(First let me recommend the essay Nationalism by Tagore, read along with this book - will help you adjust your views and gauge the depth of Naipal's descriptions.)
It reads like a childish account of someone who came to India with some imaginary ideas about the place. I think you should not take this as an account of an Indian but rather take it as an description of a foreigner, disgusted at the poverty and the general way of life in the country. I think his views just reflect the stereotypical idea about the east (beyond India)- some people find ancient knowledge and spirituality in it, some people find it utterly ghastly (our guy is here). Just arrange the asian countries according to their per capita GDP and put VSN in each of them- my guess is that you will find his level of disgust at the society will decrease as the GDP will come closer to that of the developed nations. I liked his writing style though. Finally, I won't say he is lying but his views are tainted by the political machinery and devoid of humanity (refer to Nationalism by Tagore).

"The world is illusion, the Hindus say." (335)

This book is beautiful but also makes me really personally sad for VS Naipaul? His scatological horror conception of India, though it's pretty arresting and incisive re: postcolonial trauma and personal self-loathing and horror, also made this a difficult book to get through, though I think worth it in the end. I kept wanting to get outside of VSN's head, to have some kind of relief, objectivity, that was never really forthcoming, that maybe by the nature of a book like this can't be forthcoming?

Makes me want to read all of VSN's other, less maybe immediate/reactive/virulent books on India; makes me want to reread Mr. Biswas for the manyth time. But I'm not sure I'd recommend this to anyone as like--a great entry into What Is Good About VSN.

Hits: "A Garland on my Pillow," "The Village of the Dubes," "Degree," and the suffocating opening.

Very detailed and mostly accurate description of places.

Some excerpts from the book to have a quick view of the author's perspective about India and her past and present:

"At Mahabalipuram and elsewhere in the South the ruins have a unity. They speak of the continuity and flow of Hindu India, ever shrinking. In the North the ruins speak of waste and failure, and the very grandeur of the Mogul buildings is oppressive. Europe has its monuments of sunkings, its Louvres and Versailles. But they are part of the development of a country’s spirit; they express the refining of a nation’s sensibility; they add to the common, growing stock. In India these endless mosques and rhetorical mausolea, these great palaces speak only of a personal plunder and a country with an infinite capacity for being plundered. The Mogul owned everything in his dominions; and this is the message of Mogul architecture.

The Taj Mahal is exquisite. But in India it is a building wastefully without a function; it is only a despot’s monument to a woman, not of India, who bore a child every year for fifteen years. It took twenty-two years to build; and the guide will tell you how many millions it cost.

(I)t was Europe that revealed India’s past to India and made its veneration part of Indian nationalism. It is still through European eyes that India looks at her ruins and her art. Nearly every Indian who writes on Indian art feels bound to quote from the writings of European admirers.

The buildings of Lucknow and Fyzabad still suffer from the contemptuous political attitudes of the British towards its decadent rulers. Yearly the great Imambara in Lucknow crumbles into ruin. The detail on the stonework of the mausolea in Fyzabad has almost disappeared under heavy coats of what looks like PWD whitewash; elsewhere metalwork is preserved by a good deal of bright blue paint; in the centre of one garden a white Ashoka pillar, destroying symmetry and obscuring the view through the arched entrance, has been put up by an IAS officer to commemorate the abolition of zemindari.

India may be poor, the plaque says in effect, but spiritually she is rich; and her people are morally and physically pure and clean.

And perhaps the British are responsible for this Indian artistic failure, which is part of the general Indian bewilderment, in the way that the Spaniards were responsible for the stupefaction of the Mexicans and the Peruvians. It was a clash between a positive principle and a negative; and nothing more negative can be imagined than the conjunction in the eighteenth century of a static Islam and a decadent Hinduism. In any clash between post- Renaissance Europe and India, India was bound to lose.

India did not wither, like Peru and Mexico, at the touch of Europe. If she were wholly Muslim she might have done. But her Hindu experience of conquerors was great; Hindu India met conquerors halfway and had always been able to absorb them. And it is interesting, and now a little sad, to see Indians, above all in Bengal, reacting to the British as they might have done to any other conqueror, Indian or Asiatic."

Recommend to reading the book 'An Area of Darkness' and have your own idea.

