In recent weeks the writers William Dalrymple and Patrick French, among others, have come before a fusillade of criticism in India, much of it questioning not their facts, not their interpretations, but their foreignness. “Who gets to write about India?” The Wall Street Journal asked on Wednesday in its own report on this Indian literary feuding. It is a complicated question, not least because to decide who gets to write about India, you would need to decide who gets to decide who gets to write about India. Rather than conjecturing some Committee for the Deciding of the Deciding of Who Gets to Write About India, it might be easier to let writers write what they please and readers read what they wish.
The accusations pouring forth from a section of the Indian commentariat are varied. Some criticism is of a genuine literary nature, fair game, customary, expected. But lately a good amount of the reproaching has been about identity.
In the case ofMr. Dalrymple, a Briton who lives in New Delhi, it is—in the critics’ view—that his writing is an act of re-colonization. In the case ofMr. French, it is that he belongs to a group of foreign writers who use business-class lounges and see some merit in capitalism and therefore do not know the real India, which only the commentarial member in question does. What is most interesting about these appraisals is that their essential nature makes reading the book superfluous, as one of my Indian reviewers openly admitted. (His review was not about the book but about his refusal to read the book). The book is not necessary in these cases, for the argument is about who can write about India, not what has been written.
For critics of this persuasion, India surely seems a lonely land. A country with a millennial history of Hindus, Christians, Jews, Muslims and Buddhists living peaceably together; a country of hundreds of dialects in which so many. Indians are linguistic foreigners to each other, and happily, tolerantly so; a country that welcomes foreign seekers (of yoga poses, of spiritual wisdom, of ancestral roots) with open arms; a country where, outside the elite world of South Delhi and South Bombay, I have not heard an Indian ask whether outsiders have a right to write, think or exist on their soil.
But it is not just this deep-in-the-bones pluralism that challenges the who-gets-to-write-about-India contingent. It is also that at the very heart of India’s multifarious changes today is this glimmering idea: that Indians must be rewarded for what they do, not who they are.
Identities you never chose—caste, gender, birth order—are becoming less important determinants of fate. Your deeds—how hard you work, what risks you take—are becoming more important. It is this idea, which I have found pulsating throughout the Indian layers, that leaves a certain portion of the intelligentsia out of sync with the surrounding country. As Mr. French has observed, there is a tendency in some of these writers to value social mobility only for themselves. When the new economy lifts up the huddled masses, then it becomes tawdry capitalism and rapacious imperialism and soulless globalization. Fortunately for those without Indian passports, the nativists’ vision of India is under demographic siege. The young and the relentless are India’s future. They could not think more differently from these literatis.
They savour the freedom they are gaining to seek their own level in the society and to find their voice; and they tend to be delighted at the thought that some foreigners do the same in India and love their country as much as they do.
According to the passage, the question ‘who gets to write about India’ is complicated because:
India has been historically open to and tolerant of foreign writers and artists.
This issue can be satisfactorily resolved only if we can decide who gets to decide who gets to write about India
Ascriptive identities are becoming more and more important in a globalized world.
Ascriptive identities are becoming more and more important in a globalized world.
B.
This issue can be satisfactorily resolved only if we can decide who gets to decide who gets to write about India
In recent weeks the writers William Dalrymple and Patrick French, among others, have come before a fusillade of criticism in India, much of it questioning not their facts, not their interpretations, but their foreignness. “Who gets to write about India?” The Wall Street Journal asked on Wednesday in its own report on this Indian literary feuding. It is a complicated question, not least because to decide who gets to write about India, you would need to decide who gets to decide who gets to write about India. Rather than conjecturing some Committee for the Deciding of the Deciding of Who Gets to Write About India, it might be easier to let writers write what they please and readers read what they wish.
The accusations pouring forth from a section of the Indian commentariat are varied. Some criticism is of a genuine literary nature, fair game, customary, expected. But lately a good amount of the reproaching has been about identity.
