Actually, the new Shah Rukh Khan movie Don isn't as bad as you might expect, given all the negative reviews (for instance). It's also shaping up to be a box office success.
Farhan Akhtar is probably the most hyped director in the new wave of Bollywood film directors. Though he comes from an old B-wood family (his father Javed co-wrote the script of the original Don), Farhan's first film, Dil Chahta Hai was considered a stylistic breakthrough, an anthem for the post-liberalization generation. That sense of clarity or mission is missing here: in his remake of Don, Farhan seems put most of his energy into matching western action flicks, fight-for-fight, and stunt for stunt. On this he succeeds: I liked the first car chase, and I think the skydiving fight scene is probably a first for Bollywood. There is also a certain amount of Kill Bill theatrical viciousness here that's novel in the Bollywood hero-villain iconography.
What most of the film's critics have missed, I think, is the basic problem of identity this film symbolizes, a problem which is I think broader than just this film. Farhan Akhtar seems to be torn between two approaches: either he could do a slightly tweaked version of an outdated version of India, from a "disco" gangster movie that wasn't all that great to begin with. (Yes, I said it.) The upside is you get the warm-and-fuzzy nostalgia atmosphere, but the danger is the mindless perpetuation of the myth of the "glory days" of Bollywood and Amitabh Bachchan, as if we need any more of that. Or: you can make a slick, essentially imported style of action movie, with a few "traditional" songs added to appeal to the folks in UP (the "Maurya Re" and "Khaike Paan Banaraswala" numbers). This film flirts with both but doesn't fully commit, which shows it fundamentally doesn't know what it wants to be.
It may be a false choice, but the question continues to nag one: will the real, contemporary Indian film aesthetic please stand up?
Incidentally, Priyanka Chopra is good here -- it's really the first film where I've liked her. For one thing she gets to actually do some serious martial arts fighting, which is usually off-limits for Bollywood actresses.
The remixes of old songs are so-so, and most of the new music is pretty bad (the exception being the Ganapati song, "Maurya Re," and the track by the Midival Punditz). In terms of how the songs are filmed, I have to say I slightly prefer the current style of cheesecake exploitation (Kareena Kapoor) to the old version (Zeenat Aman) -- though both are pretty much ridiculous.
But the music for this remake was going to be impossible. How could anyone top the original disco-funk opening to Don 1978? (Maybe if you brought in The Neptunes or Dr. Dre you could top that, but otherwise I don't see how it could be done.) I also thought Boman Irani, as DCP DeSilva, and Arjun Rampal, as a man who's got a grudge against the Boman Irani character, are also strong.
More Youtube bits: Khaike Paan Banaras (new) vs. the original Khaike (Amitabh Bachchan wins this song, hands down)
Amitabh's entry in the original Don
A fight sequence from the original Don
Asra Nomani, Daud Sharifa, and the Women's Mosque
Congratulations are due to Asra Nomani, who won this year's SAJA fellowship for a planned project to go to Tamil Nadu to report on movement to build a women's mosque there. The project has been initiated in the town of Pudukkottai, as a reaction against male-dominated mosques and local, male-only Jamaat boards, that have the power to decide many personal and marriage-related disputes in India's Muslim community.
The movement is being spearheaded by a woman named Daud Sharifa, and has already received a fair amount of coverage in the past two years from outfits such as the BBC. (More stories can be found here [Outlook] and here [New American Media]). Despite getting quite a bit of attention, the project is years away from completion owing to fundraising difficulties.
However, as one reads more about Daud Sharifa, the symbolic project of actually building a women's mosque (which would be the first one to be built anywhere in the world) begins to seem somewhat secondary to what might be her main goal: building a broad-based, national movement to support the rights of Muslim women. Since the government has done little to help (and sometimes much to hurt) the cause, Sharifa and her NGO, STEPS, have gone ahead and created a women-only Jamaat ("Jamaat" means "Congregation") to arbitrate family disputes using a feminist slant on Islamic law. They have been in operation since February 2004, and get a steady stream of cases to resolve (according to this article, they get about 15 petitions a day).
Daud Sharifa's justification for the project seems strong:
Critics of the idea are for the most part the usual suspects, but at least one prominent Muslim woman, Badar Sayed, has also criticized Sharifa's plans as a kind of defeatist separatism: "We need to fight alongside people. We can't just separate ourselves and put the clock back 100 years." (link)
Incidentally, Sharifa weighed in righteously last year, when the Indian Ulema went after tennis star Sania Mirza, for having the gall to play tennis in shorts. In response to Anna's post on the topic, Punjabi Boy posted a comment from the same Daud Sharifa:
Yes, exactly.
Let's hope Asra Nomani's forthcoming coverage of Daud Sharifa and the "women's Jihad" sheds more light on this inspiring example of grassroots struggle.
The movement is being spearheaded by a woman named Daud Sharifa, and has already received a fair amount of coverage in the past two years from outfits such as the BBC. (More stories can be found here [Outlook] and here [New American Media]). Despite getting quite a bit of attention, the project is years away from completion owing to fundraising difficulties.
However, as one reads more about Daud Sharifa, the symbolic project of actually building a women's mosque (which would be the first one to be built anywhere in the world) begins to seem somewhat secondary to what might be her main goal: building a broad-based, national movement to support the rights of Muslim women. Since the government has done little to help (and sometimes much to hurt) the cause, Sharifa and her NGO, STEPS, have gone ahead and created a women-only Jamaat ("Jamaat" means "Congregation") to arbitrate family disputes using a feminist slant on Islamic law. They have been in operation since February 2004, and get a steady stream of cases to resolve (according to this article, they get about 15 petitions a day).
Daud Sharifa's justification for the project seems strong:
"The male jamaats are unlawful kangaroo courts that play with the lives of women. A mosque-jamaat axis is a power centre that controls the community. When women are refused representation here, we have no choice but to have our own jamaat. And since a jamaat is attached to a mosque, we have to build our own mosque." (link)
Critics of the idea are for the most part the usual suspects, but at least one prominent Muslim woman, Badar Sayed, has also criticized Sharifa's plans as a kind of defeatist separatism: "We need to fight alongside people. We can't just separate ourselves and put the clock back 100 years." (link)
Incidentally, Sharifa weighed in righteously last year, when the Indian Ulema went after tennis star Sania Mirza, for having the gall to play tennis in shorts. In response to Anna's post on the topic, Punjabi Boy posted a comment from the same Daud Sharifa:
"If Islamic law says a woman is not supposed to wear such clothes, then they should know the same law also forbids dowry, alcoholism and incest. Yet the jamaat promotes dowry and even guns for a share in it. Why don’t they stop it first if they’re living by the Islamic law? They’re not bothered about a girl earning pride for the country. They are making an issue out of a stupid matter," said committee coordinator Daud Sharifa Khanam from Pudukottai (link)
Yes, exactly.
Let's hope Asra Nomani's forthcoming coverage of Daud Sharifa and the "women's Jihad" sheds more light on this inspiring example of grassroots struggle.