I get a strange feeling in reading Naipaul on India. He's certainly not romantic, or nostalgic about it - he does call it "an area of darkness" after all, but that really refers to his childhood impression of the place, and childhood impressions can change. In this telling, he actually seems quietly resentful of the subcontinent, as if it had the gall to continue existing independently of his family when they went to Trinidad, as if it had the gall not to be transformed by the currents of humanity that washed over Trinidad and eventually brought Naipaul to England and Asia. For his part, Naipaul seems uncurious and frustrated by what he finds, as if he expected the microcosmic vision of India which he experienced in Trinidad to be nothing more than a microscopic simalacrum of the real thing.

It's not even that his narrative may be unreliable, bent by his internal expectations and unconscious grievances. I don't know that there was one point in the book where Naipaul found anything actually funny. He seems to preoccupied with silent seething; the only remotely funny things he encounters are only mockable or tragically ironic. But those are not humorous things. He is incapable of seeing his lack of understanding as anything other than a failing of the Other.

It's also unclear why Naipaul even went to India. One gets the impression that he was on some sort of writing fellowship, but his reason, his motivation for going is opaque. He is not really interested in encountering his long lost family - in fact, when he finally does, in the last act of the book, it's clear that he dreads them.

In fact, if he had chosen to, he could have made his three bizarre encounters with his family into brilliant comic vignettes - they would be brilliant as an episode of Ripping Yarns! But he didn't. It's like they were his last impression on departing the country, and they sat as a set of little rock hard turds in his intestines as he wrote the book, until he finally crapped them out at the end, more relieved than satisfied to finally be rid of them.

Nobel laureate Mr.Naipaul visited his genetically hometown, India, when he was 30 years old. This book was the first book of his India Trilogy. It shows a young man's observations of a country that has special meaning to him. His grandfather emigrated to British Trinidad as a contract labor who became somewhat successful. Naipaul constantly referred to his childhood in Trinidad, where the Indian community shaped his image of India. Clearly, the diaspora preserved many traditions but the real essence couldn't be replicated oversea.

In 1962, almost half a century ago, Naipaul returned to his origin for the first time. This book was his personal journal. This is the first time I read Naipaul's book, and I find it interesting the way he weaves literature, critique, history, and travelogue into one place. The writing was scattered as readers might not catch up closely. However in general, readers are able to see or feel India through author' observant eyes.

I read the book because I want to know India more. In fact, the book gives me negative images. (Based solely on this book) It introduces the hidden flaws that Indians don't want to recognize. The most frequently mentioned characteristics of Indian people are their passive (or inactive), and turn blind eyes to common problems. It strikes me that some people, even Indians themselves, would agree India need an foreign governor to be the arbitrator, despite the fact these foreigners (Moguls, British, etc) were assimilated into India. Some observations are very critical and seem somewhat applicable today. But I have to say I am still naive on India, it's highly likely Naipaul's observation were wrong. I want to read more to more fully understand this beautiful culture.

Author spent a year traveling India. He didn't visit whole subcontinent thoroughly. He spent months in the Kashmir and Himalayas. The real writing about his journey (the scenery) is not abundant. He devoted large portion to bring the ordinary people (servants, villagers, etc) alive. Rest of the book talks about 'areas of darkness' of Indian society. It's not an enjoyable read. But it gives me some new perspectives on India. I believe more reading is essential after this book.

If one can imagine the difficulties Naipaul suffers now in a period in which the principle of 'free speech' is being eroded by nice white people to 'you can say what you like as long as we agree with it', it speaks buckets for this book that he experienced the 'censorship of the offended' the very moment it appeared. Banned in India and still banned over fifty years later.

This sits badly with me, not only because of the issue of free speech, but also because he didn't look at all at the side of India which is truly dark. He could so easily have talked of the violence and exploitation, but he left it unsaid. He spoke only of what he saw and how he felt. A travelogue filled with angst, not only towards the India which so upset him, but also towards himself. No doubt one learns a lot about one's own inadequacies in such a situation and Naipaul doesn't shrink from them one bit. I don't really understand why people who see this as only a personal critique of India, don't understand this. Neither writer nor subject come off well in this encounter. There are only losers, but why should it be any other way?

For the rest, please go here: https://alittleteaalittlechat.wordpre...

Phew. He was a genius, wasn't he? I wanted to run through the whole trilogy at once, but the depth of what is in here makes me want to reach for something lighter now. I look forward to reading the next two books.

