memoirs translated and published by Istros Books.

I know that officially the #1940Club is over, but I just wanted to add this fairly obscure book to the list. It didn’t take me long to read but it has taken me far too long to review. More about the reasons for that perhaps in another post.

International Booker Winner: Tomb of Sand

After hearing the author Geetanjali Shree and the translator Daisy Rockwell speak about this book at the Southbank Centre a few days before the International Booker Prize was announced, I immediately bought it. It sounded really different, unexpected and fun. Now that I have finally read it (for the London Reads the World Book Club), I can confirm that it was surprising, not at all what I expected, and funny in parts, although ultimately a serious and sad novel.

The cover was designed by translator Daisy Rockwell, who is also a painter and a descendant of American painter Norman Rockwell

It is a shapeshifter of a novel. Just when you think you have grasped in what direction it is going, it suddenly chops and changes. It’s a family saga, a story of friendship, a political novel, a mystery, a quest for freedom, a parable about ageing and loneliness, all of the above and none of them. To me, it seems to be predominantly about storytelling. What is the border between fiction and non-fiction, between tradition and modernity, between Western and Eastern literary paradigms? Is there ever one single way to tell a story? How can we incorporate all of the additional variants and interpretations?

A tale tells itself. It can be complete, but also incomplete, the way all tales are… Women are stories in themselves, full of stirrings an dwhisperings that float on the wind, that bend with each blade of grass… The story’s path unfurls, not knowing where it will stop, tacking to the right and left, twisting and turning, allowing anything and everything to join in the narration.

Although the tale has no need for a single stream. It is free to run, flow into rivers and lakes, into fresh new waters. But for now, we must insist on not straying, so for the time being we simply won’t.

This approach to the story – as a living being, who can always surprise us, take us on diversions, refuse to budge at certain points – is so different from what we expect of a novel in the Western literary tradition – or at least not in the present-day (I can think of some 18th and 19th-century novels that are all about the digressions). It is also full of cultural and linguistic references (including untranslated terms) which probably went completely over my head. This maximalist approach to storytelling won’t be everyone’s cup of tea. At times, it defies close reading, and I will need to return to some passages to grasp their full meaning.

It takes 190 pages for Amma, the beloved grandmother mourning the death of her husband, to leave her bed, as one of our book club members pointed out indignantly. I enjoyed the family visits, contradictory opinions, squabbles and rivalries, which reminded me so much of Romanian families too, but I can see how many readers might feel the story is taking too long to get started.

The middle part is told more from the point of view of Amma/Ma’s daughter, Beti, who prides herself on her modern, tolerant, bohemian attitudes and lifestyle, but finds herself occasionally at odds with her mother, especially when her friend Rosie starts having what she considers a disproportionate amount of influence on her. Rose is a hijra (third gender) person and is yet another example of Ma (and the author, probably) protesting against the artificial, destructive, small-minded erection of borders where none existed before.

The final part is about a road trip to Pakistan, perhaps the most mysterious, brutally unexpected, but also satisfying section of the book. It also features butterflies and a crow, but it’s extremely hard to explain how it all hangs together. The prose throughout the book is vivacious, funny, perfect at capturing different voices, but in the last part it becomes very poetical, colourful, imbued with the qualities of a fairytale or legend. And throughout, we have the political engagement of Ma (and the author, I believe), although this could apply to the distance between two people too. As someone who was once living in a closed-in country, this passage on borders was particularly meaningful to me (it goes on for a few pages, but I will just quote from the first couple of paragraphs):

A border does not enclose, it opens out. It creates a shape. It adorns an edge… It enhances a personality. It gives strength. It doesn’t tear apart. A border increases recognition. Where two sides meet and both flourish… A border stops nothing. It is a bridge between two connected parts. Between night and day. Life and death. Finding and losing… A border is a horizon. Where two worlds meet. And embrace.

I’m still not quite sure how this book ended up nearly twice as long in English as it is in the original Hindi, but it is an amazing and unforgettable book, one that challenges all our preconceived notions of ageing, Indian families, Partition history and, above all, what makes for compelling storytelling.