"The Billionaire's Sleep"
Manish's post on Tokyo Cancelled a few weeks ago reminded me that I needed to finally pull the book down off the shelf, where it has been resting since S. brought it for me from a trip to Bombay a few months ago. I read it and was well-pleased (though perhaps not overwhelmed) by the imagination at work in the stories.
After a visit to Rana Dasgupta's interesting homepage, I was intrigued to discover he's signed off the filming rights for one of the stories in Tokyo Cancelled to a young Australian filmmaker named Robert Hutchinson. Hutchinson spent six weeks in India this past spring doing research on it for the screenplay he's writing, and kept an interesting blog about it here. Aside from the fact that he misspells "Hindutva" at one point, Hutchinson has some interesting observations to make, both on India and on the script in progress. Here is how Hutchinson summarizes the plot for the film version of "The Billionaire's Sleep," which follows Dasgupta's story quite closely:
That's just part one. Note that it's Dasgupta who uses the name "Rajiv Malhotra" (there is also a real person by that name, you may have heard of him; hard to know if any connection is intended).
Part two is where it really starts to get interesting:
There's a little more at Robert Hutchinson's blog, but if you really want to find out what happens in "The Billionaire's Sleep," you'll have to go to Barnes & Noble or whatnot and pick up Tokyo Cancelled (it should be there). I'm pretty envious at this point, because "The Billionaire's Sleep" could make a really great film if done right. (We're overdue for a good outsourcing-themed film, I think.)
A side note: at one point, Hutchinson makes an offering at a temple in Maharashtra with the wish that Amitabh Bachchan signs on to play a part in the film -- presumably Rajiv Malhotra. Good luck with it, Mr. Hutchinson! (Though I should mention that I think Om Puri would also excel at this kind of role.)
Before getting back to diaper-changing and burping, I do have one quibble with the Vij I wanted to register:
I actually liked the cross between the fairy tale plot structures with the contemporary speculative fiction themes. And yes, the idea of a misshapen lost twin or offspring has been done by Rushdie several times (not to mention innumerable 70s/80s Bollywood films), but it's also just a plain-and-simple fairy tale conceit going back to the Brothers Grimm: the demon who comes back to haunt you, who demands the secret be unveiled, and the payment due.
p.s. Which desi actress should play the part of Sapna?
After a visit to Rana Dasgupta's interesting homepage, I was intrigued to discover he's signed off the filming rights for one of the stories in Tokyo Cancelled to a young Australian filmmaker named Robert Hutchinson. Hutchinson spent six weeks in India this past spring doing research on it for the screenplay he's writing, and kept an interesting blog about it here. Aside from the fact that he misspells "Hindutva" at one point, Hutchinson has some interesting observations to make, both on India and on the script in progress. Here is how Hutchinson summarizes the plot for the film version of "The Billionaire's Sleep," which follows Dasgupta's story quite closely:
Rajiv Malhotra is a billionaire who inherited an Indian steel empire and turned it into a trans-national concern with a focus on India’s ability to provide outsourcing services to the rest of the world. For him every moment of every day in every timezone is an opportunity to provide efficient services. His obsession with utilising every second of the day means he has never been able to sleep. This inability to sleep has also meant he is infertile and has not been able to produce an heir to his empire. His decision to have a ‘perfect son’ made for him through the use of genetic technologies is the inciting moment of the story. From that moment powers beyond his control come into play. (link)
That's just part one. Note that it's Dasgupta who uses the name "Rajiv Malhotra" (there is also a real person by that name, you may have heard of him; hard to know if any connection is intended).
Part two is where it really starts to get interesting:
Sapna is his unexpected daughter, when his wife gives birth to twins, a girl and a boy, Rajiv finds he has a daughter who sleeps beautifully. That sleep is so powerful that as she approaches puberty Sapna’s fertility when she dreams brings organic objects back to life. Her bedhead grows branches and a perfect white flower. The spores in the carpet burst into life over night filling the air with floating tendrils, her clothes basket grows into a thicket of bamboo. This exhuberant fertility frightens Rajiv and he does everything within his power to have this excess of organic material removed from his sight. (link)
There's a little more at Robert Hutchinson's blog, but if you really want to find out what happens in "The Billionaire's Sleep," you'll have to go to Barnes & Noble or whatnot and pick up Tokyo Cancelled (it should be there). I'm pretty envious at this point, because "The Billionaire's Sleep" could make a really great film if done right. (We're overdue for a good outsourcing-themed film, I think.)
A side note: at one point, Hutchinson makes an offering at a temple in Maharashtra with the wish that Amitabh Bachchan signs on to play a part in the film -- presumably Rajiv Malhotra. Good luck with it, Mr. Hutchinson! (Though I should mention that I think Om Puri would also excel at this kind of role.)
Before getting back to diaper-changing and burping, I do have one quibble with the Vij I wanted to register:
Another annoyance in these tales is that they feel derivative, more remixes than totally novel plot points. Much of Dasgupta’s surrealism has been done before by authors working both in magical realism and sci-fi (link)
I actually liked the cross between the fairy tale plot structures with the contemporary speculative fiction themes. And yes, the idea of a misshapen lost twin or offspring has been done by Rushdie several times (not to mention innumerable 70s/80s Bollywood films), but it's also just a plain-and-simple fairy tale conceit going back to the Brothers Grimm: the demon who comes back to haunt you, who demands the secret be unveiled, and the payment due.
p.s. Which desi actress should play the part of Sapna?
Diwali in Philly
I took this photo last night, at the Philadelphia Gurdwara, in Milbourne/Upper Darby (Philadelphia Sikh Society). Though the holiday isn't on the scale of the main, Hindu Diwali, Sikhs do tend to light candles.
Headline Exploitation? Joyce Carol Oates's "Landfill"
A student pointed me to a recent Joyce Carol Oates story in The New Yorker, called "Landfill," which is available for free online. It's about a young college student named Hector Campos, Jr., who is a pledge at a fraternity at a university in Michigan. One night he disappears mysteriously after drinking heavily at the frat house. Some blood is found at the trash dumpster outside the frat-house; several weeks later his body is found at the local landfill.
It's a decent enough story -- Oates paints some strongly visceral, experiential images -- like what it might be like to lie dying in a trash dumpster with a broken neck, for example. There is also some Catholic imagery in the middle of the story, which suggests a sympathetic reading: is Campos an exemplary, Christ-like figure of some kind? Does he die for the sins of American excess, the ugly psycho-social mess concealed in the American college system? (Shades of Duke Lacrosse) Alongside the sympathetic allegorical reading and the scathing portrait of fraternity life, Oates also throws in some references to evolution via a biology lecture ("Evolution is only possible through change, species change not by free will but blindly"), suggesting an equally viable, reading of Campos' death that is distinctly un-Christ-like: the death of a drunk fraternity brother who got stuck in a dumpster as a kind of natural selection, a fitting fate for someone who was, if you will, imperfectly adapted to whatever enables survival in today's college culture.
All fine and good. What's unsettling is that Oates' story bears a very close resemblance to a real death, which occurred in southern New Jersey a few months ago. John Fiocco, Jr., a college student at The College of New Jersey, died in the same mysterious way, and was discovered in the same way (at a landfill) a few weeks later. Oates even uses the date of Fiocco's own death/disappearance -- March 25.
