Khushwant Singh was someone I naturally gravitated towards as a young literature scholar, as he was one of the very few modern, secular Sikh writers with an international profile. (Now we have Brit-Asians like Nirpal Dhaliwal — though judging from this, I’m not really sure that represents progress.) But while I did read everything I could find by Khushwant Singh early in graduate school, I ended up not writing about him, barring one seminar paper that my professor at the time didn’t particularly like.

The truth is, from a literary perspective Khushwant Singh’s novels really aren’t that great. They aren’t as adventurous as G.V. Desani’s All About H. Hatterr, and not quite as carefully controlled as the novels written by his contemporaries in the 1950s — i.e., R.K. Narayan. Train to Pakistan (1956) sold very well in the west, and was in print for years and years. It isn’t bad — it’s actually a well-plotted, suspenseful partition novel — but it’s just somewhat unremarkable. I Shall Not Hear the Nightingale and Delhi, by contrast, aren’t very readable at all.

After the 1950s, Khushwant Singh focused less on creative writing and more on journalism, which is where, I think, he’s made his greatest contribution. Between 1969 and 1978 he was the head editor of The Illustrated Weekly of India, an ancient institution that lasted for more than 100 years, and was, until the 1980s, the biggest English-language news-magazine in India (perhaps in all of Asia). Under the British, it was effectively a colonial society magazine, and it didn’t change much under its first two Indian editors. Khushwant Singh was the third Indian editor, and he turned the ethos of the magazine on its head. Continue reading →

I grew up in Paris. Many years later, this experience continues to earn me oohs and ahs: It must have been so… exotic! Cool! Parisian! I never know what to say in response. I mean, all I did was grow up. I rode the Metro and went to the movies a lot. I had long school days and lots of homework. After high school I came to the US, and for better or for worse have stayed here ever since.

It seems that by leaving so soon I missed all the fun:

IN “Weekend in Paris” Molly Clearwater, a 21-year-old British secretary with long blond hair and gorgeous breasts, impulsively sheds her dull life in London and heads to Paris, where she finds “a dizzying carousel ride of passion, excitement and self-discovery.”

In “Paris Hangover” Lauren Klein, a 34-year-old New Yorker with long blond hair and gorgeous breasts, abandons her glamorous job as a fashion consultant, gives up her TriBeCa triplex and plunges “into the mysterious world of Gallic men.”

And in “Salaam, Paris,” a Bollywood version of the story, Tayana Shah, a sheltered 19-year-old Indian Muslim with long legs and gorgeous breasts, arrives in Paris to meet the man to whom she is betrothed, becomes a supermodel and finds true love.

Since all these stories are clearly based on common real-life experiences, I am left to conclude that had I stayed in Paris, I too could have become a mysterious Gallic man, my life’s work devoted to the emotional liberation of perfect-chested beauties from multiple continents. I suppose it would have made a worthy career, but hey, so is blogging. Life is about choices.

Still, I wanted to learn more about Miss Shah. Who is the literary mastermind who brought this creature to life? Why, it’s old friend Kavita Daswani, whose prior oeuvre includes The Village Bride of Beverly Hills and For Matrimonial Purposes, of which one SM regular’s concise review follows:

I’ve read For Matrimonial Purposes. (don’t ask)…vomit!

Now I don’t mind a little chick-lit. I unabashedly enjoyed the original Bridget Jones. Salaam, Paris intrigues me, if only to see the treatment of the city of my youth, even if it bears as much relation to the actual Paris as my current ghetto surroundings do to Carrie and Miranda’s New York City.

Desi reviewer Reeta Sinha gives Salaam, Paris the business, however:

Kavita Daswani seems to know a bit about stereotypes. Her first book, For Matrimonial Purposes, was full of them and things havenÂ’t changed much with this, her third and most recent work. If anything, the storyline provides room to expand, adding stereotypes about Muslim women to the usual desi chick-lit mix of arranged marriages, overbearing parents and the promise of glitz, glamour and happiness as soon as you leave India. …

ItÂ’s hard being a virgin, teetotaler supermodel, flitting between New York, the Caribbean and Paris, pretending to be hooked up with a rock star and being mauled by her handlers. ItÂ’s even worse when in between raking in fame and money, all you want to do is see your grandfather. … AllÂ’s well that ends well, of course. A fairy godmother in the form of an aunt helps Tanaya reconcile with her dying (of course), grandfather and Prince Charming does finally show up and they live happily ever after, in Paris (of course). …

Every imaginable cliché about Muslims and western perceptions has been thrown in, sadly, quite casually. So, you have references to RushdieÂ’s fatwa, four wives (Tanaya clarifies that sheÂ’s an Indian Muslim, not an Arab), she explains sheÂ’s not the “terrorist kind” when asked if sheÂ’s Muslim…

In conclusion, Sinha says:

But, then this is a beach-read. A fantasy. No bearing to the real world or real people whatsoever.

Or, as Entertainment Weekly puts it (via Amazon):

The culture-clash dilemmas ring heartbreakingly true.

Continue reading →

Scenes from a life:

A realization of the horror of her new married life comes suddenly. Soon she is pregnant and, barely understanding what has happened, finds herself being rebuked by the doctor for “choosing” at so young an age to have a child. Two more children follow; then her husband splits her head open with a rock after he sees her speaking with another man, and her elder sister is beaten and strangled by her own husband.

That’s part of the synopsis, in today’s New York Times, of Baby Halder’s memoir, recently published in English by Penguin India, coming after the great success of the Hindi and original Bengali versions.

Baby Halder, now 34, is a domestic worker whose gift for reading, and ultimately composing, literature was discovered by her employer, retired anthropology professor Prabodh Kumar, in Gurgaon. After reading the article, I was surprised that we hadn’t discussed this book yet at the Mutiny, although commenter Dhaavak (who hasn’t been around lately — where you at?) mentioned it here.

I’m looking forward to reading this book, a classic exercise in giving voice to the voiceless. A few days ago on the thread about Sri Lankan maids in Lebanon, there was a tangential debate about the extent of domestic worker abuse in Indian households. Of course, it’s hard to measure. Baby Halder’s own experience veers from one extreme to another: after she flees Murshidabad and comes to work in the Delhi area, her employers range from the ones who have her lock her children in an attic all day, to Mr. Kumar, who coached her to find her voice.

But the bigger point here is that it’s not just the employment experiences of domestic workers that are misunderstood; it’s their whole life stories. For so many employers in societies where domestic labor is widespread, when workers go home “to the village,” they disappear into a black box. At most, perhaps we learn of the problems their families back home face and for which we are asked to contribute some money. Of their back stories, their childhood and formative moments, we usually know very little, and often don’t care to know at all.

The Hindu has a nice story and interview that gives a little more detail:

“My employer Prabodh ji has lots of books, including many Bengali books. While dusting them, I always used to think if one day I could read them. Even as a child, I always wanted to go to school. Despite our poverty, my mother never stopped us from going to school and even after she left us, I continued going. I studied till class 7th. So when Prabodh ji once saw me a little lost while dusting the books he asked me whether I would like to read a Bengali book, to which I said yes. He gave me Taslima Nasreen’s autobiography and soon I realised her life is so similar to me,” she narrates. Not stopping at Nasreen, Baby soon picked books by Mahasweta Devi, Shanko Ghosh, Charat Chandra Bangopadhay, Rabindranath Tagore, Ashapurna Devi, Nasrul Islam and more such Bengali luminaries.

This is, among other things, a compelling example of the vital importance of girls’ primary education. (Here’s a map showing female literacy rates in India, district by district.) It’s also a wonderful story. Much respect to Baby Halder! Continue reading →