By complete coincidence, I finally read Lolly Willowes by Sylvia Townsend Warner this weekend and realised that the premise reminded me a lot of Tomb of Sand. That too is about an older woman (was 47 in the 1920s the equivalent of 80 nowadays?) who turns her back on her family and decides to pursue her own interests and find new friendships and passions.

Even though it is a much shorter book, it has a similar structure: the first part might be perceived as boring and stultifying by some readers, as it describes the dull, prescribed and circumscribed life that Laura leads, losing her own name (becoming Aunt Lolly, just like the main protagonist in Tomb of Sand becomes Amma or Ma), having the family talk about her rather than addressing her directly, making decisions on her behalf. The second part describes the move to the village of Great Mop, an unsuccessful attempt at freedom initially, when her much-loved but stifling nephew Titus shows up. This is very similar to the occasionally pleasurable but often tense living together of Ma and her daughter. The third part describes the release at last, in what should perhaps be as dramatic a moment as in the Indian book (after all, what could be more dramatic than making a pact with the devil? Goethe got lots of mileage out of that!), but is dealt with in such a matter-of-fact, even amusing way, yet you sense real passion lurking underneath (Laura’s speech about women being active yet invisible, sticks of dynamite ready to ignite). I felt the same hair rising on the back of my neck moment there as I did when reading the scene where Ma asks the soldiers to hit her so she can learn how to fall – and then realise why she is doing that.

I am perhaps too prone to see parallels here, but these two books worked perfectly in tandem for me, and both left me with an explosion of joy but also a deep sadness that freedom has come so late for these women, and that for many it does not come at all:

In vain she had tried to escape, transient and delusive had been her ecstasies of relief. She had thrown away twenty years of her life like a handful of old rags, but the wind had blown them back again, and dressed her in the old uniform… They had let her run a little way – that was all – for they knew they could get her back when they chose.

No. 2 #AsymptoteBookClub : Aranyak

Bibhutibhushan Bandyopadhyay: Aranyak (transl. Rimli Bhattacharya)

This is why I am grateful to have other sage people choose books for me on occasion: because they unearth things that I would never have come across on my own. Aranyak is one such gem of Bengali literature. Written in the 1930s, translated here for the first time in English, it talks of a lost world, the rapid sale of land for farming and consequent deforestation of large swathes of the Bihar forests in the north-east of India, neighbouring Nepal. The narrator contributes to what we would now consider an ecological devastation, but which at the time was considered completely appropriate.

The story is loosely autobiographical, a series of vignettes about the life of an earnest young man from Calcutta who works for a few years as an estate manager in Bihar. In a way, he is as much a victim of the greedy landowners as the poor farmers are: unable to find a job in the city, he takes this poorly compensated job in a remote location, suffers homesickness initially, is transformed by the people and the landscape, but then has to bear the guilt that he took part in its downfall. This is why the whole book is designed to be the confession of an old man looking back on his youth.

But those memories do not give me pleasure; they are filled with sorrow. By my hands was destroyed an unfettered playground of nature. I know too, that for this act the forest gods will never forgive me. I have heard that to confess a crime in one’s own words lightens somewhat the burden of the crime. Therefore, this story.

There is no real plot to the novel, merely a chronological description of events and characters. The narrator tries to give voice to the many people he meets, many of whom are so poor that he cannot believe what they are willing to do to survive. This is why the book feels more like the field notes of an anthropologist. And, just like an anthropologist of the first half of the 20th century, he cannot resist adding himself to the narration, interpreting, casting judgement, expressing love and concern for the people he meets, but still considering them ‘subjects of enquiry’, with a paternalistic attitude. Malinowski’s ethnography of the Trobriand Islanders (1922) and Evans-Pritchard’s work on the Azande (1937) fall firmly within this category. Yet the impotent sadness at the social injustice paves the way to the more self-conscious anthropological memoir of Tristes Tropiques by Claude Lévi-Strauss (1955).

It is a fascinating book, full of vivid character studies and life stories, some of them desperately sad, some of them a celebration of the resilience of the human spirit. The author warns us how important it is to understand the context within which these stories arise, to leave our own world behind:

These stories of Ganu that sounded so mysterious and so delicious in the environs of the lonely forest would certainly, I know, sound absurd and false if one were to listen to them in Calcutta. One may not listen to stories anywhere and everywhere. Nor are stories to be recounted carelessly. A story lover will know how much the pleasure of a story depends on the immediate environment of its telling and the receptivity of its listeners.