Some faculty members at TCNJ noticed the parallels in Oates' story, and complained, leading to a small spate of media coverage in South Jersey and the Philadelphia area (see articles in the Inquirer and the Daily Princetonian). In these articles, Oates apologizes (in a way) for potentially hurting the feelings of the family and friends of John Fiocco, Jr., though she stops well short of saying, "I should never have written this story" or "I should have disguised the details of this young man's death more carefully." It's the usual double-speak of "I'm sorry if your feelings were hurt by what I knowingly and willfully did." (Shades of Kobe Bryant)
Obviously getting inspiration from today's headlines is a tried-and-true technique, used by many, if not most, contemporary writers. And I don't know that there were many complaints when Oates did a version of this earlier, with her famous novel Black Water, which did to Mary Jo Kopechne, Ted Kennedy, and Chappaquiddick what "Landfill" does to John Fiocco, Jr. The difference there might have been that her purpose in that novel was to unmask the myth of the Kennedys, and the corruption of Senator Ted Kennedy in particular. That is what one might call a political Roman a Clef, making an important feminist point. But none of that fire remains in "Landfill," and it's unclear what the point really is.
In general, real life is and must be fair game for fiction, but everything depends on how it's done. Here there's something senseless in the way Oates works closely with the story of this tragic death (she even uses the detail about blood found at the dumpster) and turns it into easy fodder for this short story. To my eye this isn't so much appropriation as it is exploitation -- the fictional equivalent of ambulance chasing.
It's a decent enough story -- Oates paints some strongly visceral, experiential images -- like what it might be like to lie dying in a trash dumpster with a broken neck, for example. There is also some Catholic imagery in the middle of the story, which suggests a sympathetic reading: is Campos an exemplary, Christ-like figure of some kind? Does he die for the sins of American excess, the ugly psycho-social mess concealed in the American college system? (Shades of Duke Lacrosse) Alongside the sympathetic allegorical reading and the scathing portrait of fraternity life, Oates also throws in some references to evolution via a biology lecture ("Evolution is only possible through change, species change not by free will but blindly"), suggesting an equally viable, reading of Campos' death that is distinctly un-Christ-like: the death of a drunk fraternity brother who got stuck in a dumpster as a kind of natural selection, a fitting fate for someone who was, if you will, imperfectly adapted to whatever enables survival in today's college culture.
All fine and good. What's unsettling is that Oates' story bears a very close resemblance to a real death, which occurred in southern New Jersey a few months ago. John Fiocco, Jr., a college student at The College of New Jersey, died in the same mysterious way, and was discovered in the same way (at a landfill) a few weeks later. Oates even uses the date of Fiocco's own death/disappearance -- March 25.
Some faculty members at TCNJ noticed the parallels in Oates' story, and complained, leading to a small spate of media coverage in South Jersey and the Philadelphia area (see articles in the Inquirer and the Daily Princetonian). In these articles, Oates apologizes (in a way) for potentially hurting the feelings of the family and friends of John Fiocco, Jr., though she stops well short of saying, "I should never have written this story" or "I should have disguised the details of this young man's death more carefully." It's the usual double-speak of "I'm sorry if your feelings were hurt by what I knowingly and willfully did." (Shades of Kobe Bryant)
Obviously getting inspiration from today's headlines is a tried-and-true technique, used by many, if not most, contemporary writers. And I don't know that there were many complaints when Oates did a version of this earlier, with her famous novel Black Water, which did to Mary Jo Kopechne, Ted Kennedy, and Chappaquiddick what "Landfill" does to John Fiocco, Jr. The difference there might have been that her purpose in that novel was to unmask the myth of the Kennedys, and the corruption of Senator Ted Kennedy in particular. That is what one might call a political Roman a Clef, making an important feminist point. But none of that fire remains in "Landfill," and it's unclear what the point really is.
In general, real life is and must be fair game for fiction, but everything depends on how it's done. Here there's something senseless in the way Oates works closely with the story of this tragic death (she even uses the detail about blood found at the dumpster) and turns it into easy fodder for this short story. To my eye this isn't so much appropriation as it is exploitation -- the fictional equivalent of ambulance chasing.
South Asian Review: Creative Writing Special Issue
(Note: this is a test post using the "Publish to Blog" function of Google's new "Docs" feature.)
I've been actively involved with the South Asian Literary Association for a couple of years. This winter the journal associated with the organization, South Asian Review, is scheduled to have a special issue devoted to creative writing. If you have something to submit, you might want to contact the editor:
Incidentally, the SALA conference is going to be in Philly this December, so I'll definitely be around for some of it at least.
I've been actively involved with the South Asian Literary Association for a couple of years. This winter the journal associated with the organization, South Asian Review, is scheduled to have a special issue devoted to creative writing. If you have something to submit, you might want to contact the editor:
South Asian Review (SAR) will publish a special issue (26:3, 2006) devoted exclusively to creative writing in all genres. South Asian writers from around the world are invited to submit their writings on any subject, while writers of other backgrounds may submit their writings only on South Asian subjects. Since the creative writing section in SAR (25.3, 2005) was given exclusively to poetry, submissions in genres other than poetry will receive special consideration this year. We would particularly like to hear from writers of short fiction and creative non-fiction (including memoir and travel writing). Translations from Indian languages are especially welcome. Because of space limitations, we cannot publish prose works that are longer than 20 pages (5000 words). Poets are advised not to submit more than five of their best poems (2000 to 3000 words). Submissions that exceed suggested word limits may not be considered. All submissions should be accompanied by a statement that the original compositions or new translations submitted by the writer/translator have not previously appeared in print or online. Translators must have in hand permission from the original authors or their estates to publish the translations.
South Asian Review is a forum for the members of the South Asian Literary Association (SALA). All contributors to SAR must already be members or become members before their writings appear in the journal. For membership information, please contact SALA Treasurer, Dr. Pennie Ticen, at TicenPJ@vmi.edu. Members of SALA receive all issues of SAR and SALA Newsletter and participate in annual SALA conferences (Dec 26-27) at discounted registration rates.
Incidentally, the SALA conference is going to be in Philly this December, so I'll definitely be around for some of it at least.
Gandhi-giri in Full Bloom
Remember Lage Raho Munnabhai? This fall, it seems that many civic-minded Indians are taking the Gandhian techniques shown in the film and applying them to real-life problems and protests, with the demand for accountability from government officials being the most common application. Instead of Bandhs and riots, over the past couple of months protesters have been sending flowers and doing Pujas, hoping that people whose work shows signs of negligence and incompetence will "get better soon." Here are some of the examples of "Gandhi-giri" I came across in a quick search:
And those are just a few examples; more are given in this recent Boston Globe article. My cousins in Delhi tell me that elderly people are stripping off clothes (this is directly out of Lage Raho Munnabhai) to shame government officials in charge of pensions to actually disburse their funds. And there are stories about pavement dwellers, in response to trash flagrantly dropped where they live by thoughtless passers-by, cheerfully (but pointedly) cleaning it up -- again right out of the film.
