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| July 17, 2000 | ||
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Man's Burden Perils of the 'visit India-write travalogue' school By Chandan Mitra THE GRAND TRUNK ROAD
My outrage finds this vitriolic expression because the author has blasphemed the Grand Trunk (GT) Road by his sheer effrontery of attempting a travelogue around it. The blasphemy begins from page one and continues into what is now Pakistan. Wannabe writers of Bach's variety need a proper orientation course not just on the subcontinent, but even on the art of writing. Further, they must be discouraged from maintaining a diary-by-the-hour that Bach obviously did. American writers must be told that detail is no substitute for engaging prose. What the beggar at Dum Dum airport did or what the priest who merely donned a loincloth at Varanasi uttered by way of a mantra is least consequential to the charm of one of the world's most fascinating highways. Actually, the problem with the whopping 528 pages of tripe begins with the author's unfamiliarity with the subject. He admits to his sudden fascination for the GT Road upon learning of its existence rather late in life. Further, he wonders why it bears the elephantine middle name -- Trunk. So he decides to explore. That's bad enough, but not as bad as having to read a meandering tale of fans whirring from the ceiling of a run-down Sudder Street, Calcutta, hotel afflicted by power cuts. Our writer consumes pages to detail his astonishment at the existence of calendar art depicting Hindu gods and goddesses as well as film stars. He is simultaneously amused and irritated by the laid-back babudom at the Survey of India office. (Does anyone in his senses go there to buy a map that's freely available on the pavement?) He is further astounded by gaudily-painted Vijay Vikrams that amble down GT Road and such things that are taken for granted in India. Somewhere down this eminently unreadable narrative, though, I began to feel sorry for the writer and his more likeable, but caustic, wife Sandra who, according to her doting husband, could pass off for a Kashmiri in a salwar-kurta. They just didn't get the hang of the situation, of the complex mosaic that is India. Americans usually don't. To Bach's credit, he pays tribute to the British and their comprehension of Indian society. But anyway why do we need the gora to sell India to Indians even now? That should have ended with Max Mueller, the Lawrences of Punjab and Edwin Lutyens. The authentic biography of GT Road is still awaited. It better not be written by those who learn of Sher Shah Suri on a flight, a few hours before alighting at Dum Dum, Sahar or IG International. But thank you Mr Bach for inciting a patriotic passion. I hope the mere publication of your forgettable tome shall inspire authentic lovers of this great highway to pen their respective travelogues.
Across Black Waters Economy of the North-East The Essence of the Gita The Flying Machines The Common Man at Home |
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Upon
reading Brian Paul Bach's purported travelogue down the Grand Trunk Road,
an idea crossed my mind: the Feringhee must be stopped from committing
sacrilege, if necessary by a specially trained highway thought-police.
Perhaps one way to do this would be to insert a question in the Indian
visa form: "Do you intend to write a travelogue upon your return from
India?" If the answer is "Yes", the applicant should be
instantly refused a visa and his passport stamped "Debarred for life
from setting foot in India".