Anti Social: by Sumer Chand.

For all the authors from India in English language out there, that is to say those that have been writing and publishing during last five or six decades post independence of India (and not counting the truly great that existed during the fight for independence of India and participated in one way or more), this one is the most authentic in two different ways - one, language and storytelling style, and two, story background and details.

Most authors of India when writing in English have either been brought up in a very westernised surrounding - church school, westernised social setting where people go through western dances decorously (but only with spouses post marriage or even engagement) and do whatever else the set thinks is the latest fashion, which includes looking down on some Indian things while adhering to some understood as necessary part of life and solidity (such as dancing only with one's own spouse, performing all the necessary traditions and excusing oneself with a "what to do, one must, parents" excuse if necessary).

Part of this when one of this set (- as opposed to the expat milieu settled elsewhere that writes in English naturally but has lost touch with India necessarily, not that that is bad, unless they do attempt writing about India seeking a booker or so - that is when they may get one but are seriously out of touch with reality of what they are writing about in the first place, and the prize is a mockery of colonial attitudes of author and prizegiving jury alike -) writes about India is that they attempt to write for non Indians, with whom they are really not in touch either, not much, since mostly they have lived in India; and so there is touches of Indian words or phrases here and there as one might patch one's thousand pounds a plate dinners for social causes with a patch of some starving Africans in a photo on one's wall in the drawing room. This language of patches is more natural to them than either pure English or pure Indian language (any one of the well over twenty odd offical languages with rich history of literature in most, some quite ancient, others with roots in ancient languages). But patchwork it is, albeit natural to the half breeds as it may be, since it is after all created by them.

Sumer Chand on the other hand writes as an Indian not natural in English speaks, translating his words and idioms and phases and the way thought is shaped, translated from Indian (any Indian language - amazing, since they are so different, how very united they are when translated - it is like a body in another garment, merely) often word for word. Reading this does require a thourough comprehension of Indian language (again, any Indian language will do for the purpose), of the idioms and phrases and how thoughts take the shape of words and forms of speech. Even the mistakes in the book are a reflection of this.

Far more valuable is the reality portrayed herein. Unlike various others who attmept to write with a disturbing consciousness about who they are writing for, this one is merely recounting a tale, and the reality of the background of social and political truths of India merely are portrayed as they are, neither with an attempt to cover up nor with the opposite of that with a deliberate slum wallowing torture for the reader.

If there were any honesty in the various prizes - this one deserves more than one of International kind for its honesty in toto. But the prize giving is not as honest as this book or this author - so this might very well be the only eulogy for the very deserving book and author.