Countdown; by Amitav Ghosh.

Recently, before I had read anything by this author, someone asked what I thought of his writing. I had not till then read anything by him, and said so.

But I expressed an opinion about the general category of writers of Indian origin of English literature, which is true of more than one writer of that genre although certainly not of many excellent ones, that was unfortunately amply evident in this book, my first by this author.

He writes not only for a readership that is not Indian and in fact predominantly western, and therefore likely to be on the whole far more critical in reading something by someone of sepia tone rather than a technicolour visage, but he also writes very clearly to disassociate himself from the people and the country he is writing about, lest anyone in west - or even worse, in India, or even the so called "subcontinent" (that word is designed to hide the fact that it means India as it once was before various pieces were separated by various agencies, chiefly British, for their own interests) - misunderstand, and think he still belongs to India by any shape or name or form.

No such fear. Such a mistaken assumption is impossible once one has read this. And that is quite all right too. For most of us that are unrelated in any way, at least, to him, or those who would be of similar minds - or for that matter perhaps more than that. Many of us these days are likely to have been exposed to the world on a more than tv or touristic level, and familiar with the choices of nations that various friends or relatives or colleagues have made for various obvious reasons; and we normally take it far more equitably than a counterpart in those nations would or do.

Ironically he shares his name with two men of India, one very famous and well known, and one truly great. But such are ironies or quirks of - fate? India? Whatever. It is only a name, after all, given by loving and hopeful parents.

I wonder if he ever did or will realise he is wrong about China, amongst much else? Or would he stoop to advise India to give up whatever territory whoever demands, since he is really not concerned, having made a home all the way across the globe to the other side of the world? Reminds one of the comunist who would give away an extra car, an extra house, but not an extra shirt, because he does have the last mentioned.

One of the worst parts is when he relates the situation of the two nations as described to him by someone across the official '47 border as that of an adult woman trying to devour an adult son. (Someone I described that outrage to simply asked - where did he see or come across such a woman?)

One doesn't know if he ever thought, even once, before publishing it - and that too without comment - about how extremely offensive it was. One wonders if he would dare to write about US civil war in those terms. One wonders if he thought about the various offensive connotations of that statement, each more than all other. One wonders if he realised he was offending more than the nation he left behind, if he realised he was offending all mothers. One wonders what his mother thinks of that imagery. Is she happy and proud her son reported something of this nature to the world in so quite blasé a manner?


Unfortunately I went out and bought a good half a dozen books by him alongwith the offensive above mentioned one, although this one might just be the most offensive or the worst of them, because someone had asked me about his work and then a bookshop happened to have a whole shelf stacked right in front area (hoping he might net the Booker, perhaps), and I thought I might in all fairness give it a try. One cannot return unread books like one can unopened packages of other things, so one can only hope one is finished with the worst he had to offer.