What can one say about this remarkable work and its remarkable subject, in this curious collaboration between a great artist who has signed his name in Malayalam, a language he cannot speak, and a writer who traces his roots to Kerala, a homeland he has only visited on his holidays? The “Marunaadan Malayali” — the expatriate Keralite — is so widespread, and so common, a phenomenon that the phrase has entered the Malayalam language. And here I am, one of the tribe, inspired by the paintings of a man who is the most “inside” of outsiders, seeking to capture in far too many words the insights into Kerala that he has illuminated with the dazzling fluency of his brush.
Though I am a Malayali and a writer, I have no claims to be considered a Malayali writer: indeed, despite setting some of my fictional sequences in Kerala and scattering several Menons through my stories, I could not have written my books in Malayalam because I cannot write my own mother tongue. And yet I am not inclined to be defensive about my Kerala heritage, despite the obvious incongruities of an expatriate praising Kerala from abroad and lauding the Malayali heritage in the English language.
As a child of the city, growing up in Bombay, Calcutta, and Delhi, my only experience of village Kerala had been as an initially reluctant vacationer during my parents’ annual trips home. For many non-Keralite Malayali children traveling like this, there was often little joy in the compulsory rediscovery of their roots, and many saw it more as an obligation than a pleasure. For city-dwellers, rural Kerala (and Kerala is essentially rural, since the countryside envelops the towns in a seamless web) was a world of rustic simplicities and private inconveniences. When I was ten I told my father that this annual migration to the south was strictly for the birds. But as I grew older, I came to appreciate the magic of Kerala — its beauty, which Husain so exquisitely evokes, and also its ethos, which animates his images.
What does it mean, then, for Keralites like me, now living outside Kerala, to lay claim to our Malayali heritage? What is it of Kerala that we learn to cherish, and of which we remain proud, wherever we are? Those are the two questions I have tried to answer in my own essay accompanying Husain's paintings. In many ways my sense of Kerala is tied up with my sense of being Indian. I guess Husain could say something very similar himself. He has personalized my copy of our book not with horses or elephants, but with a boat, riding low in the water, taking us — like Kerala itself — gently forward.
II
Reconsiderations
7
Right Ho, Sahib:
Wodehouse and India
IT WAS AT THE HAY-ON-WYE FESTIVAL OF LITERATURE a few years ago that I realized with horror how low the fortunes of P. G. Wodehouse had sunk in his native land. I was on stage for a panel discussion on the works of the master when the moderator, a gifted and suave young literary impresario, began the proceedings by asking innocently, “So how do you pronounce it — is it Woad-house or Wood-house?”
Woadhouse? You could have knocked me over with the proverbial feather, except that Wodehouse himself would have disdained the cliché, instead describing my expression as, perhaps, that of one who “had swallowed an east wind” (Carry On, Jeeves, 1925). The fact was that a luminary at the premier book event in the British Isles — albeit one sponsored, it must be admitted, by the Sunday Times — had no idea how to pronounce the name of the man I regarded as the finest English writer since Shakespeare. I spent the rest of the panel discussion looking (to echo a description of Bertie Wooster's Uncle Tom) like a pterodactyl with a secret sorrow.
My dismay had Indian roots. Like many of my compatriots, I had discovered Wodehouse young and pursued my delight across the ninety-five volumes of the master's oeuvre, savoring book after book as if the pleasure would never end. When All India Radio announced, one sunny afternoon in February 1975, that P. G. Wodehouse had died, I felt a cloud of impenetrable darkness had settled over my day. The newly (and belatedly) knighted Sir Pelham Grenville Wodehouse, creator of Jeeves and of the prize pig the Empress of Blandings, was in his ninety-fourth year, but his death still came as a shock. Three decades earlier, Wode-house had reacted to the passing of his stepdaughter, Leonora, with the numbed words: “I thought she was immortal.” I had thought Wodehouse was immortal too, and I felt like one who had “drained the four-ale of life and found a dead mouse at the bottom of the pewter” (Sam the Sudden, also from that vintage year of 1925).