It's not all good, of course. Vidhu Vinod Chopra is reportedly using his own invention to lobby the government of Gujarat to give his film tax-free status, which it already has in many other states. That seems a bit much; "Gandhi-giri" may well just be this year's fashion, which will get old as soon as other super-rich people start using it to demands perks and privileges.
Gandhi-giri: flash in the pan, or a sign of a real revival in non-violent civic engagement amongst Indians of all classes?
- Doctors and students shame a delinquent health minister (Ramadoss) to take stronger action on the Dengue Fever epidemic (700 infections and 26 deaths in Delhi alone)
- A writer proposes reforms to the educational system, using Gandhi-giri as a concept,
- In Gujarat, a carpenter did it to make sure a flaky client paid up for services rendered
- Farmers used it to shame government officials in drought-ridden areas to approve loans to farmers
- to convince government policy makers to describe their policies in clear Hindustani ("Garibi Hatao") as opposed to archaic Sanskrit ("Gribi Unmoolan").
And those are just a few examples; more are given in this recent Boston Globe article. My cousins in Delhi tell me that elderly people are stripping off clothes (this is directly out of Lage Raho Munnabhai) to shame government officials in charge of pensions to actually disburse their funds. And there are stories about pavement dwellers, in response to trash flagrantly dropped where they live by thoughtless passers-by, cheerfully (but pointedly) cleaning it up -- again right out of the film.
It's not all good, of course. Vidhu Vinod Chopra is reportedly using his own invention to lobby the government of Gujarat to give his film tax-free status, which it already has in many other states. That seems a bit much; "Gandhi-giri" may well just be this year's fashion, which will get old as soon as other super-rich people start using it to demands perks and privileges.
Gandhi-giri: flash in the pan, or a sign of a real revival in non-violent civic engagement amongst Indians of all classes?
Prizes Upon Prizes, Difficulties Upon Difficulties
Wow -- the prizes this week are stacking up like harvest pumpkins for sale in the little roadside stands that I pass on my way to work (through rural Bucks County, to Bethlehem).
As most readers probably already know, the Nobel Peace prize today went to Mohammed Yunus and the Grameen Bank. Earlier in the week, Kiran Desai won the Booker Prize for The Inheritance of Loss. And yesterday, Orhan Pamuk won the Nobel Prize in Literature. It's worth noting that all three of these prizes are in some sense tied to serious problems in the world: Kiran Desai's novel deals with problems related to globalization; Orhan Pamuk's most recent novel, Snow, is preoccupied with the seeming collapse of Turkish secularism; and the Grameen Bank is an institution that has sprung up to assist desperately poor people in making small movements forward. Prizes upon prizes -- difficulties upon difficulties.
Teju Cole has worthwhile comments and links on both Pamuk and Desai. His Desai post links to Amitava Kumar's comment here. Amitava has suggested some similarities between The Inheritance of Loss and an earlier Booker-prize winner, The God of Small Things. I myself haven't gotten around to reading the Desai yet (though it's been sitting on my shelf for months), so I'll have to remain mum on that question.
I myself wrote a long post on Orhan Pamuk's Snow last year, which you can read here if interested. The first part of the post is the strongest; I'm no longer sure why I thought I needed to mention Hegel in that post.
On the Grameen Bank, the key lines for me in the New York Times profile were these ones:
That is a sentiment I tend to agree with. The Grameen Bank is a for-profit institution, and it has succeeded in actually being profitable for all but three of its fifteen years in business.
I know there have been some criticisms of the microlending model, which has now been copied in many countries outside of Bangladesh (within Bangladesh, BRAC is also very active with microlending). I'm curious if people can expand on these, since I haven't heard anything that makes me think there is a serious downside to this. Saurav at Pass the Roti has suggested that it's probably a mistake to see this as a cookie-cutter solution to poverty everywhere, which sounds right. But that doesn't necessarily mean microcredit specifically in the context of the Indian subcontinent can't make a positive difference for thousands of people.
(As an aside, every time I read about microlending, I think of Premchand's Godaan, and how different that novel would have been if there had been a Grameen Bank in the picture)
* * *
Incidentally, I myself was involved with the selection of a Prize (a much smaller one of course) this fall. I was a judge for the national fiction prize that is held every year by the Asian American Writers' Workshop in New York. Twenty novels were nominated, and I spent a significant chunk of my summer reading them.
The winner this fall is Sightseeing, by Rattawut Lapcharoensap. This is a novel about a working-class boy from a mixed race background growing up in Thailand, a country teeming with foreign tourists. It's a really smart, elegantly written novel, and I hope to have a more detailed take on it in a couple of weeks (whenever I get another spare hour to sit down and write!).
There were also a handful of South Asian novels nominated, and some were quite good. I might start doing profiles of some of those books too, now that the prize has been announced.
As most readers probably already know, the Nobel Peace prize today went to Mohammed Yunus and the Grameen Bank. Earlier in the week, Kiran Desai won the Booker Prize for The Inheritance of Loss. And yesterday, Orhan Pamuk won the Nobel Prize in Literature. It's worth noting that all three of these prizes are in some sense tied to serious problems in the world: Kiran Desai's novel deals with problems related to globalization; Orhan Pamuk's most recent novel, Snow, is preoccupied with the seeming collapse of Turkish secularism; and the Grameen Bank is an institution that has sprung up to assist desperately poor people in making small movements forward. Prizes upon prizes -- difficulties upon difficulties.
Teju Cole has worthwhile comments and links on both Pamuk and Desai. His Desai post links to Amitava Kumar's comment here. Amitava has suggested some similarities between The Inheritance of Loss and an earlier Booker-prize winner, The God of Small Things. I myself haven't gotten around to reading the Desai yet (though it's been sitting on my shelf for months), so I'll have to remain mum on that question.
I myself wrote a long post on Orhan Pamuk's Snow last year, which you can read here if interested. The first part of the post is the strongest; I'm no longer sure why I thought I needed to mention Hegel in that post.
On the Grameen Bank, the key lines for me in the New York Times profile were these ones:
The Peace Prize “looks like a fitting acknowledgment that the ways of the market are not necessarily evil, that markets can be harnessed as forces of good if done properly,” said Nachiket Mor, executive director of Icici Bank, India’s largest privately owned bank, which now has about $550 million in microcredit loans outstanding. (link)
That is a sentiment I tend to agree with. The Grameen Bank is a for-profit institution, and it has succeeded in actually being profitable for all but three of its fifteen years in business.
I know there have been some criticisms of the microlending model, which has now been copied in many countries outside of Bangladesh (within Bangladesh, BRAC is also very active with microlending). I'm curious if people can expand on these, since I haven't heard anything that makes me think there is a serious downside to this. Saurav at Pass the Roti has suggested that it's probably a mistake to see this as a cookie-cutter solution to poverty everywhere, which sounds right. But that doesn't necessarily mean microcredit specifically in the context of the Indian subcontinent can't make a positive difference for thousands of people.