If you are an Indian, this book is one of the most difficult things you can read. The difficulty arises from the undeniable truth in what Mr Naipaul writes. You resist that truth but are forced to acknowledge it as well. It is uncomfortable: that someone (an outsider?) can see that overwhelming reality of circadian Indian existence—and what lies beneath it—and articulate it so well is not easy to accept perhaps. But one is moved to accept it. Widely criticized for its negativity, this book actually shines in darkness. There is anger, there is resentment, stupefaction, disbelief, disgust, yet there is awe. It is not a hands-off review of a weird and hopeless nation but a concerned critique of a staggering civilization. Reading this book is a starting point of understanding India. It is highly recommended to those who are interested in India, and absolutely essential for those who love India.

India. What ideas does this name not conjure for us? Apart from the usual associations with the infamous Delhi-belly, deadly jungles, and exiled Tibetan monks, there is a whole epoch of history that is anchored on the erstwhile ‘jewel in the crown’, a history which as post-colonial children we are surprisingly prone to forget despite the recent era of global colonialism. For Naipaul, though, India is stiflingly personal, it haunts him and calls to him, the result being a book which brazenly explores the outer and inner dimensions of the land of his ancestors. I say he brazenly explores because Naipaul is ingrained with an element of irreverence in his consideration of India, its religions, and people, a lack of sentiment which allows him to say of the condition of life for the poor there: ‘Poverty not as an urge to anger or improving action, but poverty as an inexhaustible source of tears, an exercise of the purest sensibility.’ This is no trite realist who wishes to enumerate in detail the horrors of destitute Calcutta, but someone who writes with cynical trenchancy to try to reflect the elusive essence of an entire continent which does not understand the notion of ‘progress’ since suffering in itself is almost a tradition. This causes Naipaul to revise his angry western reaction to poverty, for example, as he observes smiling beggar families, for who is he to judge their plight, especially when they seem happy? Thus, he might be said to be recognising and at times renouncing what is priggishly western in him, making this a travelogue of the soul as well as land.

Despite this, Naipaul is mostly troubled by the ‘encroachment’ of the Indian within and without him, which he writes about in various ways. His tone is often infused with a baffled and even bitter irony that holds up its hands in resignation towards such enigmas as the caste system and Indian ideas of duty, ‘The man who makes the dingy bed in the hotel room will be affronted if he is asked to sweep the gritty floor.’; his diction is simple, thought-provoking but not wholly denunciative when it comes to discussion of the imposing architecture of the British Raj, ‘Their grounds were a little too spacious; their ceilings a little too high. . .they were neither of England or India. . .’; and there is a sardonic and bitter humour when it comes to issues of Indian culture and identity within the eyes of Indians themselves, ‘A flattering self-assessment could only be achieved with the help of Europeans.’

So what is India? Naipaul travels the country to find out, cooking in the searing heat and bureaucratic insanity of Bombay, relishing the coolness of ‘medieval’ Kashmir whilst staying in a hotel to have a bizarre personal relationship with the staff, trekking mountainous paths riddled with faeces to the holy Cave of Amarnath to meet western ‘refugees’ desperate to grasp onto any source of spiritual succour, and finally landing in the village of his father’s birth which makes for an arid climax. The answer is that India is no one thing, in terms of race, history, and religion, and like with the native Shish embroidery impressions can be reflected back only in variegated form. Often these reflections are annoyingly bathetic, as with the holy cave that has nothing holy about it but which people endanger their lives to see and which maybe as readers we would like to see with its original promise of epiphany. Largely, as British readers, our past is shone back to us as in the case of the architecture of the Raj, aspiring, highfalutin, and grotesque, making us wonder what this actually says of Europe in the present day whilst also musing on such statements as ‘the last true Englishmen. . .are Indians’. Throughout we cannot decide if we even like the image of Naipaul, he is aloof, flustered, and downright rude when it comes to visiting his ancestral village, yet we most assuredly prefer him when we come across an ominous Sikh bigot. And ultimately we are not even sure if we like India in view of its scramble, decay, hunger and noise, but are unavoidably charmed by the old-fashioned use of English slang, good-natured bartering and theatrical pride.