For months before his death I had procrastinated over a letter to Wodehouse. It was a collegian's fan letter, made special by being written on the letterhead (complete with curly-tailed pig) of the Wodehouse Society of St. Stephen's College, Delhi University. Ours was then the only Wodehouse society in the world, and I was its president, a distinction I prized over all others in an active and eclectic extracurricular life. The Wodehouse Society ran mimicry and comic speech contests and organized the annual Lord Ickenham Memorial Practical Joke Week, the bane of all at college who took themselves too seriously. The society's underground rag, Spice, edited by a wildly original classmate who was to go on to become a counselor to the prime minister of India, was by far the most popular newspaper on campus; even its misprints were deliberate, and deliberately funny.
I had wanted to tell the master all this, and to gladden his famously indulgent heart with the tribute being paid to him at this incongruous outpost of Wodehouseana thousands of miles away from any place he had ever written about. But I had never been satisfied by the prose of any of my drafts of the letter. Writing to the man Evelyn Waugh had called “the greatest living writer of the English language, the head of my profession” was like offering a soufflé to Bocuse. It had to be just right. Of course, it never was, and now I would never be able to reach out and establish this small connection to the writer who had given me more joy than anything else in my life.
The loss was personal, but it was also widely shared: P. G. Wodehouse was by far the most popular English-language writer in India, his readership exceeding that of Agatha Christie or Harold Robbins. His erudite butlers, absent-minded earls, and silly-ass aristocrats, out to pinch policemen's helmets on Boat Race Night or perform convoluted acts of petty larceny at the behest of tyrannical aunts, are familiar to, and beloved by, most educated Indians. I cannot think of an Indian family I know that does not have at least one Wodehouse book on its shelves, and most have several. In a country where most people's earning capacity has not kept up with international publishing inflation and book-borrowing is part of the culture, libraries stock multiple copies of each Wodehouse title. At the British Council libraries in the major Indian cities, demand for Wodehouse reputedly outstrips that for any other author, so that each month's list of “new arrivals” includes reissues of old Wode-house favorites. Wodehouse's death was page-one news in every English-language newspaper in India; the articles and letters that were published in the following days about his life and work would have filled volumes.
In the three decades since his death, much has changed in India, but Wodehouse still commands the heights. His works are sold on railway station platforms and airport book-stalls alongside the latest best-sellers. In 1988 the state-run television network broadcast a ten-part Hindi adaptation of his 1923 classic Leave It to Psmith, with the Shropshire castle of the earl of Emsworth becoming the Rajasthani palace of an indolent maharaja. (The series was a disaster: Wodehousean purists were appalled by the changes, and the TV audience discovered that English humor does not translate too well into Hindi.) Quiz contests, a popular activity in urban India, continue to feature questions about Wodehouse's books (“What is Jeeves's first name?” “Which of Bertie Wooster's fiancées persisted in calling the stars ‘God's daisy chain’?”) But, alas, reports from St. Stephen's College tell me that the Wodehouse Society is now defunct, having fallen into disrepute when one of its Practical Joke Weeks went awry.
Many are astonished at the extent of Wodehouse's popularity in India, particularly when, elsewhere in the English-speaking world, he is no longer much read. Americans know Wodehouse from reruns o
f earlier TV versions of his short stories on programs with names like Masterpiece Theatre on public television, but these have a limited audience, even though some of Wodehouse's funniest stories were set in Hollywood, and he lived the last three decades of his life in Remsenberg, Long Island. The critic Michael Dirda noted in the Washington Post some years ago that Wodehouse “seems to have lost his general audience and become mainly a cult author savored by connoisseurs for his prose artistry.” That is increasingly true in England and the rest of the Commonwealth, but not in India. While no English-language writer can truly be said to have a “mass” following in India, where only 2 percent of the population read English, Wodehouse has maintained a general rather than a cult audience amongst this Anglophone minority: unlike others who have enjoyed fleeting success, he has never gone out of fashion. This bewilders those who think that nothing could be further removed from Indian life, with its poverty and political intensity, than the cheerfully silly escapades of Wodehouse's decadent Edwardian Young Men in Spats. Indians enjoying Wodehouse, they suggest, makes about as much sense as the cognoscenti of Chad lapping up Jay McInerney or Candace Bushnell.