(As an aside, every time I read about microlending, I think of Premchand's Godaan, and how different that novel would have been if there had been a Grameen Bank in the picture)
* * *
Incidentally, I myself was involved with the selection of a Prize (a much smaller one of course) this fall. I was a judge for the national fiction prize that is held every year by the Asian American Writers' Workshop in New York. Twenty novels were nominated, and I spent a significant chunk of my summer reading them.
The winner this fall is Sightseeing, by Rattawut Lapcharoensap. This is a novel about a working-class boy from a mixed race background growing up in Thailand, a country teeming with foreign tourists. It's a really smart, elegantly written novel, and I hope to have a more detailed take on it in a couple of weeks (whenever I get another spare hour to sit down and write!).
There were also a handful of South Asian novels nominated, and some were quite good. I might start doing profiles of some of those books too, now that the prize has been announced.
The Value of the Classroom Experience (another radio cameo)
Radio Open Source had a show tonight on "What Should Colleges Teach?"
I did a brief cameo (around 40-45 minutes into the show), where I argued that the classroom experience is still an essential part of liberal arts education in the humanities. Technology (the internet) is an important tool, but it doesn't substitute, first, for the offline experience of actually sitting down to read books, and second, for the particular chemistry that comes with live debate and challenge that happens in the classroom. A surprising number of students these days don't actually read books (they read on the internet, and they read textbooks). And there are limits to how much you can do with distance learning, discussion boards, course blogs, and virtual classrooms -- though I've experimented with these things in my teaching. I'm one of those early adopters of technology who's actually become a little skeptical about whether it has "fundamentally" changed how students learn.
The great Martha Nussbaum, I was happy to see, agreed with my point.
A downloadable MP3 of the discussion will be up in the next day or two.
(Ok, back to diaper changing...)
I did a brief cameo (around 40-45 minutes into the show), where I argued that the classroom experience is still an essential part of liberal arts education in the humanities. Technology (the internet) is an important tool, but it doesn't substitute, first, for the offline experience of actually sitting down to read books, and second, for the particular chemistry that comes with live debate and challenge that happens in the classroom. A surprising number of students these days don't actually read books (they read on the internet, and they read textbooks). And there are limits to how much you can do with distance learning, discussion boards, course blogs, and virtual classrooms -- though I've experimented with these things in my teaching. I'm one of those early adopters of technology who's actually become a little skeptical about whether it has "fundamentally" changed how students learn.
The great Martha Nussbaum, I was happy to see, agreed with my point.
A downloadable MP3 of the discussion will be up in the next day or two.
(Ok, back to diaper changing...)
Childbirth in the U.S. and India
Though people have children all the time, when I went through it it was still astonishing. Even in the merely supporting/cheerleading role of the father, I can't remember ever experiencing anything quite as frightening and, in the end, exhilarating. The everyday can still be mindblowing, when it happens to you: giving birth to a child is still remarkably difficult, painful (even with local anesthesia), and dangerous. So many things could go wrong, and yet somehow they don't, most of the time. And at the end of the day you have in your hands the most uncanny result of all: new life.
In a way I was lucky that S. went into labor last Friday, before I came across the latest issue of the New Yorker, with a typically excellent Atul Gawande piece on the evolution of obstetric medicine. In effect, the story Gawande tells isn't really an alarming one, though it still might have filled my mind with thoughts better avoided. Childbirth in the U.S. has become fairly safe over the years (though the threat of infant mortality and maternal mortality is still real). But what is a bit disturbing is that until fairly recently so many women (1 in 100) and newborns (1 in 30) died going through this. Interestingly, it was a woman doctor named Virginia Apgar who formulated a rating system (the Apgar scale) which gave doctors a set of criteria by which to evaluate newborns who seemed a bit iffey immediately after delivery. According to Gawande, the Apgar scale has dramatically reduced the infant mortality rate and revolutionized neo-natal care. The procedure that has made the difference with maternal mortality is the modern Caesarian section:
It's worth noting that there are disparities along racial and ethnic lines; infant mortality rates for African Americans and Native Americans are appreciably higher than for other groups.
The statistics in India aren't quite as good, though they have also improved dramatically in recent years. Here are some statistics on infant and maternal mortality in India, according to UNICEF:
And here, you can see a map of infant mortality in India, broken down by state. Two of the states that are most behind are Madhya Pradesh and Uttar Pradesh, which I found somewhat surprising.
Obviously, India has a long way to go here, but this isn't necessarily another 'bad news' story. Even as recently as 45 years ago, the numbers were much, much worse. Since 1960, infant mortality has been more than halved, and under-5 mortality has been cut down by two-thirds. Those are impressive improvements for a country as large and famously sluggish as India is on matters of public health. I wonder if people have ideas about how India could do even better going forward.
In a way I was lucky that S. went into labor last Friday, before I came across the latest issue of the New Yorker, with a typically excellent Atul Gawande piece on the evolution of obstetric medicine. In effect, the story Gawande tells isn't really an alarming one, though it still might have filled my mind with thoughts better avoided. Childbirth in the U.S. has become fairly safe over the years (though the threat of infant mortality and maternal mortality is still real). But what is a bit disturbing is that until fairly recently so many women (1 in 100) and newborns (1 in 30) died going through this. Interestingly, it was a woman doctor named Virginia Apgar who formulated a rating system (the Apgar scale) which gave doctors a set of criteria by which to evaluate newborns who seemed a bit iffey immediately after delivery. According to Gawande, the Apgar scale has dramatically reduced the infant mortality rate and revolutionized neo-natal care. The procedure that has made the difference with maternal mortality is the modern Caesarian section:
In the United States today, a full-term baby dies in just one out of five hundred childbirths, and a mother dies in one in ten thousand. If the statistics of 1940 had persisted, fifteen thousand mothers would have died last year (instead of fewer than five hundred) —- and a hundred and twenty thousand newborns (instead of one-sixth that number). (link)
It's worth noting that there are disparities along racial and ethnic lines; infant mortality rates for African Americans and Native Americans are appreciably higher than for other groups.
The statistics in India aren't quite as good, though they have also improved dramatically in recent years. Here are some statistics on infant and maternal mortality in India, according to UNICEF:
- Maternal mortality: 540 in 100,000 (compare to 10 in 100,000 U.S.)
- Infant mortality: 63 in 1000 (compare to 7.5 in 1000 U.S.)
- The Under-5 mortality rate is 87 in 1000 (nearly 10%!)
- Only 43% of births had a skilled attendant at delivery
And here, you can see a map of infant mortality in India, broken down by state. Two of the states that are most behind are Madhya Pradesh and Uttar Pradesh, which I found somewhat surprising.
Obviously, India has a long way to go here, but this isn't necessarily another 'bad news' story. Even as recently as 45 years ago, the numbers were much, much worse. Since 1960, infant mortality has been more than halved, and under-5 mortality has been cut down by two-thirds. Those are impressive improvements for a country as large and famously sluggish as India is on matters of public health. I wonder if people have ideas about how India could do even better going forward.
Please Sir, Can I Have Some More Water?
