An Area of Darkness-VS Naipaul

***^1/2/*****                                                                                                                                         Travel

An Area of Darkness

V.S. Naipaul

Books are my necessity. Today, for someone who reads English and is a slave of his book-reading habit, it is impossible not to have read V.S. Naipaul. But this has been my despicable fate. Many years back I did read one of Naipaul’s novels, The Enigma of Arrival, considered a great book by some. I did not like the book. I was impressed by the prose style and the elegance of language. A surgeon colleague, who himself did not read much, but was an inveterate Naipaul-fan, urged me incessantly for a year, to read Naipaul’s A House for Mr Biswas. I think, I began the book, but quit it after a couple of pages. I found Naipaul’s writing obfuscating and rambling. For a decade, I eschewed his books. Though, sporadic articles about him in the dailies kept reminding me that I was missing out on the books of a twentieth-century literary giant.

Then Naipaul died in August this year. A deluge of articles, in the form of obituary, memoirs and critical appraisal of his work inundated print media. They were by people from different walks in life; journalists, politicians, diplomats, authors. Most were very well written. I read them with relish. For a year now, I have befriended a book-fiend who is another dyed-in-the-wool Naipaul-fan. I had till now ignored his gentle, yet persistent imploring to read Naipaul. But in the wake of Naipaul’s death and the attention he received in the media, I took up one of his non-fiction books on India. I actually purchased one of his anthologies of Indian writings, The Indian Trilogy. An Area of Darkness is the first book in the collection.

I was floored by the book. I regretted having banished Naipaul from my reading list for so long, but also felt immensely happy, that I had come to him, although late. ‘Der Aayad, Durust Aayad’.

Sir Vidyadhar Surajprasad Naipaul was born of Indian parents in Trinidad. His grandfather had migrated to the Caribbean nation as an indentured labour. Naipaul remained a stranger in every country he lived. The peculiarly poignant mental affliction of being alien in a country that you allegedly belong to, I have read, was an inseparable facet of his work, fiction or non-fiction. In this book he has portrayed this dilemma sensitively, thoughtfully and nonchalantly. Though, the book is classified in the genre of travel writing, it is not in the mould of typical travel book. Naipaul was commissioned to write a book on India. He spent a year in India in 1962. This was the first time he was visiting India, but India, had occupied his mind for ever. He was twenty-nine and not a famous writer yet.

In the book he rarely talks about the sites he visited. He writes about the people he met. He writes on the emotions, and thoughts, these people and the place spawned in his mind. ‘…my India was not like an English British India. My India was full of pain. Sixty years or so before, my ancestors had made the very long journey to the Caribbean from India, six weeks at least, and though this was hardly spoken about when I was a child, it worried me more and more as I got older. So, writer though I was, I wasn’t travelling to Forster’s India or Kipling’s. I was travelling to India which existed only in my head. The India I found in those early days was sad and simple…,’ he writes in preface. He was disappointed with the filth, the corrupt government officials, the shoddy work ethics of most Indians, the swindling shopkeepers, the hypocrisy of Indian society, the vulgar enchantment of urban middle-class Indian for western goods and culture. ‘India was physically like a blow,’ he writes. And the pain, the disgust, and disappointment of this blow he pours in the book, unadulterated and disaffectedly. When the book was published, it offended most ‘patriotic’ Indians. I did not find anything disparaging in it. How can anyone neglect the muck on Indian roads, the stench of human excreta over vast urban landscape, the untiringly and unabashedly corrupt officials in every department of our government, the shamefaced snobbery and conceit of many urban Indians. Naipaul writes about these unflinchingly. He, in turn, holds a mirror to me, showing me my country as I have experienced it for half a century now, warts-and-all, perhaps more of warts.

He writes about very few places; Bombay, Delhi, Hampi, Kashmir, a province in Punjab and his native village in Gorakhpur. He is brutally honest, not only about his experiences, but his own feelings. His description of nature, though sparse, is effervescently beautiful, especially as he writes about Kashmir. His prose is immaculate and stands out with its shining charm. I have no training in English language or literature. But I have read many genres of English books. I can honestly say that Naipaul must be one of the finest prose stylists of English language of twentieth century.

Book is an absolute delight, not only for its incisive, thoughtful commentary on India, but for its suave, flawless and ineffably beautiful prose, too. I now plan to take up Naipaul’s other books soon.