In the case ofMr. Dalrymple, a Briton who lives in New Delhi, it is—in the critics’ view—that his writing is an act of re-colonization. In the case ofMr. French, it is that he belongs to a group of foreign writers who use business-class lounges and see some merit in capitalism and therefore do not know the real India, which only the commentarial member in question does. What is most interesting about these appraisals is that their essential nature makes reading the book superfluous, as one of my Indian reviewers openly admitted. (His review was not about the book but about his refusal to read the book). The book is not necessary in these cases, for the argument is about who can write about India, not what has been written.
For critics of this persuasion, India surely seems a lonely land. A country with a millennial history of Hindus, Christians, Jews, Muslims and Buddhists living peaceably together; a country of hundreds of dialects in which so many. Indians are linguistic foreigners to each other, and happily, tolerantly so; a country that welcomes foreign seekers (of yoga poses, of spiritual wisdom, of ancestral roots) with open arms; a country where, outside the elite world of South Delhi and South Bombay, I have not heard an Indian ask whether outsiders have a right to write, think or exist on their soil.
But it is not just this deep-in-the-bones pluralism that challenges the who-gets-to-write-about-India contingent. It is also that at the very heart of India’s multifarious changes today is this glimmering idea: that Indians must be rewarded for what they do, not who they are.
Identities you never chose—caste, gender, birth order—are becoming less important determinants of fate. Your deeds—how hard you work, what risks you take—are becoming more important. It is this idea, which I have found pulsating throughout the Indian layers, that leaves a certain portion of the intelligentsia out of sync with the surrounding country. As Mr. French has observed, there is a tendency in some of these writers to value social mobility only for themselves. When the new economy lifts up the huddled masses, then it becomes tawdry capitalism and rapacious imperialism and soulless globalization. Fortunately for those without Indian passports, the nativists’ vision of India is under demographic siege. The young and the relentless are India’s future. They could not think more differently from these literatis.
They savour the freedom they are gaining to seek their own level in the society and to find their voice; and they tend to be delighted at the thought that some foreigners do the same in India and love their country as much as they do.
Which of the following would be the best substitute for the word, ‘fusillade’ in the passage?
Barrage
Breach
Temper
Temper
In recent weeks the writers William Dalrymple and Patrick French, among others, have come before a fusillade of criticism in India, much of it questioning not their facts, not their interpretations, but their foreignness. “Who gets to write about India?” The Wall Street Journal asked on Wednesday in its own report on this Indian literary feuding. It is a complicated question, not least because to decide who gets to write about India, you would need to decide who gets to decide who gets to write about India. Rather than conjecturing some Committee for the Deciding of the Deciding of Who Gets to Write About India, it might be easier to let writers write what they please and readers read what they wish.
The accusations pouring forth from a section of the Indian commentariat are varied. Some criticism is of a genuine literary nature, fair game, customary, expected. But lately a good amount of the reproaching has been about identity.
In the case ofMr. Dalrymple, a Briton who lives in New Delhi, it is—in the critics’ view—that his writing is an act of re-colonization. In the case ofMr. French, it is that he belongs to a group of foreign writers who use business-class lounges and see some merit in capitalism and therefore do not know the real India, which only the commentarial member in question does. What is most interesting about these appraisals is that their essential nature makes reading the book superfluous, as one of my Indian reviewers openly admitted. (His review was not about the book but about his refusal to read the book). The book is not necessary in these cases, for the argument is about who can write about India, not what has been written.
For critics of this persuasion, India surely seems a lonely land. A country with a millennial history of Hindus, Christians, Jews, Muslims and Buddhists living peaceably together; a country of hundreds of dialects in which so many. Indians are linguistic foreigners to each other, and happily, tolerantly so; a country that welcomes foreign seekers (of yoga poses, of spiritual wisdom, of ancestral roots) with open arms; a country where, outside the elite world of South Delhi and South Bombay, I have not heard an Indian ask whether outsiders have a right to write, think or exist on their soil.
But it is not just this deep-in-the-bones pluralism that challenges the who-gets-to-write-about-India contingent. It is also that at the very heart of India’s multifarious changes today is this glimmering idea: that Indians must be rewarded for what they do, not who they are.