[Note: still waiting ;-)]
Articles like this are always saddening to read. Delhi is facing an extreme water crisis. Even middle class people are foraging from tankers, and the millions of gallons of untreated sewage emptied into the River Yamuna every year are killing it.
One of the main figures cited in the article is Sunita Narain, of the Center for Science and Environment (CSE), the same people who brought us the summer pesticide/soda controversy. I know some readers will find her a controversial figure, but I don't think the scale of Delhi's water problem is really in dispute. Here are some of the stats Somini Sengupta brings to our attention:
Better management might well make a difference:
Privatization is an extremely risky direction to go in for an essential resource like water. But the government seems to have been so thoroughly incompetent, it's hard to see how simply pumping more money into the system will make a big difference. Government money is--like water--prone to "leak."
Articles like this are always saddening to read. Delhi is facing an extreme water crisis. Even middle class people are foraging from tankers, and the millions of gallons of untreated sewage emptied into the River Yamuna every year are killing it.
One of the main figures cited in the article is Sunita Narain, of the Center for Science and Environment (CSE), the same people who brought us the summer pesticide/soda controversy. I know some readers will find her a controversial figure, but I don't think the scale of Delhi's water problem is really in dispute. Here are some of the stats Somini Sengupta brings to our attention:
- 25 to 40 percent of the water sent into Delhi's water pipes leaks out before it reaches its destination.
- 45 percent of Delhi's population isn't connected to the public sewage system, and all of their waste runs back into the Yamuna untreated.
- 2.1 million (Indian?) children die every year because of inadequate sanitation. [The article is unclear as to which children exactly are dying from sanitation related problems]
- The river water is so polluted with fecal coliform that it's not even remotely safe for bathing, which is required for devout Hindus.
- Sewage plants have been constructed to treat waste, but have thus far have "produced little value."
Better management might well make a difference:
Yet the most telling paradox of the city’s water crisis is that New Delhi is not entirely lacking in water. The problem is distribution, hampered by a feeble infrastructure and a lack of resources, concedes Arun Mathur, chief executive of the Jal Board.
The Jal Board estimates that consumers pay no more than 40 percent of the actual cost of water. Raising the rates is unrealistic for now, as Mr. Mathur well knows. “It would be easier to ask people to pay up more if we can make water abundantly available,” he said. A proposal to privatize water supply in some neighborhoods met with stiff opposition last year and was dropped. (link)
Privatization is an extremely risky direction to go in for an essential resource like water. But the government seems to have been so thoroughly incompetent, it's hard to see how simply pumping more money into the system will make a big difference. Government money is--like water--prone to "leak."
Pandita Ramabai's Book on America (1889)
In my travel writers class, we're looking at Pandita Ramabai's book on America, which has been recently translated by Meera Kosambi as Pandita Ramabai's American Encounter (2003). The original book was written in Marathi in 1889, and published as United Stateschi Lokasthiti ani Pravasavritta, which translates to The Peoples of the United States. It's an intriguing book -- part of the small group of "Easterner goes West" books published in the 19th century, which coexist uneasily alongside dozens of conventional Orientalist travel narratives describing the mystic, masalafied "East." What Ramabai has to say about America is interesting partly for the oblique criticisms of colonialism and racism one finds at various points, and partly because of her staunch, unapologetic feminism. Meera Kosambi has a thorough introduction to the book and to Pandita Ramabai, which is the source of most of the information in the post below. First off, the basic biography: Pandita Ramabai was born to a Brahmin family in Maharashtra in 1859. In a personal memoir she writes that her father (known as Dongre) went out on a limb and taught her Sanskrit, and also taught her to read and recite from the Puranas -- considered completely off-limits to women at the time. But both of her parents died in in 1876 because of famine, and Ramabai and her brother wandered around India until they ended up in Calcutta in 1878. They impressed the local Sanskrit experts (Calcutta, being more progressive, didn't shun a female Sanskrit scholar), who granted Ramabai the name "Pandita," in honor of her learning. Unfortunately, her brother died soon afterwards, and Ramabai married one of his friends, a lawyer from the Shudra caste named Bipin Behari (also known as Das Medhavi). The couple was ostracized for the cross-caste marriage, and tragically, Medhavi died of cholera just a couple of years later (in 1880), leaving Ramabai to raise their daughter Manorama on her own.
It isn't surprising that she fell in with Christian missionaries, who helped Ramabai go to England in 1883 to study medicine. Unfortunately, she was refused admission after reaching England on account of defective hearing. It was at this point that she converted to Christianity (Anglicanism), which was highly controversial in the Indian press at that tim. It still may be controversial for some readers, though I think it's important to remember that Ramabai, as a Brahmin woman, had been battling religious orthodoxy her whole life: first, as a woman who knew Sanskrit and could read and critique the classical texts, then as a person who married across caste only to be completely ostracized -- and finally as a young widow who was also orphaned and without siblings!
According to Kosambi, it isn't clear that Ramabai was comfortable within the Anglican fold (Ramabai would dabble with other denominations), nor is it clear that she enjoyed being in England, where she lived between 1883 and 1886. In fact, she didn't write very much about her specific experiences there, so it's hard to say. Still, Ramabai did write a book during that trip (her second!), The High-Caste Hindu Woman, a scathing attack on gender norms in upper-caste families. The book was published in Marathi in India, and didn't make much of an impression, though it was widely read in a version translated by Ramabai herself by feminists in England and the U.S.
In 1886, Pandita Ramabai went to the U.S., to give a lecture at a Women's Medical College in Philadelphia. Here she had a personal connection to another Marathi woman, Anandibai Joshee, who holds the distinction being the first Indian woman to earn a medical degree in the west -- only a few years after medical schools began to open their doors to women. (This was also well before women got the right to vote.) She planned to go for a month, but ended up staying for three years.
In the U.S., it appears, Pandita Ramabai thrived. She did numerous lectures at various cities around the northeast and midwest, as well as further out west (she made it as far as Denver, and was impressed by the Rocky Mountains). Her larger mission at this time was to raise money for a school she wanted to start back in India -- and here she was remarkably successful. It's no surprise to find, then, that Ramabai writes effusively about the country in her book, though she does criticize the country's problems with race, its persecution of the Native Americans, and of course, the resistance to women's emancipation.
* * *
On to the book itself. Ramabai starts with a reference to the history of early exploration, and a dig at religious superstition:
Centuries ago, when people lacked adequate knowledge of the earth, they indulged in all sorts of speculations in this regard. The ancestors of the Hindu and other communities believed the earth to be flat; as a result, they imagined the universe to be multi-storied, like the large multi-storied city houses, with the earth occupying the middle story. According to the Hindu Puranas, the universe is a fourteen-storied mansion, of which six stories or "worlds" are situated above the earth, and seven below; the lowest of these stories has been named the Nethermost Woeld. Now that all these ideas have been disproved by new discoveries, everyone has understood that the universe is not like a fourteen-storied mansion, and that the earth is not flat. (62)
So much for the scientific value of the Puranas!
