Category Archives: Arts and Entertainment

Samrat Upadhyay and the Nepali Present Tense

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upadyay the royal ghosts.gif Readers interested in what has been happening in Nepal recently might find Samrat Upadhyay’s The Royal Ghosts a worthwhile read.

Upadhyay is a Nepali who teaches at a university in the U.S. He is, I think, the only Nepali publishing his fiction in the U.S. at present. Though his stories as a rule tend to focus more on personal issues and relationships than on poitics, in this latest book of stories he has for the first time tackled the effect the “Maobadis” (Maoists) have had on Nepali life. Even here the treatment of the ongoing civil war is a little bit oblique: these are middle-class, urban, Kathmandu stories, and the violence that ravages countryside is as far away from the metropolitan consciousnes as Delhi is from the tribal regions of Bihar (see English, August, which Siddhartha blogged about recently). Continue reading →

English, August

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First published in 1988, at the dawn of the desi-lit craze, Upamanyu Chatterjee’s English, August, has been a secret touchstone for later desi authors and for readers fortunate enough to get their hands on a copy. This April, it was finally released in the U.S., by New York Review Books, in a handsome paperback edition with an introduction by Akhil Sharma. Not only has it not aged a bit, but it far outshines many recent works in its wry, thoughtful, and dare I say authentic portrayal of major aspects of Indian life.

The book is the story of Agastya Sen, a newly minted member of the Indian Administrative Service who receives his first posting, per IAS practice, in the deep boonies — in a fictional town called Madna, which is vaguely set in central India and is known for record temperatures and nothing else. Agastya, who was at loose ends to begin with, is now at even looser ends; he improvises his way through the torpor, and by the end we too have been to Madna, eaten the cook’s disgusting preparations, amused ourselves spinning outrageous tall tales to local dignitaries, shirked on all of our work obligations, and spent endless hours lying on the bed staring at the ceiling fan, watching for lizards.

Chatterjee went on to write several other books, none of them quite at this level; English, August is one of those perfect pieces that result from some fortunate blend of authorial talent, mood, and just plain serendipity. Chatterjee is an IAS officer himself, and stayed in the service rather than become a Famous Writer. Now he’s been in the odd position of coming to the U.S. for a book tour to promote a work he penned two decades back.

Last Friday Chatterjee was on the Leonard Lopate show on WNYC public radio; you can listen and download here. Asked to respond to Suketu Mehta’s comment that English, August is “the ‘Indianest’ novel in English that I know of,” Chatterjee replies: “It speaks of a world that we — we Indians — are all familiar with, but at the same time it’s a world that hasn’t been reflected in fiction. India tends to be romanticized, and English, August is anything but romantic.” Continue reading →

The structure of a classical tragedy

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I. Introduction

‘I’ve never read a novel with an Indian-American protagonist.’

— Kaavya Viswanathan, April 26, 2006 [Link]

II. Conflict

Born Confused by Tanuja Desai Hidier, a teen novel with an Indian-American protagonist

[via Harvard Independent; thanks, Rekha]

 Opal Mehta

All day the house had smelled of spices, and now before our eyes lay the resulting combustion of all that kitchen chemistry. The feast my mother had conjured up was extravagant, and I realized how hungry I was; I wasn’t a big fan of Indian food, at least not on a daily basis, but today the sight of it was pure poetry.

Brown sugar roti and cloud-puff puris just itching to be popped. Coconut rice fluffed up over the silver pot like a sweet-smelling pillow. Samosas transparent, peas bundling just below the surface. Spinach with nymph-finger cloves of garlic that sank like butter on the tongue. A vat of cucumber raita, the two-percent yogurt thickened with sour cream (which my mom added when we had guests, though she denied it when asked; I’d seen the empty carton, not a kitten lick left). And the centerpiece: a deep serving dish of lamb curry, the pieces melting tenderly off the bone.

 … the house had smelled of spices all day, and when we sat down at the dining room table, I nearly combusted at the sight of the extravagant feast my mom had conjured up. Usually I wasn’t a big fan of Indian food, but today I was suddenly starving.

The table creaked with the weight of crisp, brown rotis and feather-light, puffy puris. A basket of my favorite kheema naan sat beside the clouds of cashew and sultana-studded coconut rice in an enormous pot. There was plump okra fried in oil and garlic till it melted like butter on the tongue, aloo curry studded with peppercorns and glistening chopped chilis, and a crock of raita, a cool, delicious mixture of yogurt and sour cream, bursting with finely chopped onions and cucumbers. The centerpiece was a deep dish of mutton curry, the meat (my mom only used halal bought from an Arab butcher in Edison) already falling off the bone.