Identities you never chose—caste, gender, birth order—are becoming less important determinants of fate. Your deeds—how hard you work, what risks you take—are becoming more important. It is this idea, which I have found pulsating throughout the Indian layers, that leaves a certain portion of the intelligentsia out of sync with the surrounding country. As Mr. French has observed, there is a tendency in some of these writers to value social mobility only for themselves. When the new economy lifts up the huddled masses, then it becomes tawdry capitalism and rapacious imperialism and soulless globalization. Fortunately for those without Indian passports, the nativists’ vision of India is under demographic siege. The young and the relentless are India’s future. They could not think more differently from these literatis.
They savour the freedom they are gaining to seek their own level in the society and to find their voice; and they tend to be delighted at the thought that some foreigners do the same in India and love their country as much as they do.
Which of the following statements can be inferred from the passage:
Ascriptive identities like caste, tribe, etc. are becoming more and more important with the passage of time.
Patrick French believes that the new market friendly economic policies followed for the last decades have resulted in the rise of tawdry capitalism and rapacious imperialism.
The writer is of the opinion that a section of the intelligentsia is divorced from the views of their compatriots.
The writer is of the opinion that a section of the intelligentsia is divorced from the views of their compatriots.
In recent weeks the writers William Dalrymple and Patrick French, among others, have come before a fusillade of criticism in India, much of it questioning not their facts, not their interpretations, but their foreignness. “Who gets to write about India?” The Wall Street Journal asked on Wednesday in its own report on this Indian literary feuding. It is a complicated question, not least because to decide who gets to write about India, you would need to decide who gets to decide who gets to write about India. Rather than conjecturing some Committee for the Deciding of the Deciding of Who Gets to Write About India, it might be easier to let writers write what they please and readers read what they wish.
The accusations pouring forth from a section of the Indian commentariat are varied. Some criticism is of a genuine literary nature, fair game, customary, expected. But lately a good amount of the reproaching has been about identity.
In the case ofMr. Dalrymple, a Briton who lives in New Delhi, it is—in the critics’ view—that his writing is an act of re-colonization. In the case ofMr. French, it is that he belongs to a group of foreign writers who use business-class lounges and see some merit in capitalism and therefore do not know the real India, which only the commentarial member in question does. What is most interesting about these appraisals is that their essential nature makes reading the book superfluous, as one of my Indian reviewers openly admitted. (His review was not about the book but about his refusal to read the book). The book is not necessary in these cases, for the argument is about who can write about India, not what has been written.
For critics of this persuasion, India surely seems a lonely land. A country with a millennial history of Hindus, Christians, Jews, Muslims and Buddhists living peaceably together; a country of hundreds of dialects in which so many. Indians are linguistic foreigners to each other, and happily, tolerantly so; a country that welcomes foreign seekers (of yoga poses, of spiritual wisdom, of ancestral roots) with open arms; a country where, outside the elite world of South Delhi and South Bombay, I have not heard an Indian ask whether outsiders have a right to write, think or exist on their soil.
But it is not just this deep-in-the-bones pluralism that challenges the who-gets-to-write-about-India contingent. It is also that at the very heart of India’s multifarious changes today is this glimmering idea: that Indians must be rewarded for what they do, not who they are.
Identities you never chose—caste, gender, birth order—are becoming less important determinants of fate. Your deeds—how hard you work, what risks you take—are becoming more important. It is this idea, which I have found pulsating throughout the Indian layers, that leaves a certain portion of the intelligentsia out of sync with the surrounding country. As Mr. French has observed, there is a tendency in some of these writers to value social mobility only for themselves. When the new economy lifts up the huddled masses, then it becomes tawdry capitalism and rapacious imperialism and soulless globalization. Fortunately for those without Indian passports, the nativists’ vision of India is under demographic siege. The young and the relentless are India’s future. They could not think more differently from these literatis.
They savour the freedom they are gaining to seek their own level in the society and to find their voice; and they tend to be delighted at the thought that some foreigners do the same in India and love their country as much as they do.
