This NYT review of Pankaj Mishra's latest book "Temptations of the West" has allowed me, very easily I must say, to make up my mind not to disgorge any of my precious dead presidents to acquire it. The reason you ask? I am done with Mr. Mishra's peddling of his autobiography in nearly everything he writes. I really liked reading his backstory in his novel "The Romantics"; as an isolated reader in provincial 1980s Benaras; as a witness to the breakdown of Indian Universities into places of anarchy, violence, and lumpen politics; as someone who was trying to make his way through the intellectual wasteland of middle class India with its entire energies focused on "roti, kapada, and makaan". I even recommended the novel to friends because I felt that Mr. Mishra, in the voice of that novel's hero, spoke for quite a large number of Indians of a certain vintage, including myself.

Then my book-runner friend C, to whom I had praised his novel, presented to me Mishra's book on Buddha, which is not a book on Buddha. After reading it, I felt this book could have used the epigram of "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance": "What follows is based on actual occurrences. Although much has been changed for rhetorical purposes, it must be regarded in its essence as fact. However, it should in no way be associated with that great body of factual information relating to orthodox Zen Buddhist practice. It's not very factual on motorcycles, either." Just as in the novel, in this book on the Buddha, we again get to meet Rajesh, the student dropout turned contract killer who "gets" Flaubert; we get evocations of a university falling into anarchy; we get to participate in Mishra's discovery of Edmund Wilson's body of work, and his subsequent brooding (why so much joylessness, Mr. Mishra? You are getting to read and write, dammit!) intellectual development. Now you can imagine my reaction when the above review begins to describe the contents of the latest book as:

"Mishra’s journey begins in the dusty reading room of a university in Benares, the ancient city on the Ganges, holy to both Hindu and Muslim. There he finds the works of Edmund Wilson and Gustave Flaubert, and briefly befriends an intelligent, frustrated young man named Rajesh, trying to make his way in a society riddled by bribery and nepotism."

This reaction further deepened after reading the book's first chapter that NYT was kind enough to include. To borrow from a title of another of Mishra's books, this was my "Dat is recycled butter chicken from Ludhiana, puttar! Tell us something new or shut the fuck up oye" moment. I am not saying that this book doesn't contain other revelations for someone like monkish-me, who constantly has to fight the 'temptations of the west', especially in the form of tanned legs in hot summers. It may very well have some fab writing later, but I am not putting any money in it.

Besides, a cursory glance at the other topics that Mr. Mishra is supposed to have touched upon in this book: Bollywood, Kashmir, Nepal etc, makes me suspect whether these are too are reheated columns and essays of his that have previously appeared elsewhere? I do remember reading a Bollywood piece called "Aspirers" he wrote for Granta that included snatches of conversation with Mallika - "If a chemical drug like Viagra is accepted by society and by the world to ignite desire, then what is the problem with my audio-visual drug called cinema which ignites desire?" - Sherawat (Wtf Mallikaji! Our beloved 'fillums' ne sont pas cinéma), as well as essays he wrote on Kashmir for the New York Review of Books - stuff that can be sourced by digging through this website. So Mishra babua, however much I admire you for who you have become coming from where you come from, you ain't getting no lovin' from me for this latest tome bro.

for Khush

[1] To write a haiku for Someone who calls herself happiness Is happiness.

[2] The love for certain arrangements of words or Certain images in certain movies is enough to Tattoo a haiku over the page, as tiles to ribs.

[A] Send a message to this end And summon me back.

Someone is awake Tonight, every night. The palanquin sits in the yard, Empty like a freshly dug grave.

At dusk, as the street was Slowly shrouded by the fog, I came to the door But none yet, no messenger yet.

When kite strings flit into the sky How does one still the heart? And cold dew doesn’t burn, Doesn’t illuminate this dark.

[B] I have left those alleys behind

Where your petaled feet used to walk And where your dimples flitted Like butterflies whenever you smiled. At which the river took a bend Along the line of your waist And grain grew to harvest To the sound of your laughter.

In those busy rooms from which Your steady warmth radiated. There I heard Evening now resides. And that drizzle of talk In which night used to slip In unnoticed; sometimes I Find that night here, Lying on this bed.

Heart now Is simply a piece of this ache Is a stony alley Is a blind well Is a walled dead end Is like that quick gasp of breath That never seems to end.

And I keep burning it Even if it refuses to Become ash. Yes, I have left those alleys behind.

Translated from the Hindustani.

Note: I got to listening to Gulzar's "Maachis" again this evening so that I can lose myself in his words, and then attempt translations since in my "blind well" there are no poems to be had tonight. Gulzar will do more than enough.

Also, since my Hindi has become rusty, I will appreciate it if anyone lets me know the exact meaning of this phrase "Laton Se Uljhi Lipti" in a line that goes "Laton Se Uljhi Lipti Ek Raat Hua Karti Thi." Gracias.