Continue reading →

Femme Fatale

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A few weeks ago, I made my merry way to The Gladstone Hotel for the launch of Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha’s new book, Consensual Genocide (also available at the Toronto Women’s Bookstore) . I arrived early and thirsty after doing a bit of cybernet sleuthing…having only read a couple of her poems previously, the research was very necessary:leah.jpg

Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha was raised in Worcester , Massachusetts , the daughter of a Sri Lankan father and an Irish/ Ukrainian mother. After moving to New York for four whirlwind years of coming of age in the middle of riot grrl, queer, anarchist and student of color organizing, she moved to Toronto in 1997 in the hopes of no longer being the only Sri Lankan in the room. Her work has been published in the anthologies Colonize This!, Dangerous Families , With a Rough Tongue: Femmes Write Porn , the Lambda Award-nominated Brazen Femme, Without a Net, Geeks, Misfits and Outlaws and A Girl’s Guide To Taking Over the World . A frequent contributor to Colorline s and Bitch magazines, she has performed her work throughout North America, from gigs at Yale University and Oberlin College to benefits for queer youth resource centers and at antiwar protests. She teaches writing to LGBT youth at Supporting Our Youth Toronto, for which she won the City of Toronto Community Service to Youth Award in 2004, and is one of the organizers of the Asian Arts Freedom School. [Link]

Respect!

My experience within the Toronto literary scene is a sad state of affairs so I was feeling a little unsure of my footing in the creative landscape that is West Queen West (TO’s Soho, why do we have to have these NY rip off names, WHY? Another time, another post 🙂 As my frothy malt bevvie began to settle I caught Leah standing nearby, talking with friends. Her remarkable bio had me a little star struck so the best I could muster was an awkward smile/nod combo in her direction. She promptly walked over and gave me a hug as if we had been friends forever. Let us pretend, for the sake of my silly pride, that it was not simply a case of mistaken identity…hugs rule! You could say that the hug or even the sheer amount of M.I.A. playing at the launch informed my resulting opinion of it. You would not be entirely wrong. Continue reading →

I used to love H.E.R

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I met this girl, when I was ten years old
And what I loved most she had so much soul
She was old school, when I was just a shorty
Never knew throughout my life she would be there for me
On the regular, not a church girl she was secular
Not about the money, no studs was mic checkin her
But I respected her, she hit me in the heart
A few new york niggaz, had did her in the park
But she was there for me, and I was there for her
Pull out a chair for her, turn on the air for her
And just cool out, cool out and listen to her
Sittin on a bone, wishin that I could do her
Eventually if it was meant to be, then it would be
Because we related, physically and mentally
And she was fun then, I’d be geeked when she’d come around
Slim was fresh yo, when she was underground…

–partial lyrics to “I used to love H.E.R.” by Common

In the lyrics above from one of my favorite songs, Common laments about the debasement suffered by his true love, real hip-hop music. The BBC reports on a recent international hip-hop conference in Connecticut where it was evident that the love is being kept alive in other countries around the world, countries where artists treat hip-hop music how she was meant to be treated:

A recent international hip-hop festival which brought together rap artists from around the world has raised the question of why non-US rap is so political – whereas mainstream American rap appears frivolous…

Rolando Brown, of event sponsors the Hip-hop Association, said the festival highlighted there was “more of a focus on positive community development” outside the US…

We have been able to filter out the elements of sex, money and drugs – you don’t get that in Tanzania,” he explained.

“You don’t get airplay if you talk about these things in your music. Over 99% of the rap in Tanzania is in Swahili – and it actually has a political message to it.”

“They are the records that sell and appeal to a wider demographic of people than any type of music…” [Link]

Especially in Africa, hip-hop music is being used as a positive tool to advocate AIDS prevention, political participation, urban youth issues etc. Although I don’t think homegrown, socially conscious hip-hop has penetrated the culture in South Asia too deeply yet, it seems like only a matter of time before popular homegrown artists will emerge. If readers know of any such emerging hip-hop artists living in South Asian countries that rhyme about political/social issues we’d love to see some links in the comments section. Continue reading →

KaavyaGate reloaded

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A NYT tipster has found more lifted passages in Opal Mehta from yet another chick lit tome, Can You Keep a Secret? by Sophie Kinsella (author of Shopaholic), circa 2004.

At least three portions in the book, How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild, and Got a Life, by Kaavya Viswanathan, bear striking similarities to writing in Can You Keep a Secret? … the phrasing and structure of some passages is nearly identical. [Link]

The structural similarities between both versions of this passage seem damning. (It is one contiguous passage):

Can You Keep a Secret? Opal Mehta

“And we’ll tell everyone you got your Donna Karan coat from a discount warehouse shop.”

Jemima gasps. “I didn’t!” she says, color suffusing her cheeks.