I also love the lyrical descriptions of nature (even though they are probably soaked in a nostalgic haze). The narrator gradually succumbs to the magical beauty of the landscape. In anthropological terms, he ‘goes native’ and may find it hard to ever return to his home town.

It is better for those who have to live within the strictures of domesticity never to catch sight of this beauty. In this bewitching guise, nature makes men abandon their homes, fills them with wanderlust… He who has heard the call of the wild and has once glimpsed the unveiled face of nature will find it impossible to settle down to to playing the householder.

I have to admit that I found the narrator’s open admiration for the humble, sweet women he meets in the forests a trifle creepy. It sounds like he was taking advantage of his halo as the powerful outsider, although he exalts their beauty and gentleness. The ‘angel in the house’ mentality of Victorian Britain shines through, even more potent because of the infantilisation of women and of this ethnic group, this less deserving ‘caste’ (although the narrator also mentions instances when he ignores the caste system):

I have noted that like the open and generous countryside – the forests, the clouds, the range of hills, free and untrammelled – Bhanmati was unencumbered, innocent and free in how she conducted herself. So were Manchi and the poet’s wife… The forests and hills had liberated their minds, expanded their vision with generosity; in like maner, their love was deep, generous and liberating. They could love greatly because of the greatness of their hearts… The dictates of refinement and the pressures of the civilized world had erased in her sisters the eternal woman that resided in Bhanmati.

Whether creepy admiration or not, you cannot doubt the narrator’s sincere love for life in the jungle, despite his initial reservations. In fact, one of the amusing passages in the book occurs when he stumbles across a group of Bengali tourists having a picnic in the jungle, woefully unprepared and blind to all the beauty around them.

By a stroke of rare fortune, they had landed in this extraordinary kingdom of nature, but they lacked vision to appreciate what they saw. In fact, they had come with the sole purpose of hunting, as though birds, rabbits and deer were all awaiting them by the roadside, waiting patiently to be shot.

The book ends rather abruptly with the narrator sitting under a tree fifteen years later and musing about what might have befallen the people he knew there in the meantime. I would have liked to hear about his difficulties in fitting back into the society he had left behind, the reverse culture shock, that sense of never quite belonging there anymore, because his eyes have been opened. But that is probably another story.

I think this is a book that we certainly have to read bearing in mind the attitudes, perspectives, policies and politics of the time. There are elements in it which will feel uncomfortable to a modern reader, but in many ways Bandyopadhyay was ahead of his time. It also raises many interesting questions about ‘fashions’ in nature writing and anthropology, about our espoused values vs. our behaviours in the present day. Yes, we are more ecologically aware, but vast areas of jungles are still lost every day in the name of economic progress. Yes, we claim to be less paternalistic about other cultures, but we still systematically represent them as ‘token exotic exceptions’ in popular culture. It must also have been fiendishly difficult to translate, to decide how much of the original names and expressions to leave in, one different culture talking about yet another different culture. You can find an interview with the translator on the Asymptote blog and you can read another review of the book on Ali’s blog.

Global Challenge? Only Just…

With some dexterous juggling, I can just about claim to have completed the Global Reading Challenge (Medium Level) this year. I had to be a little creative with Mexico and place it in Latin America so that I could sort of claim it was South America. But if you forgive me my geographical inaccuracies and the fact that I still owe you two quick reviews for Africa and the 7th Continent, then I can claim VICTORY!!!

The Medium challenge is about reading two books from (or set in) each continent, regardless of genre. I was initially quite ambitious and planned to visit countries where I’d never been (fictionally) before. But the second half of the year became a mad, disorganised scramble to get books off my Netgalley and TBR shelves, so I had to compromise in the end.

