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To be a Chechen is crime enough, sir, I assure you. We Chechen are born extremely guilty. Ever since czarist times, our noses have been culpably flat and our hair and skin criminally dark. This is an enduring offense to public order, sir….I am a Chechen black-arse. Why do I have to have a reason to go to prison?

- Issa Karpov to the banker Tommy Brue in John Le Carre’s A Most Wanted Man, P.78, P.82

Chechens are not exactly a popular group these days.

The two Boston bombers who inflicted terrible suffering last month during the annual marathon were of Chechen origin.

Plus, the successful Russian military and media campaigns over the last decade have turned Chechens into a dreaded, hated group in the West.

To be sure, the Chechens have not helped their reputation with violent attacks in Chechnya, Moscow and in the Middle East.

So to the average citizen in the West, the word Chechen is but a synonym for Taliban – A bunch of Islamic fanatics wreaking destruction in the name of their religion.

Fair or Unfair Portrayal?

But we live in times where disinformation and misinformation are increasingly the norm.

Facts are no longer sacred!

People, newspapers, blogs, groups, shadowy intelligence organizations and nations routinely strive to distort reality, and often succeed.

In long ethnic wars such as the Chechen-Russian clash, it’s impossible to pin responsibility for the repeated instances of carnage.

The original grievances have long faded into the background as attack and counterattack are the mantras of both sides.

In such clashes, who’s the Victim and who’s the Aggressor? Who’s the Cursed one and who’s Curseworthy?

Your answer depends on your ignorance, whose side you are on or from where you get your ‘facts.’

A Most Wanted Man Review

John Le Carre’s Chechen Hero

I recently read spy novelist John Le Carre’s A Most Wanted Man.



Despite the author’s vaunted reputation as the master of spy stories, A Most Wanted Man is not a typical spy thriller.

The spy stuff forms but one aspect of A Most Wanted Man. I suppose that is true of a lot of Le Carre’s recent books (unlike his Cold War era novels like Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy).

I wouldn’t rate A Most Wanted Man as an exceptional book.

But it’s a nuanced look at the terrible world we live in where there’s no safe haven from the reach of a bullet or a pressure cooker bomb.

With lots of gray shades, the book eschews the easy temptation of looking at the world as us (good/spies) vs them (bad/terrorists).

The central focus and character of the book is Issa Karpov, a recent Chechen illegal immigrant in Hamburg and a wanted person by the security forces of many countries.

John Le Carre is not a fan of American policies in the current “War on Terror” and contemptuously portrays Americans in the post 9-11 era as militant yahoos practicing “justice from the fucking hip.”

Le Carre is not favorably disposed toward the Russians either, who are at war with Chechens.

Only toward certain elements of the German intelligence service does the author bestow some approval.

Favorable Light

A Most Wanted Man views Chechens in a more favorable light than most stories that depict the ethnic group as nothing more than rabid Muslim fundamentalists out to bomb the non-believers into smithereens.

Issa, the principal protagonist of the novel, is not a full Chechen. On his mother’s side, he’s Chechen. But the father is a brutal, corrupt Russian Colonel posted in the Chechen territory who ‘defiled’ Issa’s 15-year-old mother.

Such are Issa’s origins.

Le Carre imbues his protagonist Issa with a complex amalgam of traits. Continue reading »

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I imagine saying those words – “My family, they are all dead, in an instant they vanished” – and I reel.
- Sonali Deraniyagala in Wave (p.116)

I don’t understand all this hype about Sonali Deraniyagala’s book Wave.

Maybe, it’s because Sonali lost all her dear ones (husband, two young sons and both parents) in one go.

After all, it’s not every day you hear of someone losing multiple family members together.

To bear the death of one close family member is hard enough but that of many inevitably turns one’s thoughts to suicide (as it did for our Sonali).

Review of  Wave by Sonali Deraniyagala

Or maybe the hype is because most readers and reviewers of the book feel a sense of comradeship with one of their own.

An author who is like them, an educated middle class or upper class person.

No wonder the Delhi rape incident in December 2012 triggered such a big hue and cry, resonating with the self-absorbed, callous Indian middle class like few horror stories ever do in Mera Bharat Mahaan.

Because the rape victim was so like the Indian media people writing about her and the Internet audience reading about her, she became an instant heroine to hundreds of millions rousing even the pusillanimous somnolent Indian Prime Minister Manmohan Singh to issue a statement.

Thousands of poor folks die every day under terrible circumstances in India and elsewhere.

Many meet a sad end after enduring death by a thousand cuts. Yet no one gives a fig for them because they’re not like us!

To gain our attention and to attract our sympathy, you must be like us!

Only then can we identify with your suffering!

Countless people die every day, both deserving and undeserving, but we won’t care. Hell, we won’t even move the mouse unless you happen to be like us.

Get it?

And if you are like us, then we’ll make such a song and dance about your loss, your God Almighty suffering and elevate you into a heroine!

