It is amusing to see the other side of the dilemma of writers who are straddling two separate cultures and while they belong to one they cannot let go of the other, the more dominant one.
If one reads the writings of Mark Tully one would not suspect ninety nine out of a hundred times that he was not from India, or that he did not belong to India, in fact more than ninety nine times out of hundred - it is probably close to once in a few thousand times that one gets a little clue of the sort.
But often the clue is almost as if was necessary for a card carrying person to prove his membership for some reason other than his heart or mind or spirit, and that is the amusing part.
One reads the Kumbha Melaa chapter (spelling changed here for correct pronounciation for those that are not from India) and one is put off by the strictly "outsider" look he strives to maintain, and one wonders if he would be equally aloof or dispassionate writing about Lourdes or Vatican (that word is too close to Vatika, garden, to be a coincidence; it probably is not one) and so forth, or is it a difference of what attitude one employs towards faith of those that dominate the world and those that do not.
One reads the chapter on cultural exchange, and he is amazingly witty in giving you the precise impression he formed without a word against the fraud going on, the exploitation or the worry about general erosion or danger of loss of a precious tradition of art.
And then in a moment of mentioning a small thing of his feeling he gives away his heart open to the reader that can read between the lines. One knows where his heart, his spirit belongs, all the rest - history and colonial heritage and clubbing and society notwithstanding.
Least one can say about his writing, at least about this one, is that it is easy to read, informative, and brings home the atmosphere as if one is there with him in his stories, going through it all oneself Which is not always pleasant, what with western penchant for going into unpleasant details, often quite unnecessarily.
But then again this is what their style is - I remember German tourists going on and on photographing Harlem before it was cleaned up and our German neighbours doing their best to ridicule and disdain our visit to London ("it is so dirty, it took a week for my daughter to wash off the pollution out of her hair, did you see the Queen?" and so forth).
But, as I said, that is the least one can say. There is much more that one can say about his writing that would be generally favourable, and one could go on praising it to the sky without giving a clue of its worth. It is better to read it than read about it or write about it.
He mentions his early years being spent in India and his sense of belonging carefully, and then refrains from wearing his heart on his sleeve since that would be perhaps considered less than a reasonable attitude, and he is hiding much of it carefully behind an urbane and carefully maintained exterior, lest anyone see his heart, although those that can read have no reason to be fooled.
If one reads the writings of Mark Tully one would not suspect ninety nine out of a hundred times that he was not from India, or that he did not belong to India, in fact more than ninety nine times out of hundred - it is probably close to once in a few thousand times that one gets a little clue of the sort.
But often the clue is almost as if was necessary for a card carrying person to prove his membership for some reason other than his heart or mind or spirit, and that is the amusing part.
One reads the Kumbha Melaa chapter (spelling changed here for correct pronounciation for those that are not from India) and one is put off by the strictly "outsider" look he strives to maintain, and one wonders if he would be equally aloof or dispassionate writing about Lourdes or Vatican (that word is too close to Vatika, garden, to be a coincidence; it probably is not one) and so forth, or is it a difference of what attitude one employs towards faith of those that dominate the world and those that do not.
One reads the chapter on cultural exchange, and he is amazingly witty in giving you the precise impression he formed without a word against the fraud going on, the exploitation or the worry about general erosion or danger of loss of a precious tradition of art.
And then in a moment of mentioning a small thing of his feeling he gives away his heart open to the reader that can read between the lines. One knows where his heart, his spirit belongs, all the rest - history and colonial heritage and clubbing and society notwithstanding.
Least one can say about his writing, at least about this one, is that it is easy to read, informative, and brings home the atmosphere as if one is there with him in his stories, going through it all oneself Which is not always pleasant, what with western penchant for going into unpleasant details, often quite unnecessarily.
But then again this is what their style is - I remember German tourists going on and on photographing Harlem before it was cleaned up and our German neighbours doing their best to ridicule and disdain our visit to London ("it is so dirty, it took a week for my daughter to wash off the pollution out of her hair, did you see the Queen?" and so forth).
But, as I said, that is the least one can say. There is much more that one can say about his writing that would be generally favourable, and one could go on praising it to the sky without giving a clue of its worth. It is better to read it than read about it or write about it.
He mentions his early years being spent in India and his sense of belonging carefully, and then refrains from wearing his heart on his sleeve since that would be perhaps considered less than a reasonable attitude, and he is hiding much of it carefully behind an urbane and carefully maintained exterior, lest anyone see his heart, although those that can read have no reason to be fooled.
