"The White Tiger" by Arivand Adiga

Ugly. Truly ugly. I think I expected a story of redemption, of humanity, of virtue shining through corruption and initiative shining through social injustice. Maybe a tale of personal growth on behalf of the narrator (whom the reader knows already from the back cover is a murderer), but even that aspect of it all is questionable. It was an ugly story depicting an ugly – though intelligent – character in ugly circumstances. If it truly provides an honest depiction of Indian society, then it is an ugly, ugly set of power relations and values indeed, a case for despair and for helpless sympathy. Have I used the word ugly too many times? Unfortunately it is the only word that comes to mind.

About six years ago – around the time I decided that I would not do my big overseas working holiday prior to establishing a career and starting a family, but instead take my established family and career overseas with me when I was older – I came up with a reading plan to support my intentions of travelling to many interesting places. I decided that I would not visit a foreign country without reading at least one well-informed book set in that country. Preferably I would read this before actually arriving there. Preferably I would read two – one non-fiction book about the country’s history, and the other a well-researched novel written by someone who had actually spent some time living in that country. This would address a few problems: my poor knowledge of history and geography; my tendency to choose fiction over non-fiction; and the lengthy period of time which was likely to pass prior to my actually getting overseas again.

I almost managed this task on our trip to France. I read all of “A Tale of Two Cities” by Dickens, and half of “The French Revolution” by Christopher Hibbert, most of that whilst failing to sleep on a plane. It was a really good thing to do, though I’m glad I didn’t get to the really gory bits of “The French Revolution” before sleeping in old Paris. Even the gite in Gourec, Britanny, I now recognise, was absolutely seething with something or somebody long past.

So back to our novel based in India: “The White Tiger” was well-researched and written by somebody who had actually spent a good deal of time living there, as was Arundhati Roy’s “The God of Small Things”. I enjoyed “The God of Small Things”, don’t really recall what it was about but it must have contained more humanity, virtue and redemption of one kind or another because I was still interested in visiting India after reading it. “The White Tiger” makes me quite comfortable with the fact that I am not likely to visit India for a very long time.

I guess I’m after beauty and order in one form or another – whether I’m reading or otherwise. It was a good book and worth reading, but has not left me feeling “nice”. I’ve now begun “The Dressmaker” by Rosalie Ham. It’s terribly soft in comparison, a completely different class of novel, but a relief and just what I need after that gargoyle of a tale. Kind of like eating a fresh fruit salad with tub-set yoghurt for breakfast after an evening of take-away pizza, chips, potato cakes and ice-cream.

Sunshine, autumn leaves and fresh air

I feel good! A little weary, but good: peaceful, joyful, alive. And that is on top of three crappy nights' sleep. Perhaps I will sleep better tonight and feel great again tomorrow. Perhaps I am learning how to cope with less sleep...

I finally took myself outside and mowed the lawns this morning. I am determined to keep doing these sorts of things myself this time, I don't have the same fitness to fall back on as I did when pregnant with DD. Then we set out for the afternoon to watch my husband's running race and teach DD how to cheer the athletes on (I am mostly too shy to do it too audibly myself but I try). It started and finished at some local botanic gardens which are very pretty and well-established, deep green and quite lush in places. The trees lining the road above - from which DD and I watched the race - were all deciduous. We could survey those beautiful autumn tones backed by the lush green of the gardens. It was a similar scene sitting outside a cafe this morning - the deciduous trees lining the side street slowly and gracefully undressing themselves for the winter.

Then late this afternoon, I finally hung the two loads of washing out: sun slanting, kittens' bells tinkling as they scampered across the backyard ambushing each other, DD cheerful and animated and chattering away in the swing under the verandah as she spun it around all by herself.

When we came inside - under pressure from the mosquitoes - I walked around closing the windows and doors which had been wide open, welcoming in the clear autumn air. Will this be the last day we have the house wide open before the spring? I hope not, but that will happen one day soon. I had my first soup for the season last week. There is plenty to look forward to in any winter, but particularly this one.

"The World According To Bertie" by Alexander McAll Smith

I was interrupted many times and faltered in my commitment to completing it when I didn't get back to it for a week or two but finished it yesterday afternoon when I was too tired to do anything more constructive with my time. I have read the first four of Mr McAll Smith's No.1 Ladies Detective Agency novels and heard him speak on the literary lunch broadcast by 774 on two occasions. He's a clever and witty man with a wonderful manner as a speaker and I love that his novels are not too "up themselves". It isn't that they aren't clever - there are the themes and quite a volume of knowledge to make you curious about things you wouldn't have known to be curious about otherwise - but they are more playful and lighthearted than something written to impress the criterati*. I found this book for three dollars at an opp shop - brand new, they had a pile of surplus stock from someplace - and although it is the third (I think) in a series I haven't read, I thought I'd read it anyway.

As a consequence of not having read the preceding novels in the series, I wont comment on the narrative. What I loved, though, was the characters. A wonderful mixture. Some of them might be described as exaggerated, caricatures, with particular traits applied to extremes which made them fascinatingly vulgar - like Dickens' fabulous characters (oh how I want to read my next Dickens book but it is very thick and I can't be bothered holding it up in bed!). However, I suspect that this is what people are really like, in general. They are not just mild variations from a central point on a two or three-dimensional axis. One of the trait theories of personality has sixteen different qualities, I think, and I suggest that on at least a few of these, all of us are in some quite extreme position. My point being that Bruce and Julia and Irene may well be caricatures but that doesn't make them any less realistic.

The character who worried me most was Bertie's mother, Irene. Oh please God, don't let me be like that! Many people would probably view my parenting style in a similar way that hers was veiwed by every other character in the book and by the horrified reader (me). Let that serve as warning to myself: ease up. Does that mean I shouldn't have insisted that DD eat all her breakfast this morning (I knew she would ask for a biscuit or date five minutes later and she did) or does it mean that I shouldn't beat myself up about how mean I felt refusing to get her out of her chair until she'd eaten another two spoons of porridge?

There were some nice quotes and references too, one coming from Auden who, it seems is a rather famous poet with whom I am not familiar:"let the more loving one" - I am off to find the full text online because I am curious as to the context in which it was written.

I would read any of his books from any of his series in any order, but preferably the right order as that could only add to my pleasure.

My next book is "The White Tiger" by Aravind Adiga. It has come highly recommended and I have read the first few pages. I think I will enjoy the writing style and it wonder if it will effect the manner of my blogs whilst I am reading it...

*This is a word I made up recently and am quite pleased with, although I suspect that I haven't made it up at all and that it popped into my head when I needed it on account of my having vaguely read it elsewhere whilst distracted with a gorgeous child.