Like Us

Wave is Sonali Deraniyagala’s 227-page memoir about her great loss.

In its essence, the book is a boring, tiresome outpouring of grief!

Yes, in just a few minutes on the morning of December 26, 2004, Sonali Deraniyagala’s life was turned upside down.

Not merely literally but in a life-altering sense for her.

Flung out of the jeep she and her husband and children were fleeing in to escape the approaching giant tidal waves, the tsunami in Sri Lanka spared Sonali; but snatched her husband, her two young boys, and the parents she’d thoughtlessly abandoned at the Yala hotel in a South-Eastern Sri Lanka wildlife resort they were all vacationing in, to a watery grave.

But let’s keep things in perspective, shall we.

Sonali’s husband Stephen Lissenburgh, sons Vikram and Nikhil (Malli) and parents Gemini and Edward Deraniyagala were merely five of the 35,322 deaths caused by the tsunami in Sri Lanka alone.

Overall, the tsunami claimed a quarter-million lives (the majority in Indonesia, Sri Lanka, India and Thailand).

But at least Sonali and her loved ones had a good life, for the most part, unlike countless millions in South Asia, before the calamity. Wonder, of how many other tsunami fatalities in Asia we can say the same!

Tidal Grief but Not Moving

Does the book make for engrossing reading?

Not for me!

I was rarely, if ever, moved by Sonali’s account of her pre-tsunami happy life.

The prose doesn’t jump out of the pages and the overall quality of writing is merely above average.

And even for a memoir, I was drowning in the I, me, my and mine littering every paragraph of the book.

The book integrates Sonali’s endless moaning with snippets of the lives of her husband Steve, their children, and her parents, her childhood in Colombo, the family’s lives in London, the vacations back in Colombo blah blah blah to the point of ad nauseum.

Just because the Sri Lanka born Sonali happens to be an upper class, well-educated woman with a British husband, her outpouring of grief gets a sea of attention from the literati.

The gushing reviews are coming in for the book like the tidal wave that extinguished Sonali’s family, and the comments are invariably about how “heart-breaking” it must be for the poor woman.

The book has struck a chord with many readers who, perhaps, right at this moment are telling their friends, Ah, the poor thing. She lost everything in the tsunami.

My unrequited advice to the Sonalis of the world – Be thankful for the blessings you have and stop whining when it’s taken away from you.

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Remember, son, the final seat of all achievement is neither the head nor the heart nor the muscles. It is the ass. Courage and determination lives in the ass! When the odds stack up against men, when the challenges mount, it is the ass that gives way first! All my life I have seen it. The asshole opens up and bleats like a goat. The head and the heart and the muscles see it, and follow suit.

- Rajbir Gujjar to young Vishal (later to become the dreaded killer Hathoda Tyagi), p.424, The Story of My Assassins

Tarun Tejpal Story of My Assassins Review by SearchIndia.com

To hail Tarun Tejpal’s new book The Story of My Assassins as a mere masterpiece would be like saying the Kohinoor is a mere diamond or dismissing Abhishek Bachchan as just another Bollywood idiot!

Gross understatements.

As most Indians know, the Kohinoor is the pride of India and more than a mere diamond. And Abhishek, each time the dolt opens his mouth, adds depth and ballast to the concept of idiocy.

No book on India has ever captured the idiom of India, yesterday, today and tomorrow, so beautifully like The Story of My Assassins.

Like all great works of art, The Story of My Assassins defies easy definition.

If pressed, I’d say the book is a nonpareil tragi-comedy, capturing all that’s grotesque, tragic, uplifting, depressing and comic about India. Continue reading »

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Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.

If there’s a better novel than Vladimir Nabokov’s masterpiece Lolita, I’ve yet to encounter that book.

Lolita is a tour de force, its luster increasing with the passage of time (the book was first published in 1955).

As long as the art form of novels exist, Lolita will continue to stand tall among the very best.

As a matter of fact, the word Lolita came into popular usage because of Nabokov’s famous novel.

Related Content:
Vladimir Nabokov Interview with British journalist James Mossman (Text Version)
Vladimir Nabokov Quotes
Vladimir Nabokov: Life and Works – BBC Documentary

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No marriage is happy after it happens. It’s only before, thinking of it, that it’s happy.

- Manju’s drunkard father in Behind the Beautiful Forevers p.183

Katherine Boo - Behind the Beautiful Forevers Review by SearchIndia.comI can’t swear it’s all non-fiction.

But Behind the Beautiful Forevers: Life, Death, and Hope in a Mumbai Undercity  by Katherine Boo is a devastating indictment of what is often proudly touted these days as “Rising India” or “Shining India.”

Kathering Boo, a staff writer with the New Yorker and spouse of an Indian academic Sunil Khilnani, spent several years writing this book, which broadly covers the 2008-2010 period.

India has hundreds of thousands of slums in metros like Mumbai, Delhi and Chennai where people live in unsanitary and inhuman conditions.

