I wonder who is supposed to read this book; other than, that is, a long-suffering reviewer whose beliefs in writing about India may now need some reassessment
But every now and then, along comes a tome that mocks my belief, that bolsters the illiberal posturing that often greets a foreign devil’s attempts at “explaining India”. This is one such. From start to finish, it patronises Indians, tediously transmits callow reactions of the newly-arrived expat, spreads stereotypes and—of course—ends with the faux-generous thought that one does come to love this irritating yet irresistible place. We learn, for example, that “by and large, auto-drivers are good people”. A moment of frustration “evaporates like paan spit on a hot Delhi street”. And the author entertains taxi drivers by teaching them to swear in English but is shocked when someone asks about his sex life. This is the stock-in-trade of many a Delhi expat party that sent me screaming into the night, vowing never again.
Aside from the whingers, moaners and mockers at those insufferable parties, I wonder who is supposed to read this book; other than, that is, a long-suffering reviewer whose beliefs in writing about India may now need some reassessment.