Ramabai also doesn't fail to remind her readers that Columbus, in his exploration, was in fact looking for India, and she is unrelenting of her criticism of the exploitative nature of the Spanish and Portuguese doings in the new world in the early years. She accuses Columbus of practicing "deceit," and denigrates his eagerness to enslave the natives, take them back to Europe, and forcibly convert them to Christianity (Catholicism): "How sad that a great man's conduct should be tarnished by such an extraordinarily demonic deed!"
Some of her remarks about this chapter of American history strike me as coded or indirect criticisms of British colonialism:
If these same Europeans had discarded their firearms and weapons, such as bows and arrows, quartz knives, and bone-tipped lances, they would have proven themselves to be truly brave. But sad to say, those who called themselves pious and went forth to enlighten the ignorant, to rescue people from hell and lead them to heaven, ended up by utterly annihilating the poor innocent Indians through deceit, trickery, cruelty, and false speech. (71)
Clearly the British colonization of India and the American conquest of the Native Americans are two quite separate things, but there might well be some parallels in the references to "deceit, trickery, cruelty, and false speech" -- though that is only an inference. (Pandita Ramabai is rarely directly critical of the British in her writings.)
* * *
Occasionally, Pandita Ramabai also makes some circumspect comments on the problem of writing a travel narrative, and seems to be alluding to the extremely problematic narratives Europeans themselves had produced when traveling to India. She knows better than to simply reverse the dynamic, claim to be the monarch of all she surveys:
It is impossible for a person to see all the sides of an object while sketching it; the same applies to the description of the social conditions in a country. A single person is not able to see all aspects of a society; therefore one person's opinion of it cannot be assumed to be infallible.
Some English and American people have traveled in India and written descriptions of our customs and manners and social conditions. A perusal of these clearly shows that a foreigner sees the people of the country he visits in a very different light from how the inhabitants see themselves. Therefore, I have refrained from presenting any firm and final conclusion that such-and-such is the nature of American society and that it has only these many types. Instead, I intend to describe how they appeared to me. This is the objective of this chapter and of the book as a whole.
Fascinating and precocious; it took the discipline of Anthropology another 80 years to reach this level of epistemological humility.
* * *
And finally, I should mention that most of the second half of Pandita Ramabai's book on America is dedicated to the specific question of the status of women in the country. On the one hand, she is impressed by the remarkable progress that was being made with regards to women's education; this was the era during which the great women's colleges were opening, and it was also the era of the first women graduates from law and medical schools. On the other hand, Ramabai is surprised by the amount of resistance these progressive measures encounter, and feels pressed to actively rebut the charge that having women in positions of responsibility, or actively participating in the work-place, would somehow be detrimental to morals. In that the book is aimed at Indian readers, it's hard not to think that she's thinking of the Indian objections to these reforms as well.
Her most striking comment along these lines still in some sense rings true today:
How true is the claim of many Western scholars that a civilization should be judged by the conditions of its women! Women are inherently physically weaker than men, and possess innate powers of endurance; men therefore find it very easy to wrest their natural rights and reduce them to a state that suits the men. But, from a moral point of view, physical might is not real strength, nor is it a sign of nobility of character to deprive the weak of their rights. . . . [A]s men gain wisdom and progress further, they begin to disregard women's lack of strength to honor their good qualities, and elevate them to a high state. Their low opinion of women and of other such matters undergoes a change and gives way to respect. Thus, one can accurately assess a country's progress from the condition of its women. (169)
This statement is perhaps not without a couple of problematic elements, but as a progressive take on the relationship between feminism and history it is still very much something to contend with.
A Non-Encounter With Salman Rushdie
Amitava Kumar is currently at Vassar College, and Salman Rushdie was recently scheduled to be a guest speaker. (We had him at Lehigh ourselves about four years ago.) Amitava, as an accomplished critic and essayist, was suggested by the college to introduce Rushdie, but Rushdie apparently vetoed it [**see update]:
The essay Amitava links to is a long, partly sunny and partly sour critique of Rushdie, ending with a review of Shalimar the Clown. I think Amitava's best point is probably the following:
It's true, many of Rushdie's best, most memorable lines are actually socio-historical commentaries, or nuggets of cultural criticism that could very well come from a professor (though they wouldn't sound as nice). Of course, Rushdie isn't alone in this, and it might be unfair to be overly harsh about academicism, since academic ideas about the fragmentation of the self and problems of nationhood and nationalism have been widely and generally influential. Lots of novelists are discussing issues that are also being discussed at academic conferences. (Indeed, more than a few well-known novelists are themselves academics, to pay the bills -- writing don't pay that well.)
But one can contrast Rushdie's nuggets of cultural criticism (which are especially prevalent in his later fiction) with deeply felt characterization or a personal, human touch. Vikram Seth, who is sometimes named as a protege of Rushdie, has perhaps gone beyond him, both in A Suitable Boy, and in the marvelous personal memoir Two Lives (a much riskier thing to write and publish than a topical novel like Shalimar). Rushdie is still pretty much Mr. Postcolonial, but is he necessarily Mr. India? (Are there term-limits?)
Despite the criticisms, no one can take away from what Rushdie has accomplished as a writer and as a principled public figure over the years, and Amitava acknowledges this at points in his essay as well as in the introduction he had planned to give:
Perhaps a bit passive aggressive? At any rate, nicely put.
[**Update: it appears that Rushdie himself has shown up in the comments to Amitava's post. Rushdie claims that the decision to disinvite Amitava was the college's not Rushdie's, though he affirms that he "refused to share a stage."]
Salman Rushdie came to Vassar College earlier this week to deliver a lecture for the Class of 2010–but he made it clear to the organizers that he would cancel if I was involved in his visit. I had earlier been asked to introduce him, and then, well, I was disinvited. Mr Rushdie and I have never met, although I have heard him speak several times. I presume his dislike of me has to do with essays like these that I have written about him in the past. (link)
The essay Amitava links to is a long, partly sunny and partly sour critique of Rushdie, ending with a review of Shalimar the Clown. I think Amitava's best point is probably the following:
The trouble is that despite all his invention and exuberance Rushdie remains to a remarkable extent an academic writer. He is academic in that abstractions rule over his narratives. They determine the outlines of his characters, their faces, and their voices. Rushdie is also academic in the sense that his rebellions and his critiques are all securely progressive ones, advancing the causes that the intelligentsia, especially the left-liberal Western intelligentsia, holds close to its breast. This is not a bad thing, but it should qualify one's admiration for Rushdie's daring.(link)
It's true, many of Rushdie's best, most memorable lines are actually socio-historical commentaries, or nuggets of cultural criticism that could very well come from a professor (though they wouldn't sound as nice). Of course, Rushdie isn't alone in this, and it might be unfair to be overly harsh about academicism, since academic ideas about the fragmentation of the self and problems of nationhood and nationalism have been widely and generally influential. Lots of novelists are discussing issues that are also being discussed at academic conferences. (Indeed, more than a few well-known novelists are themselves academics, to pay the bills -- writing don't pay that well.)