Behind the Beautiful Forevers is said to be a true account of the lives of some people in one such Indian slum.

Annawadi – A Mumbai Slum

For her book, Katherine picked Annawadi, one of the hundreds of slums dotting Mumbai, India’s largest city and a magnet for desperate migrants from across the country.

Located close to Mumbai’s international airport, Annawadi lies in the shadows of five-star hotels like Hyatt and Intercontinental.

The slum is named after Tamil migrants from South India who settled there first. Anna is a respectful Tamil word that refers to an older brother or any elderly person.

Every day, Tamils and other migrants make the long trek to Mumbai yearning for a better life and, if they’re not sleeping on the pavements and sidewalks, live in fetid slums.

Most of my readers are schmucks, forever lost in reveries of their lips tightly wrapped around a Bollywood hulk’s schlong or tongue down a Kollywood starlet’s twat, and will never pick up this 254-page book.

So let me summarize the book for you.

Behind the Beautiful Forevers is a close look at the hard struggle of a bunch of people in Annawadi to rise above their fetid surroundings.

Do they succeed in overcoming the countless obstacles the poor in Indian slums face every day?

The answer to that question is to be found in a line from the book,

For every two people in Annawadi inching up, there was one in a catastrophic plunge (p.24).

To all those who claim that a rising Indian economic tide will lift all boats, it just does not appear to be true.

At least, not the boats of India’s poorest in the slums.

Katherine weaves her account of Annawadi from the perspective of a few characters, principally the garbage sorter Abdul Hakim Hussain, the slumlord and politician wannabe Asha, her college-going daughter Manju, garbage picker Sunil and One-Leg Fatima.

But several other people (friends and relatives) and institutions (police, judiciary, hospitals etc) that impinge on the lives of the principal characters make frequent appearances to provide an all-round, vivid portrait of Abdul, Asha, Manju and Sunil and of the slum itself.

Life in Annawadi with the sewage lake, the goats, pigs, dogs and the buffalo expelling its shit on those nearby with a furious velocity is living hell.

And the people living squalid lives there are nothing but prey, often of other poor people on the same level or just a few rungs above.

Corrupt policemen, doctors in the hospitals, government employees, politicians and even other aspiring slum dwellers like Asha constantly prey on Annawadi residents.

That people like the garbage sorter Abdul Hussain or the garbage pickers like Kalu, Sanjay, Sunil or Sonu make it through a single day is itself nothing short of a miracle.

Ultimately, some of our acquaintances like the garbage pickers Kalu and Sanjay and the Tamil girl Meena die horrible deaths.

Nobody, not the charity organizations, not the police, not the government, not the social workers, not even the court, is a friend.

As Katherine writes of Abdul’s thoughts after One Leg’s fatal blow on the Hussain family:

The Indian criminal justice system was a market like garbage, Abdul now understood. Innocence and guilt could be bought and sold like a kilo of polyurethane bags (P.107).

As anyone familiar with India knows, even God has forsaken India’s poorest.

Fiction or Non-Fiction

I am skeptical that Behind the Beautiful Forevers is 100% non-fiction.

Why am I not sure if Behind the Beautiful Forevers is fiction or a much embellished non-fictional work?

First, Katherine Boo is a foreigner with nil or limited knowledge of Marathi, Hindi or Tamil, the main languages spoken in the Annawadi slum on which she writes.

Tis’ true that she employed translators and assistants but to see in print the thoughts of Abdul, Manju, Meena or other characters expressed in their words (standing by the toilet, during One-Leg’s immolation and other dark moments) is hard for my skeptical mind to swallow.

Second, I’ve never come across non-fiction accounts of poverty so richly and beautifully written.

By the way, the title Behind the Beautiful Forevers is drawn from an advertisement for Italian floor tiles on a concrete wall hiding the slum from travelers arriving at the airport.

Your favorite blog SearchIndia.com heartily recommends Behind the Beautiful Forevers with the near certainty that none of you will pick it up.

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Capital by John Lanchester is a Good Read - SearchIndia.com Blog British writer John Lanchester puts forth a riveting indictment of present-day London in his new novel Capital.

By London, we mean a city where clueless people in the financial sector make obscene sums through reckless bets, where greed runs rampant at all level of society, drunkenness is the norm, conspicuous consumption a ritual and high immigration an unavoidable phenomenon.

A city whose fabric has been completely torn asunder, hopelessly coarsened amid the meretricious charms of High Street luxuries.

In short, a city that has gone to the dogs over the last few decades.

Lanchester sets his story in 2007-2008, when tremors start rocking the world of high finance, with Pepys Road in South London as his stage.

Colorful Characters

Once a lower middle-class neighborhood, home prices on Pepys Road have soared into the stratospheric realm.

Millionaires buy up homes on Pepys Road and pour more money into tearing up the buildings and doing them up. Continue reading »

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