According to the information available in the passage, the writer is of the opinion that:
Writers like Patrick French do not know the real India
Most of the condemnation heaped on Dalrymple, French and himself has been on expected lines.
India’s reputation of pluralism is cosmetic at best, one that hides deep rooted hatred towards foreigners
India’s reputation of pluralism is cosmetic at best, one that hides deep rooted hatred towards foreigners
In recent weeks the writers William Dalrymple and Patrick French, among others, have come before a fusillade of criticism in India, much of it questioning not their facts, not their interpretations, but their foreignness. “Who gets to write about India?” The Wall Street Journal asked on Wednesday in its own report on this Indian literary feuding. It is a complicated question, not least because to decide who gets to write about India, you would need to decide who gets to decide who gets to write about India. Rather than conjecturing some Committee for the Deciding of the Deciding of Who Gets to Write About India, it might be easier to let writers write what they please and readers read what they wish.
The accusations pouring forth from a section of the Indian commentariat are varied. Some criticism is of a genuine literary nature, fair game, customary, expected. But lately a good amount of the reproaching has been about identity.
In the case ofMr. Dalrymple, a Briton who lives in New Delhi, it is—in the critics’ view—that his writing is an act of re-colonization. In the case ofMr. French, it is that he belongs to a group of foreign writers who use business-class lounges and see some merit in capitalism and therefore do not know the real India, which only the commentarial member in question does. What is most interesting about these appraisals is that their essential nature makes reading the book superfluous, as one of my Indian reviewers openly admitted. (His review was not about the book but about his refusal to read the book). The book is not necessary in these cases, for the argument is about who can write about India, not what has been written.
For critics of this persuasion, India surely seems a lonely land. A country with a millennial history of Hindus, Christians, Jews, Muslims and Buddhists living peaceably together; a country of hundreds of dialects in which so many. Indians are linguistic foreigners to each other, and happily, tolerantly so; a country that welcomes foreign seekers (of yoga poses, of spiritual wisdom, of ancestral roots) with open arms; a country where, outside the elite world of South Delhi and South Bombay, I have not heard an Indian ask whether outsiders have a right to write, think or exist on their soil.
But it is not just this deep-in-the-bones pluralism that challenges the who-gets-to-write-about-India contingent. It is also that at the very heart of India’s multifarious changes today is this glimmering idea: that Indians must be rewarded for what they do, not who they are.
Identities you never chose—caste, gender, birth order—are becoming less important determinants of fate. Your deeds—how hard you work, what risks you take—are becoming more important. It is this idea, which I have found pulsating throughout the Indian layers, that leaves a certain portion of the intelligentsia out of sync with the surrounding country. As Mr. French has observed, there is a tendency in some of these writers to value social mobility only for themselves. When the new economy lifts up the huddled masses, then it becomes tawdry capitalism and rapacious imperialism and soulless globalization. Fortunately for those without Indian passports, the nativists’ vision of India is under demographic siege. The young and the relentless are India’s future. They could not think more differently from these literatis.
They savour the freedom they are gaining to seek their own level in the society and to find their voice; and they tend to be delighted at the thought that some foreigners do the same in India and love their country as much as they do.
The writer refers to the history of Hindus, Christians, Jews, Muslims and Buddhists living peaceably together in India for millions of years in order to
Show India’s openness to foreigners who have visited Indian in the quest for yoga
Argue that India is a country of hundreds of dialects.
Demonstrate the religiosity pervading in an average Indian
Demonstrate the religiosity pervading in an average Indian
The writer believes that the most peculiar aspect of the criticisms that Patrick French and William Dalaymple have received is that:
Most such condemnation has emerged from elite Indians.