But one can contrast Rushdie's nuggets of cultural criticism (which are especially prevalent in his later fiction) with deeply felt characterization or a personal, human touch. Vikram Seth, who is sometimes named as a protege of Rushdie, has perhaps gone beyond him, both in A Suitable Boy, and in the marvelous personal memoir Two Lives (a much riskier thing to write and publish than a topical novel like Shalimar). Rushdie is still pretty much Mr. Postcolonial, but is he necessarily Mr. India? (Are there term-limits?)
Despite the criticisms, no one can take away from what Rushdie has accomplished as a writer and as a principled public figure over the years, and Amitava acknowledges this at points in his essay as well as in the introduction he had planned to give:
I guess I would be speaking for a lot of readers, particularly in those parts of the planet that used to be called the Third World, who saw Mr Rushdie as having fought and won against, and made an ally of, the English language, the alien language that had come to us with our colonial rulers. Mr Rushdie has had to fight many other battles since; he has made many friends and enemies; and we (I’m speaking as an Indian here) we, as his readers and as writers, have followed his actions, his songs, his mannerisms, and even when we have chosen not to follow him into the sunset, we’ve always had to define ourselves, and our rebellions, against this image we have had of him, looking down at us from giant billboards at each street-corner of our past. (link)
Perhaps a bit passive aggressive? At any rate, nicely put.
[**Update: it appears that Rushdie himself has shown up in the comments to Amitava's post. Rushdie claims that the decision to disinvite Amitava was the college's not Rushdie's, though he affirms that he "refused to share a stage."]
A Research Project: Hinduism in Fiction
I was recently invited to write an essay on "Hinduism in Fiction" for a big Hinduism anthology that is being put together by comparative religion scholars.
It's a difficult topic because it's so broad, and one has to divide the focus between Hinduism in the abstract (as a set of religious practices and beliefs), and Hinduism as an evolving social identity in the context of historical phenomena: British colonialism, the nationalist movement, various reform and revival projects (Arya Samaj and Brahmo Samaj), Partition, and the rise of contemporary Hindu nationalism post-independence. Most representations of "Hinduism in fiction" tend to be in novels and short stories that are most concerned to engage those historical events, especially the reform movements, the partition, and contemporary communalism. Fewer Indian novelists have aimed to consider Hinduism in theological terms (though some have). That's pretty much as it should be -- prose fiction only came of age in India after British colonialism and Christian missionaries had made their presence felt -- but it might not be the whole story.
Here are some of the authors it seems appropriate to talk about in the essay:
19th Century and early 20th century:
Contemporary and Postmodern:
I'm curious to know whether people would suggest other authors who might be good, or have favorite passages or books that have interesting things to say about Hinduism, either as a social identity or as theology/philosophy. (If I use your suggestion you'll get an acknowledgment in the essay and a copy of it when it's published.)
It's a difficult topic because it's so broad, and one has to divide the focus between Hinduism in the abstract (as a set of religious practices and beliefs), and Hinduism as an evolving social identity in the context of historical phenomena: British colonialism, the nationalist movement, various reform and revival projects (Arya Samaj and Brahmo Samaj), Partition, and the rise of contemporary Hindu nationalism post-independence. Most representations of "Hinduism in fiction" tend to be in novels and short stories that are most concerned to engage those historical events, especially the reform movements, the partition, and contemporary communalism. Fewer Indian novelists have aimed to consider Hinduism in theological terms (though some have). That's pretty much as it should be -- prose fiction only came of age in India after British colonialism and Christian missionaries had made their presence felt -- but it might not be the whole story.
Here are some of the authors it seems appropriate to talk about in the essay:
19th Century and early 20th century:
- Bankim Chandra Chatterji (Chattopadhyay)
- British colonial writers like Kipling and Forster (these writers had a major impact on how Hinduism was perceived by both the broader world and often by Indians themselves; many Indian writers wrote in response to Forster, for instance).
- Rabindranath Tagore (Gora stands out as a book where competing
definitions of Hinduism are discussed in the context of the rising nationalist movement in the Swadeshi era) - Mulk Raj Anand
- U.R. Anantha Murthy (Samskara)
- Premchand (Godaan, short stories like "Sujan the Devout")
Contemporary and Postmodern:
- Salman Rushdie's Midnight's Children
- Ashok Banker's Prince of Ayodhya fantasy novels
- William Buck's re-imagining of the Ramayana
- Githa Hariharan, In Times of Siege
- Manju Kapur, A Married Woman
- Diasporic representations of Hinduism: especially V.S. Naipaul.
I'm curious to know whether people would suggest other authors who might be good, or have favorite passages or books that have interesting things to say about Hinduism, either as a social identity or as theology/philosophy. (If I use your suggestion you'll get an acknowledgment in the essay and a copy of it when it's published.)
"Imagining South Asia" -- a journal CFP
I'm co-editing a special issue of South Asian Review with Kavita Daiya of George Washington University, and I wanted to throw it out there in case any readers have an interest in submitting something. The topic is "Imagining South Asia," and the goal is to look critically at the tension between regionalism and nationalism in South Asian literature, film, and the arts. Do people really mean "South Asia" when they use that term, or is it a tokenistic kind of regionalism? It's a kind of update on the Imagining India Ronald Inden wrote about some years ago. Here's the actual call for papers:
If you're even remotely interested, we would love to hear inquiries and proposals from you. (Send me an email and I will forward it to Prof. Daiya) Also, even if you don't think you could submit, I would be curious to hear any comments or suggestions on the topic.
The deadline is January 30, 2007.
The South Asian Review, the refereed journal of the South Asian Literary Association, is soliciting essays for the 2007 Special Topic issue, volume 28, Number 1, devoted to “Imagining South Asia.” It examines the category of “South Asia” as a theoretical concept in literary and cultural studies. “South Asia,” an Area Studies term that came into wide usage during the Cold War, has wide purchase in the social sciences, but is sometimes questioned in studies of both modern and pre-modern literature and arts of the Indian subcontinent. Is the Area Studies term obsolete? Is it possible that many contemporary writers in India have more in common with their postcolonial peers in Kenya, South Africa or England than with those in Pakistan, Bangladesh or Sri Lanka? Do postcolonial writers imagine “South Asia” as a viable construct with the same degree of intellectual focus and creative energy as applied to particular national contexts? One could argue that the value of the term “South Asia” seems to be closely tied to diasporic writing and the recent spurt in such cultural artifacts as movies that have achieved success around the world in recent years. To what extent might "South Asian culture" be a product of diasporic consciousness?
SUGGESTED TOPICS: Some suggested topics (by no means exhaustive) that could be explored include the issue of India-centrism and the use of “South Asia” as a tokenizing category; the perspective of writers from South Asia's smaller countries on the category; the construction of national literary canons and South Asian Literature, in the subcontinent and/or diaspora; the history and politics of “South Asia” in literary and cultural studies, and/or in diasporic lives; the use of “South Asia” in the context of the Partition, uneven globalization and the “War on Terror;” the challenges and politics of “Imagining India” vs. “Imagining South Asia.”
If you're even remotely interested, we would love to hear inquiries and proposals from you. (Send me an email and I will forward it to Prof. Daiya) Also, even if you don't think you could submit, I would be curious to hear any comments or suggestions on the topic.
The deadline is January 30, 2007.
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