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pierreikonnikov's review against another edition
challenging
emotional
informative
reflective
medium-paced
3.75
rendezpuss's review against another edition
tense
fast-paced
2.5
A small caveat: I may have written this review a little incoherently (but passionately!), right after finishing this book. Credit where it’s due, I do appreciate that Naipaul’s writing has an almost lyrical quality and his humour does shine through intelligently. He also hits the nail on the head with the uniquely Indian denial and doublethink of finding joy and meaning in despair.
Owing to all of this, I was almost tempted to give him 3 stars. But as I go on to write below, much of this book is the literary version of trolling.
Naipaul values all that is Western with the same blindness as his rejection of all that is Indian; it amazes me how he criticises some “broad-minded” Indians in the book for a similar sin without a lick of irony. It’s also important to mention the book is set in a time when India is barely on its feet with its newfound independence. Equally important - Naipaul is a highly unreliable narrator who has admitted to having no interest or appreciation for Indian languages or culture and clearly exhibited anger management issues.
Many of his criticisms do hold water even today. Indian readers when confronted with these, tend to either ignore them with brazen, jingoistic pride. Or they over-correct and chastise their people for their inadequacies. And very often as an Indian, if you’re not seen doing the latter, you’re accused of being the former.
But it’s not his stern - albeit self-admittedly unoriginal - remarks on India’s poverty, the caste system and the complicated relationship with its colonial past, that come across as offensive. It’s that every description is so mean-spirited and exaggerated, it rings falsely hollow. Sentence after sentence, full of negativity, eventually numbs the reader, no matter how sharp the words.
For once reviews are on my side - he’s a pompous coconut who doesn’t deign to understand his culture and has nothing to offer but Orientalist critique.
Owing to all of this, I was almost tempted to give him 3 stars. But as I go on to write below, much of this book is the literary version of trolling.
Naipaul values all that is Western with the same blindness as his rejection of all that is Indian; it amazes me how he criticises some “broad-minded” Indians in the book for a similar sin without a lick of irony. It’s also important to mention the book is set in a time when India is barely on its feet with its newfound independence. Equally important - Naipaul is a highly unreliable narrator who has admitted to having no interest or appreciation for Indian languages or culture and clearly exhibited anger management issues.
Many of his criticisms do hold water even today. Indian readers when confronted with these, tend to either ignore them with brazen, jingoistic pride. Or they over-correct and chastise their people for their inadequacies. And very often as an Indian, if you’re not seen doing the latter, you’re accused of being the former.
But it’s not his stern - albeit self-admittedly unoriginal - remarks on India’s poverty, the caste system and the complicated relationship with its colonial past, that come across as offensive. It’s that every description is so mean-spirited and exaggerated, it rings falsely hollow. Sentence after sentence, full of negativity, eventually numbs the reader, no matter how sharp the words.
For once reviews are on my side - he’s a pompous coconut who doesn’t deign to understand his culture and has nothing to offer but Orientalist critique.
bluestarfish's review
3.0
A report on a visit to India in 1962 by Naipaul who grew up in Trinidad. I'm happy to take this as _a_ view of India and his travels. It was interesting having his reflections on visiting a country he feels part of and very seperate to, even if he was grumpy quite a lot of the time. It is strange going to a place you have second hand memories of.
sarah_dietrich's review against another edition
1.0
Naipaul's arrogance drove me crazy. I was hoping for a portrait of India, instead I got a portrait of an arrogant, racist, insufferable man.
moumita's review against another edition
adventurous
informative
reflective
medium-paced
4.0
Well written. A very critical look at 1960s India.
robjoeol's review against another edition
1.0
Too cynical. Not an enjoyable narrative. Author was trying to find some understanding and affinity to his indian heritage, but finds frustration and exception mostly.
aniket_shevade's review against another edition
4.0
Naipaul takes us through his journey of India with a unique lens of a Trinidad Indian trying to explore a mysterious part of Indianness he inherited. The whole encounter is confusing, he is sometimes too Foreign to connect with Indians and too Indian to not to find pride in some Indian features. He is amazed, alienated, defeated, challenged, disgusted, confused by this 1960s journey of India.
As an Indian, reading this made me realise my own myopia in understanding India, how I have overlooked and ignored certain troubling aspect of our culture. This was an enjoyable read nonetheless.
As an Indian, reading this made me realise my own myopia in understanding India, how I have overlooked and ignored certain troubling aspect of our culture. This was an enjoyable read nonetheless.
manugummi's review against another edition
2.0
“It is possible to find the India that appears not to have changed since Mogul times but has, profoundly; it is until, sometimes Ektha dismay, sometimes with impatience, one realized that complete communication is not possible, that a gift of Indian retreat. Both the negative and positive principles have been diluted; one balanced the other. The penetration was not complete; the attempt at conversion was abandoned. India’s strength, her ability to endure, came from the negative principle, her unexamined sense of continuity. It is a principle which, once diluted, Lowe’s its virtue. In the concept of Indianness the sense of continuity was bound to be lost. The creative urge failed. Instead of continuity we have the static. It is there in the ‘ancient culture’ architecture; it is there in the much bewailed loss of drive, which is psychological more than politics and economic. It is there in the political gossip of Bunty. It is there in the dead horses and immobile chariot of the Kurukshetra temple. Shiva has ceased to dance.”