This has been an interesting discussion going on over at Sepia Mutiny revolving around the forthcoming Mira Nair's movie based on Jhumpa Lahiri's novel "The Namesake". Since the movie* hasn't hit the theatres yet, the critique is centered around the merits of the novel; particularly around Lahiri's "Bengali cred" to write about events and scenes in that novel which were set around Calcutta. One particular comment that got me going was this:

"And yet these are the people who will get all the accolades and attention. Take Jhumpa Lahiri for example. From what I have read that in The Namesake she tries to portrays Bengali culture in her book. Being a Bengali, I take offense in that, because what she is doing can be best classfied as pandering to white culture/audience. I wonder exactly how much she knows about Bengali culture herself, seeing that she was born abroad and spent all of her life there. For a person like this to try to portray Bengali, much less Indian, culture is disingenous at best. Which is why you get these typical stories about identity crisis whining and culture clashes from these new breed of so-called Indian authors. Stories like The Namesake have been done millions of times before, so there's nothing original about them anymore. The sad part is that true Indian writing will never be exposed nor accepted here. The Western audience wants pre-packaged writing comprised of stereotypical stories about Indians, which is why you get so many Westerners swooning over unoriginal authors like Ms. Lahiri. Give them stories about arranged marriages and conservative Indian families and you are instantly taken to the top of the New York Times bestseller list. I wonder how many of these people have heard of Rabindranath or Premchand? It's amusing to see NRIs getting orgasms over The Namesake and Kal Penn, who lacks in both looks and talent, and patting themselves in the back to see him with a "blonde" on screen. Not to mention Mira Nair, who along with Gurinder Chaddha, is part of the new breed of "let's package Indian culture so that Westerners will like it" type directors. Let's hope The Namesake will go away quickly."

Since I don't have the novel with me (I gulped the hardcover version down in one Sunday sitting at Borders, and I didn't think it was worth spending $25 on) I can't go back and read those sections of the book that dealt in particular with Bengal (or India) to verify the "authenticity"** of Lahiri's writing. Besides, I have only lived, peripherally at best, for four years in Bengal, and my stamp wouldn't count as much as a true blue Babu Moshai's would for the critic quoted above.

My memory also tells me that the parts of Lahiri's novel that were set in India, apart from the Gogol-ian accident, were peripheral to the narrative; a narrative that was heavily focused on a second-gen Indian American's life, a narrative that I think Lahiri, as a second-gen Indian American herself, can "authentically" write about. Did the novel hit false notes? Yes, it did. Did the novel try to shoehorn desi "exotica" into the characters' lives? No, it did not.

Further, if the Bengali authenticity police wants to pick on writing that "falsely" subsumes some kind of a Bengali experience, there are novels (and novelists) out there that are far more unreadable than Lahiri's work. Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni's (of "Mistress of Spices" infamy) stuff comes readily to my mind. Here is an excerpt from her "Sister of My Heart" (I sat through her reading of this tripe):

"They say in the old tales that the first night after a child is born, the Bidhata Purush comes down to earth himself to decide what its fortune is to be. That is why they bathe babies in sandalwood water and wrap them in soft red malmal, color of luck. That is why they leave sweetmeats by the cradle. Silver-leafed sandesh, dark pantuas floating in golden syrup, jilipis orange as the heart of a fire, glazed with honey-sugar. If the child is especially lucky, in the morning it will all be gone.

"That's because the servants sneak in during the night and eat them," says Anju, giving her head an impatient shake as Abha Pishi oils her hair. This is how she is, my cousin, always scoffing, refusing to believe. But she knows, as I do, that no servant in all of Calcutta would dare eat sweets meant for a god.

The old tales say this also: In the wake of the Bidhata Purush come the demons, for that is the world's nature, good and evil mingled. That is why they leave an oil lamp burning. That is why they place the sacred tulsi leaf under the baby's pillow for protection. In richer households, like the one my mother grew up in, she has told us, they hire a brahmin to sit in the corridor and recite auspicious prayers all night."

Did you say "WTF!" already? ...

*I have learnt that my fav Brit macaca, Nitin Sawhney has scored music for this movie. Now that is a good enough reason for me to watch it. I know I haven't yet blogged about his latest album "Philtre" (aka "Filter" - out the bush-it) that came out this past April; and since MusicIndiaOnline hasn't added it yet to its Sawhney Collection, here is a lovely track "Mausam" for download (pliss don't tell guvnment) from this album.