Europe:

Moldova – The Good Life Elsewhere

Poland – Madam Mephisto

Asia:

Israel – Route de Beit Zera

India – Witness the Night

Australasia/Oceania:

Australia – Barracuda

Samoa – Blood Jungle Ballet

North America:

Native American reservation: Sherman Alexie

Houston, Texas – Pleasantville

South America:

Mexico – Faces in the Crowd

Costa Rica – Red Summer

Africa:

Morocco – Fouad Laroui

Libya – The Dictator’s Last Night by Yasmina Khadra

The author takes us into the warped mind of Ghaddafi as he sits holed up in a secret location, trying to avoid both bombing and the wrath of his own people. There is little here to give you a profound insight into the politics or history of Libya itself, but I found it a precise dissection of a dictator’s mind, how it is possible to become a megalomaniac and lose touch with reality, how power corrupts and idealism can get subverted, how tantrums can turn vicious when you are surrounded by sycophants. I thought it also raised some interesting questions about the appeal of tyrants: how they often play the nationalistic card (us versus the foreign menace, we’re going to make our country great once more etc.), which explains their rise to power and the often confused legacy they leave behind.

7th Continent:

Space – Solaris

Centre of the Earth – Jules Verne

I’d forgotten what fun this classic novel is to read – yes, even when the author enumerates all of the things Axel and his uncle the professor take with them on their expedition. Appeals to the geek in all of us, but also lessons to be learnt about how quickly he gets to the intrigue, how imaginative he is, how endlessly inventive. It’s not even remotely plausible scientifically – that underground sea alone is completely wrong for all sorts of reasons. So it’s not as good as some of his other novels, but still a rollicking read (best discovered in your youth, though).

Crime Fiction in Countries Where the Police Is Reviled

Kishwar Desai and Dror Mishani in Lyon, 2015.

Crime fiction seems to be most popular in the countries where crime rates are low – perhaps because it is easier to read about terrible things happening when the truth around you is not stranger and more horrible than fiction. But what about those countries where the police is treated with suspicion, where there is no tradition of private detectives and where there is little hope of real justice (as opposed to vengeance)?

There was a panel at Quais du Polar in Lyon about this very subject, with authors from Russia, Costa Rica, Israel and India represented. I bought both of these books in Lyon: Liad Shoham was there in 2014, while Kishwar Desai was there this year.

Liad Shoham: Tel Aviv Suspects

No conventional crime novel, this is a story of guilt and fears, of mistrust, of crossed wires in communication, misunderstanding, prejudices, jumping to conclusions and… the weaknesses of the police and justice system. Not an overtly political book (which is saying something, set as it is in Israel), but a very interesting look at the larger picture surrounding a crime, the impact it has on everyone involved.

Every single one of the characters has a flawed reasoning, although some of them have good intentions. Elie Nahoum is a middle-aged, old-school police detective who begins to fear he may have arrested the wrong person in a rape case. The ‘rapist’ has something more serious to hide and is being coerced by his conspirators to plead guilty to the crime. The rape victim’s father is keen to accuse somebody and give his daughter back her peace of mind. The police, the prosecutor, potential witnesses all look to their own petty interests, try to save face, face their own fears and refuse to admit their own guilt. When Elie voices his concerns, he is suspended from active duty (and his greatest fear with that is that his wife will expect him to do something more around the house, instead of their traditional gender division of labour – just to show you how old-school he is, and how the author gently mocks him).

Liad Shoham and yours truly in Lyon, 2014.

So not at all what I expected, but a rich, enlightening read. Shoham has a more laid-back and chatty style than the other Israeli crime fiction writer I’ve read, the rather minimalist Dror Mishani.

#TBR7 in a change to the plan, because Raven waxed lyrical about another of Shoham’s books, which I now also want to read. He’s also a really lovely, humorous man, so here’s another picture of him at the Quais du Polar.

Kishwar Desai: Witness the Night

This could be a very depressing book, given the subject matter (the murder of an entire extended family, a traumatised young girl as a possible suspect, female infanticide and political corruption). But Desai has a deft, lively style and a thoroughly likeable, unconventional, disobedient middle-aged heroine in Simran Singh. A delight to read, but also a great debate about social issues in a country of great contrasts. My full review is on Crime Fiction Lover.

#TBR6

(So, yes, the #TBR20 is going reasonably well, have read 9 to date, but have a few books barging in now for immediate reviews.)