Such critics are hostile to upward immobility
These censures are not centered on the books of such writers or their literary styles but are targeted at their identity instead
These censures are not centered on the books of such writers or their literary styles but are targeted at their identity instead
In recent weeks the writers William Dalrymple and Patrick French, among others, have come before a fusillade of criticism in India, much of it questioning not their facts, not their interpretations, but their foreignness. “Who gets to write about India?” The Wall Street Journal asked on Wednesday in its own report on this Indian literary feuding. It is a complicated question, not least because to decide who gets to write about India, you would need to decide who gets to decide who gets to write about India. Rather than conjecturing some Committee for the Deciding of the Deciding of Who Gets to Write About India, it might be easier to let writers write what they please and readers read what they wish.
The accusations pouring forth from a section of the Indian commentariat are varied. Some criticism is of a genuine literary nature, fair game, customary, expected. But lately a good amount of the reproaching has been about identity.
In the case ofMr. Dalrymple, a Briton who lives in New Delhi, it is—in the critics’ view—that his writing is an act of re-colonization. In the case ofMr. French, it is that he belongs to a group of foreign writers who use business-class lounges and see some merit in capitalism and therefore do not know the real India, which only the commentarial member in question does. What is most interesting about these appraisals is that their essential nature makes reading the book superfluous, as one of my Indian reviewers openly admitted. (His review was not about the book but about his refusal to read the book). The book is not necessary in these cases, for the argument is about who can write about India, not what has been written.
For critics of this persuasion, India surely seems a lonely land. A country with a millennial history of Hindus, Christians, Jews, Muslims and Buddhists living peaceably together; a country of hundreds of dialects in which so many. Indians are linguistic foreigners to each other, and happily, tolerantly so; a country that welcomes foreign seekers (of yoga poses, of spiritual wisdom, of ancestral roots) with open arms; a country where, outside the elite world of South Delhi and South Bombay, I have not heard an Indian ask whether outsiders have a right to write, think or exist on their soil.
But it is not just this deep-in-the-bones pluralism that challenges the who-gets-to-write-about-India contingent. It is also that at the very heart of India’s multifarious changes today is this glimmering idea: that Indians must be rewarded for what they do, not who they are.
Identities you never chose—caste, gender, birth order—are becoming less important determinants of fate. Your deeds—how hard you work, what risks you take—are becoming more important. It is this idea, which I have found pulsating throughout the Indian layers, that leaves a certain portion of the intelligentsia out of sync with the surrounding country. As Mr. French has observed, there is a tendency in some of these writers to value social mobility only for themselves. When the new economy lifts up the huddled masses, then it becomes tawdry capitalism and rapacious imperialism and soulless globalization. Fortunately for those without Indian passports, the nativists’ vision of India is under demographic siege. The young and the relentless are India’s future. They could not think more differently from these literatis.
They savour the freedom they are gaining to seek their own level in the society and to find their voice; and they tend to be delighted at the thought that some foreigners do the same in India and love their country as much as they do.
The writer argues that the nature of criticism he, Dalrymple and French have received for their books renders reading their books superfluous because
Such criticism has been limited to a very small minority of Indians
These writers are popular among Indian youth, even among those who have not read their books.
Such criticism is less about what has been written in their books than about who can write on India
In recent weeks the writers William Dalrymple and Patrick French, among others, have come before a fusillade of criticism in India, much of it questioning not their facts, not their interpretations, but their foreignness. “Who gets to write about India?” The Wall Street Journal asked on Wednesday in its own report on this Indian literary feuding. It is a complicated question, not least because to decide who gets to write about India, you would need to decide who gets to decide who gets to write about India. Rather than conjecturing some Committee for the Deciding of the Deciding of Who Gets to Write About India, it might be easier to let writers write what they please and readers read what they wish.
The accusations pouring forth from a section of the Indian commentariat are varied. Some criticism is of a genuine literary nature, fair game, customary, expected. But lately a good amount of the reproaching has been about identity.
In the case ofMr. Dalrymple, a Briton who lives in New Delhi, it is—in the critics’ view—that his writing is an act of re-colonization. In the case ofMr. French, it is that he belongs to a group of foreign writers who use business-class lounges and see some merit in capitalism and therefore do not know the real India, which only the commentarial member in question does. What is most interesting about these appraisals is that their essential nature makes reading the book superfluous, as one of my Indian reviewers openly admitted. (His review was not about the book but about his refusal to read the book). The book is not necessary in these cases, for the argument is about who can write about India, not what has been written.
