Tuesday, July 2, 2013

The White Tiger

DH bought this for me one Christmas, and the first time I tried to read it I had to put it down after a while because I absolutely loathed what was happening to the protagonist. 
Four years later I looked at it again, surprised to see how far I actually had got (about half way) before I turned away.  So I was a little anxious about having to re-read so much especially when I might be overcome again with that intense feeling of anger that repulsed me the first time. 
Distance and time, I guess, heals all wounds, so that this time I was able to read the first part with equanimity.  I felt a deep sadness about the fact that what Adiga had written was probably pretty close to the mark of what conditions actually are like in rural India. 
I’d like to believe that I have more insight now into a part of Indian culture, but not the whole.  I have read too many other influences to believe that this is all India can be or is.    Paramahansa Yogananda and Mohandas Gandhi at the least tell me something else.  Despite knowing this, the book depressed me anyway because it was such a faithful description of the ugliness in all of us (though there is more ugliness in some than others). 

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