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THE KAUTILYA PERSPECTIVE
Confessions of a
Bibliophile
By U MAHESH PRABHU
A few months back
'India's Prime Minister in waiting' L K Advani released his memoirs My
Country My Life... I found this memoir at one of the bookshops in the
city. Reluctantly I purchased it. As I passed each page I was
captivated with the experiences he had penned. It was more than a book
of 'political propaganda'. It seemed to be a faultless work of a
journalist to me, which Advani certainly was during the 60s.
I AM a
bibliophile. Reading has been the best source of inspiration for me. I
have found it to be the best mode of enlightening myself and also to
comprehend the skill of others, as a fellow writer. It is mostly
through reading that I have learnt to structure a tale, describe
character, delineate action, judge what works and what does not. A
writer, some say, is 'always hunting, looking to snatch or steal,
discovering what to avoid and what to make their own', this is
emphatically accurate in my case.
I had been a
frequent reviewer of books with a premier New Delhi based Newspaper.
As a part of the job, they would send me a copy of a book to write a
review. As an eloquent book reader I preferred to read any book twice.
I employed this technique to ensure that before I criticize, or
appreciate, I have made myself thorough with its contents. I solemnly
deem that 'we will be predisposed only in a pessimistic way if we read
without understanding'. This practice made my submissions of reviews
tardy.
The Editor of
this newspaper wasn't pleased with me over, what he called,
'deliberate delays'. But I would try to persuade him, as many times as
he would raise the topic, that mine was the right way to do. I gave
him no raison d'๊tre to triumph over me, whenever a debate was
provoked. But winning never meant convincing and one fine day he
abruptly removed me from the panel of reviewers. It's over three
months now and since then I have had to bear the cost of buying books,
myself. The abrupt halting of my services to review books raised in me
two fundamental questions: firstly 'Was I wrong in my approach?' and
secondly 'Are my fellow reviewers reading the books thoroughly before
giving their decree?' Never before had I evaluated my reviews with
others. I was so certain that I considered mine to be the best. I was
pompous, though to some extent.
A few months
back 'India's Prime Minister in waiting' L K Advani released his
memoirs My Country My Life. Most of the assessment from critics it
acknowledged weren't benign. I had formed a bias for Advani in my own
mind. I always found in him an ever despondent attitude for the chair
of Prime Minister. And most of the reviews looked as if to be
targeting him for all the same rationale that which had formed my
bias.
I live in
Mangalore, a place which is consistently bereft of good books. I often
tend to evoke the words of Nathaniel Benchley who said he found
bookshops 'too depressing to enter.' I couldn't agree more with him,
especially looking at the state of bookstore in my own city. All those
books each an attempt to immortality are resting here on the
shelves unread, unloved.
I found this
memoir at one of the bookshops in the city. Reluctantly I purchased
it. As I each page I was captivated with the experiences he had
penned. It was more than a book of 'political propaganda'. It was a
faultless work of a journalist, which Advani certainly was during the
60s. He was the Editor of Organizer, an RSS 'mouthpiece'.
As a politician
you can seldom abstain from expressing your criticism. But there was a
difference in his approach in the book. Though he had awful
differences with his colleagues, especially during the NDA regime at
the centre, he was extremely fine in articulating them. I couldn't see
'loathe'. I was stirred by the recall he made about personalities
absolutely unknown today. He could remember them all, and well. The
book said more about Babri Masjid and his difference with his Cabinet
colleagues, where many of his presentation of facts are too much for
me to accept as true. But that is not to make a case against him, or
to be utterly contemptuous, as many reviewers had been.
I couldn't
locate a review by any other critic which had given an impartial
justice to Advani. Almost all and sundry were impelled by their
preconceived notion I'm afraid to admit. Even my most favorite
writer Khushwant Singh, now in his 90s, was one such person whose
review almost stripped me of the admiration I had for him. I found his
approach to be snobbish, sorry to say.
After having
read the book twice, and rereading the reviews thereafter, I have,
almost, come to but one conclusion: Books in this country aren't
reviewed well. If not bad, they aren't good either. This I say not as
a book critic, but as a bibliophile.
You may,
certainly, disagree.
The author is
Editor-In-Chief of Aseemaa: Journal for National Resurgence
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