At one level, India's fascination with Wodehouse is indeed one of those enduring and endearing international mysteries, like why Pakistanis are good at squash but none of their neighbors are, or why the Americans, who can afford to do anything correctly, have never managed to understand that tea is made with boiling water, not merely boiled water. And yet many have convinced themselves that there is more to it than that. Some have seen in Wodehouse's popularity a lingering nostalgia for the Raj, the British Empire in India. Writing in 1988, the journalist Richard West thought India's Wodehouse devotees were those who “hanker after the England of 50 years ago [i.e., the 1930s]. That was the age when the English loved and treasured their own language, when schoolchildren learned Shakespeare, Wordsworth and even Rudyard Kipling…. It was Malcolm Muggeridge who remarked that the Indians are now the last Englishmen. That may be why they love the quintessentially English writer, P. G. Wodehouse.”
Those lines are, of course, somewhat more fatuous than anything Wodehouse himself ever wrote. Wodehouse is loved by Indians who loathe Kipling and detest the Raj and all its works. Indeed, despite a brief stint in a Hong Kong bank, Wodehouse had no colonial connection himself, and the Raj is largely absent from his books. (There is only one notable exception I can recall from his oeuvre, in a 1935 short story: “Why is there unrest in India? Because its inhabitants eat only an occasional handful of rice. The day when Mahatma Gandhi sits down to a good juicy steak and follows it up with roly-poly pudding and a spot of Stilton, you will see the end of all this nonsense of Civil Disobedience.” But Indians saw that that comment was meant to elicit laughter, not agreement.) If anything, Wodehouse is one British writer whom Indian nationalists could admire without fear of political incorrectness. My former mother-in-law, the daughter of a prominent Indian nationalist politician, remembers introducing Britain's last viceroy, Lord Mountbatten, in 1947 to the works of Wodehouse; it was typical that the symbol of the British Empire had not read the “quintessentially English” Wodehouse but that the Indian freedom fighter had.
Indeed, it is precisely the lack of politics in Wode-house's writing, or indeed of any other social or philosophical content, that made what Waugh called his “idyllic world” so free of the trappings of Englishness, quintessential or otherwise. Unlike almost any other writer, Wodehouse does not require his readers to identify with any of his characters: they are stock figures, almost theatrical archetypes whose carefully plotted exits and entrances one follows because they are amusing, not because one is actually meant to care about them. Whereas other English novelists burdened their readers with the specificities of their characters’ lives and circumstances, Wodehouse's existed in a never-never land that was almost as unreal to his English readers as to his Indian ones. Indian readers were able to enjoy Wodehouse free of the anxiety of allegiance; for all its droll particularities, the world he created, from London's Drones Club to the village of Matcham Scratchings, was a world of the imagination, to which Indians required no visa.
But they did need a passport, and that was the English language. English was undoubtedly Britain's most valuable and abiding legacy to India, and educated Indians, a famously polyglot people, rapidly learned and delighted in it — both for itself, and as a means to various ends. These ends were both political (for Indians turned the language of the imperialists into the language of nationalism) and pleasurable (for the language granted access to a wider world of ideas and entertainments). It was only natural that Indians would enjoy a writer who used language as Wodehouse did — playing with its rich storehouse of classical precedents, mockingly subverting the very canons colonialism had taught Indians they were supposed to venerate. “He groaned slightly and winced, like Prometheus watching his vulture dropping in for lunch.” Or: “The butler was looking nervous, like Macbeth interviewing Lady Macbeth after one of her visits to the spare room.” And best of all, in a country ruled for the better part of two centuries by the dispensable siblings of the British nobility: “Unlike the male codfish which, suddenly finding itself the parent of three million five hundred thousand little codfish, cheerfully resolves to love them all, the British aristocracy is apt to look with a somewhat jaundiced eye on its younger sons.”
