Leisure & Arts
Gatekeeper to the Indian Soul
By SHOBA NARAYAN
New York
When I tell people that I am from India, they often ask
who my favorite Indian writer is. Sometimes, a friend
planning a trip to the subcontinent will ask what books to
read in order to "understand" India. To both questions, I
have one answer: R.K. Narayan, the author of more than 30
works of fiction, nonfiction, essays, short stories, memoirs
and mythology. Narayan died last Sunday at age 94.
Salman Rushdie may spin dazzling, exuberant tales about
Indian cities; Vikram Seth may use his prodigious talent for
wordplay to weave complex family tapestries; Arundhati Roy
may craft a marvelous, multifaceted story; Anita Desai may
be a master at brooding, complicated plots; but Narayan
holds the key to the Indian soul. His characters embody the
Indian psyche with all its accompanying hopes and anxieties,
born of a deep-rooted belief in fatalism.
Critics have often compared Narayan
with Faulkner, perhaps because most of
Narayan's tales occur in a fictional Indian
town called Malgudi, somewhat akin to Faulkner's imaginary
Yoknapatawpha. Like Faulkner, Narayan sought universal
themes in small-town stories. "The English Teacher," a
favorite of many readers, deals with the death and loss of a
loved one. "The Guide," one of Narayan's most acclaimed
books, which was made into an Indian movie, is about
attachment and renunciation, strong themes in the Hindu
religion. The story revolves around a tour guide, Raju, who
falls in love with a married dancer named Rosie, moves in
with her and makes her famous, only to be accused of
stealing her money. He then renounces it all, Indian-fashion,
to go to the forest and sit under a tree. The next thing he
knows, the local villagers begin worshipping him as a saint
who can make the monsoon rains come pouring down through
his powers.
While some of Narayan's best writing tackles large themes,
other novels are simply stories that revolve around vignettes
of the life of a particular character. He seems to eschew
complex plots, surprise endings and complicated characters.
"The Bachelor of Arts," his second book, is about a young
college student, Chandran, who joins the debating society,
goes to movies and eventually falls in love. I was a young
undergraduate myself when I read it; I still remember the
scene where Narayan describes the "proper" way to go to the
movies. The languorous description of how Chandran and a
friend finish dinner at a restaurant, saunter along the beach,
smoking a cigarette and chewing a paan, before settling
down to watch the movie, has set the standard for every
movie excursion of mine since.
I grew up with R.K. Narayan. Not literally,
but literarily. My father, an English
professor at Anna University in India, did
his Ph.D. thesis on Narayan and went on to
become something of an expert in "Indian
Writing in English," as the genre came to
be called. As a result, our house was
littered with Narayan's books, and I read
them when I had nothing else to read. At
least that is how it started.
It was fortuitous that my introduction to
Narayan came through "Swami and
Friends," Narayan's first published novel.
Swami, the main character, was a young
schoolboy to whom I could easily relate. Like me, Swami had
to deal with the school bully, manage rival factions and
decide which group to join, and like me, Swami turned to his
grandmother for stories and solace. Swami reminded me of a
gentler Tom Sawyer. There is a classic scene in the book that
any schoolboy can identify with. Swami catches an ant, puts
it on a paper boat, sets it adrift in the sewer and watches its
progress till the boat capsizes and the ant dies. Then Swami
utters a prayer for the soul of the ant and hopes that God
won't punish him for his evil deed. I remember doing that
with many a hapless grasshopper or ant myself.
Although I've read all of Narayan's novels, my favorite is "The
Vendor of Sweets," perhaps because of its glorious
descriptions of Indian food and the making of it. "The Vendor
of Sweets" is Jagan, a man of austere habits whose life
revolves around his young son, Mali. Jagan sells sweets and
saves enough money to send Mali to America for graduate
school, only to find that Mali comes home with a
Korean-American wife named Daisy (Narayan's novels are full
of Daisies and Rosies, all of whom are viewed with
suspicion).
To Jagan's consternation, he later finds out that Mali and
Daisy aren't even married. The clash between Jagan's
Gandhian values and his daughter-in-law's Western lifestyle
makes for hilarious reading. Jagan is a strict vegetarian who
cooks his own meals; Daisy brings meat into the house.
Jagan brushes his teeth with neem leaves; Daisy tries to
convert him to toothpaste. Jagan eschews leather as
cowhide; Daisy embraces it. The novel ends with Jagan
cordoning off a section of the house and refusing to interact
with his son and Daisy.
In "The Vendor of Sweets," Narayan also gives his readers a
crash course on how to make excellent South Indian coffee.
In a flashback, Jagan recalls his childhood, where his mother
would get up at dawn, roast and grind coffee beans, filter
boiling water through the grinds in a muslin cloth and add
boiling cow's milk to the coffee decoction. The flashback also
recounts Jagan's own arranged marriage and his trip to a
neighboring village to gawk at his future wife. Jagan's elder
brother gives him strict instructions on how to appear
intelligent (don't gobble down the sweets they offer you;
instead, chew a tiny piece daintily), how to act like a
dignified bridegroom (don't stare at your wife constantly lest
you be considered hen-pecked) and how to conduct himself
during the wedding. Most of these events probably happened
in exact replica for men of my father's generation, and still
do happen in India, where arranged marriages are the norm. I
laughed out loud when I read that chapter, because it
seemed so familiar, so authentically Indian, so similar to the
stories my grandmother told me about her own arranged
marriage.
That, to me, is Narayan's greatest charm. His novels reveal
the nuances of a very specific -- albeit narrow -- world: the
world of a South Indian Tamilian Brahmin Iyer, a community I
am intimately familiar with, as I am one myself. In fact, I
share a last name with Narayan, which has caused people to
ask if we are related. We are not, although I wish we were.
Rasipuram Krishnaswamy Narayanaswami (Graham Greene
asked him to shorten his name before the publication of his
first book) was a quintessential "TamBram" (Tamil Brahmin)
who reminded me of my father, my uncles and, in fact, most
of the men of my father's generation who inhabit my
hometown, Madras (now called Chennai).
I wish I'd had the honor of knowing him.