Shantaram is a novel by Gregory David Roberts, published in 2003, detailing his experiences travelling through India as an escaped convict. When I first read it, it blew me away, with Roberts’ elegant descriptions of Indian society, and its compelling narrative. Reading it again this summer brings back that familiar butterflies-in-my-stomach feeling, when I know I’m experiencing something marvellous, knowing where things are going, eager to get there. That feeling when you watch Into the Wild and wonder why the hell you’re pathetic enough to be in your pyjamas at 2 in the afternoon.
This isn’t a book review, despite it’s elementary-school-esque beginning and my gushing introductory appraisal of the novel. The book made me consider something that bothers me often, something I hadn’t though of when I’d first read it, at a plausibly inappropriate age of 15. The glimpses into Indian society that the novel gives you are crafted beautifully. The depictions of the colourful and the grotesque, the serene and the painful, the loud and the horrifying are created in a sophisticated manner, as Roberts describes the culture – our culture – in an almost matter-of-fact manner, his experiences being the salient feature of the narrative. Everything is relevant, everything is engaging, and he pulls you into his world effortlessly.
On the other end of the spectrum, there’s the grotesque creation that managed to win the Man Booker Prize the year it was published – Aravind Adiga’s The White Tiger. What bothered me about this book were the cultural depictions, similar to those in Shantaram, used in order to further the plot. The aim of this book, it seemed to me, was to shock – to sensationalise Indian culture, and every gritty, horrifying aspect of it. I have no delusions when it comes to India, and the shockingly disgusting aspects of our society. Three rapes in Bangalore within the last three days – we’re used to hearing about these things, seeing them, listening to people talk about them. But what Roberts uses as an aspect of his narrative, Adiga uses as the central, compelling factor. His plot is mediocre at best, and the filth and grime that comes with his narrative is what he needs to keep the reader both disgusted and attentive. Sure, it’s probably the sign of a good writer – after all, words are the only tool he has, and he’s got to use them well. But I would’ve appreciated his novel a lot more if he had something more than India’s poverty and filth to rely on to carry his story forward.
As a culture, India is both tremendously easy and extremely difficult to illustrate. On one hand, it’s a whole new level of complicated, explaining the nuances of Indian society to anyone who hasn’t experienced it. I face that problem everyday, and there are some things that most people just won’t get if you haven’t grown up here, or even lived here. But the easy bit is using those complexities to fashion a tale – take a vague story about life’s struggles, throw in grotesque, horrifying descriptions and you’ve got a soup going. After all, didn’t Danny Boyle do that with Slumdog Millionaire and win an Oscar for it? It’s an easy formula. Adiga and Boyle show us that. It’s easy to impress an audience of unsuspecting, unexperienced, unknowing people, who are both horrified and fascinated at what they’re witnessing. So much so that they throw an award at it. “It’s different”, they will all say, “It’s a whole new take, so gritty and no-nonsense”. Which is ironic, because pure nonsense is a lot of what it is. Sure, horrifying, gruesome things happen in India all the time, and we’re desensitised, as Indians, to most of it. However, one author taking that and using it to climb his way up the literature food-chain isn’t any form of brilliant or brave, it’s just clever, at best. It’s not honest, it’s smart – he knows what we like to read, and I applaud him for that. He works his way around critics and readers and even Indians like me by “making us think”. Roberts, on the other hand, had a story to tell, and does so effortlessly. That is no-nonsense – not a sensationalised version of some feeble tale.
India is bright and beautiful and colourful and loud. It, like any other society, is also gritty and gruesome and horrifying and shocking and frightening. The key is to capture these aspects in a manner that tells it as it is, which Adiga could be convinced that he is doing, who knows? What he seems to end up with, however, is a hugely successful novel that uses the terrifying aspects as a substitute for a more engrossing storyline. I have no issues with some India-bashing, heaven knows, we need it. What I do have issues with is the inability of an author to depict the complexities of India in a sophisticated manner.
So, on that note, sticking to Salman Rushdie and Gregory David Roberts, would be my suggestion. If you want horrifying stories, watch the news. If you want an exploitation of them, then Adiga’s books are probably for you. I just prefer my novels written with a little more finesse, that’s all.
this is an ergonomic nightmare 