That sentence captures much of the Wodehouse magic — what P. N. Furbank called his “comic pretence of verbal precision, an exhibition of lexicology.” Wodehouse's writing embodied erudition, literary allusion, jocular slang, and an uncanny sense of timing that owed much to the long-extinct art of music-hall comedy: “She… [resembled] one of those engravings of the mistresses of Bourbon kings which make one feel that the monarchs who selected them must have been men of iron, impervious to fear, or else short-sighted.” Furbank thought Wodehouse's “whole style [was] a joke about literacy.” But it is a particularly literate joke. No authorial dedication will ever match Wodehouse's oft-plagiarized classic, for his 1925 collection of golfing stories The Heart of a Goof: “To my daughter Leonora, without whose never-failing sympathy and encouragement this book would have been finished in half the time.”
Part of Wodehouse's appeal to Indians certainly lies in the uniqueness of his style, which inveigled us into a sort of conspiracy of universalism: his humor was inclusive, for his mock-serious generalizations were, of course, as absurd to those he was ostensibly writing about as to us. “Like so many substantial citizens of America, he had married young and kept on marrying, springing from blonde to blonde like the chamois of the Alps leaping from crag to crag.” The terrifying Honoria Glossop has “a laugh like a squadron of cavalry charging over a tin bridge.” Aunts, who always loom large in Wodehouse's world, bellow to each other “like mastodons across the primeval swamp.” Jeeves, the gentle-man's personal gentleman, coughs softly, like “a very old sheep clearing its throat on a distant mountain-top.” Evelyn Waugh worshiped Wodehouse's penchant for tossing off original similes: “a soul as grey as a stevedore's undervest”; “her face was shining like the seat of a bus driver's trousers”; “a slow, pleasant voice, like clotted cream made audible”; “she looked like a tomato struggling for self-expression.” My own favorites stretch the possibilities of the language in unexpected ways: “She had more curves than a scenic railway”; “I turned him down like a bedspread”; and the much-quoted “if not actually disgruntled, he was far from being gruntled.”
This insidious but good-humored subversion of the language, conducted with straight-faced aplomb, appeals most of all to a people who have acquired English but rebel against its heritage. The colonial connection left strange patterns on the minds of the connected. Wodehouse's is a world we can share with the English on equal terms, because they are just as surprised by its enchantments. As we celebrate the hundredth anniversary of the publication of his first novel, perhaps that is as good an argument as any for a long-overdue Wodehouse revival in England.
8
> The Last Englishman:
Malcolm Muggeridge
DURING 2003, A GREAT DEAL, SOME OF IT VALUABLE, was written about the much-heralded centenary of that great writer and humanist George Orwell. But earlier that year most of the world press missed another centenary altogether — also that of an Englishman of letters with something of an Indian connection. This might not be entirely surprising, since few reputations are as evanescent as those forged in the transient arena of popular journalism, which is where Malcolm Muggeridge, who would have turned one hundred in March 2003, made his name. But just three decades ago, at the height of his fame, Malcolm Muggeridge was surely among the half-dozen best-known Britons in India, and it is a little too soon, in my view, for us to have completely forgotten him.
Muggeridge is best remembered in India as the man who “discovered” Mother Teresa — the journalist whose impassioned reporting of her work, captured first on BBC television and then more memorably in the 1969 book Something Beautiful for God, first catapulted the Calcutta missionary to worldwide attention. At the time Muggeridge declared that he “saw life as an eternal battle between two irreconcilable opposites, the world of the flesh and the world of the spirit.” His admiration for Mother Teresa helped convince him of the triumph of the spirit, and turned him into an increasingly religious figure, who was finally received into the Roman Catholic faith in 1982, at the age of seventy-nine. “God made the world,” Muggeridge observed, “and saw that it was good.” When he died in 1990 it was the Malcolm Muggeridge of Catholic compassion whom the Indian obituarists all memorialized.
Bookless in Baghdad Page 5