For critics of this persuasion, India surely seems a lonely land. A country with a millennial history of Hindus, Christians, Jews, Muslims and Buddhists living peaceably together; a country of hundreds of dialects in which so many. Indians are linguistic foreigners to each other, and happily, tolerantly so; a country that welcomes foreign seekers (of yoga poses, of spiritual wisdom, of ancestral roots) with open arms; a country where, outside the elite world of South Delhi and South Bombay, I have not heard an Indian ask whether outsiders have a right to write, think or exist on their soil.
But it is not just this deep-in-the-bones pluralism that challenges the who-gets-to-write-about-India contingent. It is also that at the very heart of India’s multifarious changes today is this glimmering idea: that Indians must be rewarded for what they do, not who they are.
Identities you never chose—caste, gender, birth order—are becoming less important determinants of fate. Your deeds—how hard you work, what risks you take—are becoming more important. It is this idea, which I have found pulsating throughout the Indian layers, that leaves a certain portion of the intelligentsia out of sync with the surrounding country. As Mr. French has observed, there is a tendency in some of these writers to value social mobility only for themselves. When the new economy lifts up the huddled masses, then it becomes tawdry capitalism and rapacious imperialism and soulless globalization. Fortunately for those without Indian passports, the nativists’ vision of India is under demographic siege. The young and the relentless are India’s future. They could not think more differently from these literatis.
They savour the freedom they are gaining to seek their own level in the society and to find their voice; and they tend to be delighted at the thought that some foreigners do the same in India and love their country as much as they do.
“But with many outsiders’ India-related books recently hitting bookstores there, the sensitivity—flared into a bout of vigorous literary nativism, with equally vigorous counterpunches.” Select the most appropriate choice to fill in the blank in the above sentence:
Has
Have
Was
Was
In recent weeks the writers William Dalrymple and Patrick French, among others, have come before a fusillade of criticism in India, much of it questioning not their facts, not their interpretations, but their foreignness. “Who gets to write about India?” The Wall Street Journal asked on Wednesday in its own report on this Indian literary feuding. It is a complicated question, not least because to decide who gets to write about India, you would need to decide who gets to decide who gets to write about India. Rather than conjecturing some Committee for the Deciding of the Deciding of Who Gets to Write About India, it might be easier to let writers write what they please and readers read what they wish.
The accusations pouring forth from a section of the Indian commentariat are varied. Some criticism is of a genuine literary nature, fair game, customary, expected. But lately a good amount of the reproaching has been about identity.
In the case ofMr. Dalrymple, a Briton who lives in New Delhi, it is—in the critics’ view—that his writing is an act of re-colonization. In the case ofMr. French, it is that he belongs to a group of foreign writers who use business-class lounges and see some merit in capitalism and therefore do not know the real India, which only the commentarial member in question does. What is most interesting about these appraisals is that their essential nature makes reading the book superfluous, as one of my Indian reviewers openly admitted. (His review was not about the book but about his refusal to read the book). The book is not necessary in these cases, for the argument is about who can write about India, not what has been written.
For critics of this persuasion, India surely seems a lonely land. A country with a millennial history of Hindus, Christians, Jews, Muslims and Buddhists living peaceably together; a country of hundreds of dialects in which so many. Indians are linguistic foreigners to each other, and happily, tolerantly so; a country that welcomes foreign seekers (of yoga poses, of spiritual wisdom, of ancestral roots) with open arms; a country where, outside the elite world of South Delhi and South Bombay, I have not heard an Indian ask whether outsiders have a right to write, think or exist on their soil.
But it is not just this deep-in-the-bones pluralism that challenges the who-gets-to-write-about-India contingent. It is also that at the very heart of India’s multifarious changes today is this glimmering idea: that Indians must be rewarded for what they do, not who they are.