“You did! I saw the carrier bag,” I chime in. “And we’ll make it public that your pearls are cultured, not real…”

Jemima claps a hand over her mouth…

“OK!” says Jemima, practically in tears. “OK! I promise I’ll forget all about it. I promise! Just please don’t mention the discount warehouse shop. Please.”

“And I’ll tell everyone in that in eighth grade you used to wear a ‘My Little Pony’ sweatshirt to school every day,” I continued.

Priscilla gasped. “I didn’t!” she said, her face purpling again.

“You did! I even have pictures,” I said. “And I’ll make it public that you named your dog Pythagoras…”

Priscilla opened her mouth and gave a few soundless gulps…

“Okay, fine!” she said in complete consternation. “Fine! I promise I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll talk to the club manager. Just please don’t mention the sweatshirt. Please.”

Continue reading →

The Sadhu and the Shor Birds

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Hello again, Mutiny peeps! For this first post I’m going to get a little experimental, and hit you with an original short story (all borrowings are unconscious and unintentional, etc.). If it’s not to your taste, no problem; I will be regularly posting on more traditional bloggy topics. Incidentally, the following is part of a little series I’m doing — postmodern Sadhu stories; see another effort here.

Sadhu liked to sit on the porch of his son’s new house and write poetry, but lately he was finding it difficult. The problem was a group of noisy birds that lived in the trees behind their house. They gathered in the trees and bushes and seemed to do nothing but chatter, not in quiet, birdly chirps, but angry squawks. Most of the time Sadhu couldn’t even see the birds, as they seemed never to move from their respective perches in the trees, so merely sitting on the porch was a little like diving into a pit of greasy wrestlers. Sometimes this pleased the Sadhu, as it reminded him vaguely of India — the loud voices of the street hawkers arguing with customers over a few paise in his home town of Maramari. But he had heard that type of argument rarely since leaving India fifteen years ago, and now it had begun to seem abrasive and somewhat troubling. And anyway, that type of marketplace arguing usually ended in a sale, and the restoration of good will. But these birds squawked and squawked with an endless amount of stamina, which was almost mechanical in its regularity. Continue reading →

One Night @ Bad Fiction Hell

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You may have heard of One Night @ the Call Center, an Indian novel attempting to ride the call center trend. It’s sold multitudinous copies and is being made into a movie. The script will be penned by the same author, an i-banker whose author’s voice brags about not being a writer.

He’s right. The story has an interesting premise, but it’s one of the worst-written books I’ve ever read, falling somewhere between bad high school love poem and sixth-grade book report. You’ll laugh out loud. The hilarity will be entirely unintentional.

The best review of a book this bad is to quote from it liberally. Enjoy the stank. Spoilers below.

~~~

The author writes groaners rivaling the one from Notting Hill:

‘Deep inside, I am just a girl who wants to be with her favorite boy. Because like you, this girl is a person who needs a lot of love.’

There are even more lines straight out of a Bulwer-Lytton bad fiction contest:

‘It is time to face the real world, even if it is harder and painful. I’d rather fly and crash, than just snuggle and sleep…’

‘Do you have a dark side, Shyam?’ … ‘I have so many–like half a dozen dark sides. I am like dark-sided hexagon [sic].’

Then he pats himself on back for minor-league wordplay:

‘Sorry, but calling is not my calling,’ Vroom said. I thought his last line was quite clever, but it wasn’t the right time to appreciate verbal tricks.

Telling, not showing — the author can’t write action, so he grasps at a voiceover:

‘We’re hanging above a hole, supported only by toothpicks. We’re screwed,’ Radhika said, summing up the situation for all of us.

Continue reading →

Come Home

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Singer-songwriter Shaheen Sheik, a friend from college, just signed with Times Music in Bombay and is on a promo tour here this week. (Watch her video.) Last night she sang on a TV show with a name that’s a paragon of ridiculously nontransitive branding, the Tuscan Verve Zoom Glam Awards. Other nights she slums with the plebeians. That’s usually when I get to see her.

A few of us went to see her first performance at a downtown Bombay club called Prive, which is around the corner from the Gateway of India. It’s decorated like a Southern strip club (black lacquer ceilings, gold bead curtains and lap dance seats), albeit one with floating roses. It was an odd venue for folk-pop ballads, but Shaheen sang four gorgeous melodies and encored with a cover of ‘In Your Eyes.’ Like most desis of a certain age, the duet guitarist provided by the label knew Pink Floyd, the Eagles and Led Zep but was baffled by Peter Gabriel.

There’s an interesting tradeoff when Indians in the diaspora come back to promote their wares (Apache Indian, Salman Rushdie…) On one hand, the potential market is huge with a built-in cultural interest. On the other, the middle class is limited in size, and you earn less per unit than in your home market after currency conversion.

Ballads at Prive

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