As you can see the book is difficult to classify, indeed, it is not even a conventional travelogue because it divagates way too much from the action. However, it is a must-read for the Indophile, and for the average person it is an important read because, although India satiates Naipaul and possibly us, she is still an integral indicator of the state of contemporary humanity. Perhaps for the Indian, though, this book is a very controversial work that arguably misrepresents the country through the eyes of a foreigner.

But altogether for myself An Area of Darkness was most compelling because of the pessimistic facetiousness, the succinct sentences and ambiguity, and the grand historically ironic juxtapositions such as when Naipaul explores the ruins of previously splendid civilisations to discover living amongst them ‘the inheritors of this greatness: men and women and children, thin as crickets, like lizards among the stones.’ For Indians the ruins of these civilisations are assuredly dead, they neither understand nor seek to understand them, yet humanity finds whatever way it can to struggle to exist amongst them. This poetically-charged imagery may make a point that maybe Naipaul and British readers need to move on and address the present, albeit without entirely forgetting the past, as degraded as the present might be.

A great travelogue of a powerful and insightful writer returning to the country of his heritage. I find the Naipaul's greatest contribution to the world has been his travel books. His sharp observations and ability quickly place his surroundings within history, politics and culture cuts through a dozen visits I could make to the same location to get the same learning.

This is not a review but a brief comment. When reading the book I was reminded of the old 'camel in the Quran' anecdote; apparently, the camel wasn't mentioned because it was so ubiquitous, so part of everyday reality, that it did not strike the author(s) that it was worthy of any mention at all (I know the camel was, indeed, mentioned in the Quran, but I hope you get the point). This is a problem of 'seeing', more so for the critic. This is evident in such phenomenon as colour-blindness displayed by the whites in America during the Civil Rights protest movements in America or the caste-blindness displayed by the Caste Hindus in neoliberal India. The question is: does it require an outsider, so to speak., to point out the obvious?

In a chapter titled the The Colonial, Naipaul labels Gandhi 'the least Indian of Indian leaders'. Continuing further he writes: 'He sees exactly what the visitor sees; he does not ignore the obvious'. In fact, he goes so far as to declare that 'Gandhi saw India so clearly because he was in part a colonial'. He contrasts this critical Gandhi with the sentimentalist Nehru, who 'takes it all to heart'. This observation, I think, applies as much to Naipaul as it does to Gandhi.

Growing up as a colonial implant in the Caribbean, Naipaul 'wanted to be an Englishman' according to his tutor at Oxford, Peter Bayley. Being a dark-skinned man in Britain had spurred him to 'beat them at their own language', he wrote to his brother from London. But along with this came the less obvious problem of being light-skinned than most of his fellow Trinidadians to the point to being threatened by the demands of the black community. Hence young 'Vido', as he was lovingly called in the Caribbean, became 'Sir Vidiya'.

Similarly, Gandhi spent 20 years in South Africa as a colonial before returning to India at the ripe age of 46. Whilst there, he waged a 'non-violent struggle' against the British authorities; 'non-violent' because he was appealing not to barbarians but the civilised Whigs, who solved the perennial problem of how to transfer political power peacefully, and their Empire; non-violence here should be understood as belonging to the tactical and not moral category. All this to get permission for Indians to enter the post-offices, at least through the backdoor, while displaying colonial contempt for the 'kafirs' (local black population). Such was his 'struggle'!

Having said this, is it proper to label Gandhi a racist? Many would disagree. But many of the same people would label Naipaul racist and condescending for seeing the most obvious things in Indian culture - obsession with purity linked with caste, people defecating everywhere, the conservative attitude of the least common denominator, more people defecating in snow, the insistence of duty over rights according to the philosophy of the Gita, a sentimentality for poverty, a particular Hindu order of the world and the people in it and more vegetarian (non-meat?) food, cleaning, shit and caste and so on.

All this will surely reflect an attitude of distant concern and moral superiority on the part of Naipaul. He is not the first to express this view but was clearly able to do it better than the others. He is a kind of belated Kipling just the same. This book was banned for portraying the country in a negative light. Nonetheless, the present admirers of Naipaul's 'tell-it-like-you-see-it' style should remember that their hero's ability to see 'better' the ills of the Third World come with the colonial pretense of much pity and little hate. And their murmured attempts to dismiss all this as Naipaul's brahminical fastidiousness will no longer suffice.

As Naipaul, writes in In a Free State: "The only lies for which we are truly punished are those we tell ourselves."