Identities you never chose—caste, gender, birth order—are becoming less important determinants of fate. Your deeds—how hard you work, what risks you take—are becoming more important. It is this idea, which I have found pulsating throughout the Indian layers, that leaves a certain portion of the intelligentsia out of sync with the surrounding country. As Mr. French has observed, there is a tendency in some of these writers to value social mobility only for themselves. When the new economy lifts up the huddled masses, then it becomes tawdry capitalism and rapacious imperialism and soulless globalization. Fortunately for those without Indian passports, the nativists’ vision of India is under demographic siege. The young and the relentless are India’s future. They could not think more differently from these literatis.
They savour the freedom they are gaining to seek their own level in the society and to find their voice; and they tend to be delighted at the thought that some foreigners do the same in India and love their country as much as they do.
Which of the following statements is least likely to be inferred from the passage
Younger generations of Indians are more tolerant of foreign scribes who write about their country.
The writer believes that a section of Indian intelligentsia is very hostile to upward economic mobility.
Mr. William Dalrymple has been accused of recolonising India through his writings.
Mr. William Dalrymple has been accused of recolonising India through his writings.
In recent weeks the writers William Dalrymple and Patrick French, among others, have come before a fusillade of criticism in India, much of it questioning not their facts, not their interpretations, but their foreignness. “Who gets to write about India?” The Wall Street Journal asked on Wednesday in its own report on this Indian literary feuding. It is a complicated question, not least because to decide who gets to write about India, you would need to decide who gets to decide who gets to write about India. Rather than conjecturing some Committee for the Deciding of the Deciding of Who Gets to Write About India, it might be easier to let writers write what they please and readers read what they wish.
The accusations pouring forth from a section of the Indian commentariat are varied. Some criticism is of a genuine literary nature, fair game, customary, expected. But lately a good amount of the reproaching has been about identity.
In the case ofMr. Dalrymple, a Briton who lives in New Delhi, it is—in the critics’ view—that his writing is an act of re-colonization. In the case ofMr. French, it is that he belongs to a group of foreign writers who use business-class lounges and see some merit in capitalism and therefore do not know the real India, which only the commentarial member in question does. What is most interesting about these appraisals is that their essential nature makes reading the book superfluous, as one of my Indian reviewers openly admitted. (His review was not about the book but about his refusal to read the book). The book is not necessary in these cases, for the argument is about who can write about India, not what has been written.
For critics of this persuasion, India surely seems a lonely land. A country with a millennial history of Hindus, Christians, Jews, Muslims and Buddhists living peaceably together; a country of hundreds of dialects in which so many. Indians are linguistic foreigners to each other, and happily, tolerantly so; a country that welcomes foreign seekers (of yoga poses, of spiritual wisdom, of ancestral roots) with open arms; a country where, outside the elite world of South Delhi and South Bombay, I have not heard an Indian ask whether outsiders have a right to write, think or exist on their soil.
But it is not just this deep-in-the-bones pluralism that challenges the who-gets-to-write-about-India contingent. It is also that at the very heart of India’s multifarious changes today is this glimmering idea: that Indians must be rewarded for what they do, not who they are.
Identities you never chose—caste, gender, birth order—are becoming less important determinants of fate. Your deeds—how hard you work, what risks you take—are becoming more important. It is this idea, which I have found pulsating throughout the Indian layers, that leaves a certain portion of the intelligentsia out of sync with the surrounding country. As Mr. French has observed, there is a tendency in some of these writers to value social mobility only for themselves. When the new economy lifts up the huddled masses, then it becomes tawdry capitalism and rapacious imperialism and soulless globalization. Fortunately for those without Indian passports, the nativists’ vision of India is under demographic siege. The young and the relentless are India’s future. They could not think more differently from these literatis.
They savour the freedom they are gaining to seek their own level in the society and to find their voice; and they tend to be delighted at the thought that some foreigners do the same in India and love their country as much as they do.
Foreign writers who have written books on India
Critics who have attacked foreign writers writing on India for their mere foreignness
Elite residents of South Delhi and South Bombay
Elite residents of South Delhi and South Bombay