Consistency of Standard

In this case, by "new," the editors meant no authors who have already "published more than two books." Indeed, the editors were so conscientious about choosing genuine "emerging talent" talent that they did not even approach any author who has "received exceptional notice with their debut works." Often, new writing is so weak that editors are forced to relax their rules. Luckily, Indian English writing has matured to the point that the editors of First Proof could avoid making such exceptions.

Indeed, maturity might indeed be an apt one-word descriptor for this collection. It consists of seventeen works of fiction, and thirteen of non-fiction. Even within those broad categories they display a diversity of forms. What holds them together is a consistency of standard; despite flashes of individual felicity, or its lack, they belong to a certain basic level in terms of both form and language.

What makes reading new writers nerve-wracking for well-wishers is the fact that the experience is akin to watching a juggler-in-training. One is constantly worried that the tyro will drop a ball; one cannot sit back and enjoy the show with the confidence one brings to the outrages of a professional circus. In case of writing, often the first line or page is sufficient to signal if one is in the hands of an assured literary performer. By that measure, while none of the writers here are famous, almost none is an amateur.

Not all the pieces are of equal standard or promise. The non-fiction might be usefully divided not into their conventional descriptions, but three other categories: Nostalgia; Political and Social Reportage, and Voyages. Not surprisingly, the strongest of the pieces belong to the two latter categories. Of the two nostalgia pieces, "Living Dangerously with V. S. Naipaul," is nothing more than a mildly amusing anecdote. An attempt is made to use a personal letter by a travel-weary Naipaul to the author to explain the celebrity author's famous contempt for India; however, intellectually it is not very persuasive. The other piece, "Didima: The Last Inga-Banga," tries to compare Brown Sahibs favorably with the globe-trotting Indian arrivistes of today, but again the arguments are feeble, and smack of residual colonial class sensibilities.

The political essays in this collection stand in a sharp contrast to the essays of colonial hangover. Indeed, three of the essays--"The Tiger in his Cage," "The Saheb of Siwan," and "Goose-Stepping into the Sunrise"--have a great deal in common. They deal with strongmen of extremist persuasions, and respectively, of global, regional and very local fame. In order, they relate the authors' encounters with the leader of the Tamil Tigers, Prabhakaran; a political godfather in Bihar of national renown; and an RSS national spokesman. All three essays display a remarkable similarity of attitude and style. They approach their subjects with a certain openness, ready to understand the secret of their convictions or magnetism, but they also maintain their own liberal judgment. The unruffled liberality of their views in the face of such strong and disturbing subjects, and the agility with which they contain them within their forms with precision and humor, are all marks of the maturity not only of these writers, but indeed the culture that has nurtured them.

Two essays, "The Alchemy of Not Having," and "The Daughters of Yasin Painter," seem to address the alchemies of just not having, but indeed of apathy and hope, respectively, in the face of the harsh social realities of India. Several of the other pieces--ranging in topics from America's war on terror to colonial Bibis--though good, have nothing startlingly new to say. "A Kyrgyz Odyssey," tracing the footsteps of an ancient monk is perhaps the most promising of these remaining pieces. The language is crisp; the cold journey imagined vividly: "The cold closed punishing fingers around the men's bones. The monk thought he would shiver for the rest of his life; if he lived through this, he would shiver forever."

On the whole, the non-fiction seems to be stronger than the fiction. This might be because--dare one set off generic battles--if the subject is well-chosen, with a mind for good empirical descriptions and analysis, a solid sense of structure, a knack for evocative expression and details, it is possible to put together a decent essay. By contrast, the secrets of a really good story seem to be more elusive. While its components can be laid bare in deconstructive readings, no simple formula can ever yield a good story. After all the analysis, and all the training, a good story seems to require, like a Zen painting, a deftness of touch that lies beyond any planning or deliberation. The rarity of that kind of talent is borne out in these otherwise quite competent stories.

Several of the pieces ("The Prophet," "Route 36") resort to post-modernist conceit or format, and a few fall into the category of ephemera ("Vaak," "Ziarat"). Among the stories in the realm of realism, "The Other Evening" and "Matunga" are probably the most successful. They are swift and evocative, where several others--such as, "Kopjes at Serengeti," "The Road to Barabar," or "Winter Evenings"--feel a bit slow, if not plodding.

In "The Other Evening," the protagonist is a young man who traps himself, without much protest, into an evening with a prostitute. A prostitute, psychologically and culturally more equal to the protagonist than is customary, turns a possibly trite tale into a genuine account of urban dereliction and reprieve: funny, sad, evanescent. In "Matunga," the protagonist is an old man, displaced from South India in Bombay, with a wife dying of cancer. The man's mysterious forays into a particular neighborhood, brings a shred of solace to his daughter as well, once she understands his reasons. In both cases, swift, unsentimental prose is critical to the stories' success.

Of all the other stories, only one really bears special mention, a real gem of a tale, or soliloquy, called "The Last Annal of Alamgir." The author's bio explains that it was adapted from an original long poem, and the prose bears all the best marks of a poem: flights of fancy convey the opprobrium of fate, even when it delivers the world, in startlingly disjointed epithets that carry the weight and sadness of prophecy.

Most people may not have time for anything but affirmed excellence, but for that segment of readers who enjoy talent-hunting, there are moments here when the young juggler gets through the act without dropping a ball, and adds a twist all his own that promises greater acts to follow.

K. Anis Ahmed is director of academic affaires, University of Liberal Arts, Bangladesh.