Aatish Taseer's debut novel swings between a memoir and a satire, but funny it is not
Aatish Taseer's debut novel swings between a memoir and a satire, but funny it is notu00a0
This is Aatish Taseer's first novel. A year ago, he wrote Stranger to History, an autobiographical account of his travels "through Islamic lands". It was also a quest to find his father, a Pakistani businessman and politician he has never known and who, despite all his efforts, has never really acknowledged him.
It was a well-written book, filled with vivid descriptions and keen insights; I enjoyed and recommended it, and was looking forward to this new one, which was supposed to be different, and very funny.
When I started reading The Temple-Goers, however, I felt confused. After a few pages, I decided I must have misunderstood and that here was another memoir. It's written in the first person; its hero is identical in tone and manner to the hero of the first one -- and it was surely not a coincidence that even his name was Aatish Taseer! Could there possibly be two Aatish Taseers, both of whom have studied abroad, have high-profile single mothers and appear to be struggling endlessly with identical identity crises?
The first indication that yes, there possibly were, were the names of the places in this book. This New Delhi has suburbs called Sectorpur and Phasenagar and a nearby state called Jhatekebal.
Hilarious? Hmmm.
Later, there's a bomb blast and the group that claims to have done it calls itself the Indian Musthavbin. Even more lame, along comes a writer whose name coyly rhymes with a brilliant but unpopular Nobel laureate who apparently said about Stranger to History, "A subtle and poignant work by a young writer to watch."
The looking-glass Aatish has a girlfriend, Sanyogita, talented, vulnerable, patient and forgiving, who calls him Baby ("Baby's hard," she said with surprise). Other characters are Aakash, a gym trainer, Megha, a businessman's "healthy" daughter, and Chamunda, the CM of Jhatekebal, Sanyogita's aunt and Aatish's mother's best friend.
Half-way through, I decided to stop wasting my time and not read any more. It was meandering and tedious.
Did I need to read a book by a talented but self-indulgent young man who has travelled the world and commented on it with discernment and wit -- but wants to do a "Welcome to the zoo and please don't feed the animals" number on the country he grew up in? This book had been written for a specific reader, one who would enjoy it from the outside in a supercilious way, and that reader was not me.
But duty called and I soldiered on to the end. I can now step back and comment wisely that this book does a good job of describing certain middle-class Indian values, in particular certain primitive attitudes towards the female body -- but without acknowledging that the same primitive attitudes prevail globally.
It also touches on how Indian politics is steeped in crime and shows that the system is held securely in place by a conniving class, to preserve its own advantage and position, all the while preening as superior and virtuous.u00a0 Sadly enough, the class to which you and I belong.
