Ruth Prawer Jhabvala
Dinesh never became a famous writer, but he did become a writer, and he published several novels. I translated one of these from the original Hindi into English and tried to get it published here, but I was told that the background was too unfamiliar to be of interest to an American audience. Of course, it was very familiar to me; I had actually lived in New Delhi and was not only a witness to the principal events but a part of them.
A simple opening paragraph but effectively introducing the conceit of a life and the story based on it. This is from “Innocence,” a short-story by Ruth Prawer Jhabvala, published in a recent New Yorker. The conceit works because this account of a life, as well as its purported borrowings from fiction, is itself deceptively accomplished. Jhabvala’s story succeeds in its portrayal of character and even the relationships between the people who populate its pages; however, it fails in its presentation of plot, principally in its approach to the gold-smuggling case or the resulting scandal, because there is little understanding or even engagement with the public sphere, with what are sometimes called outside forces. In this sense, the disappointing climax, with its filmi murder scene, represents the lowest point. However, here is a more successful example of a scene that might be described as existing outside the domain of enclosed, private lives:
Dinesh got her hired in the English section of All India Radio. She became the disk jockey for a request program called “Yours, with Love,” playing recent pop songs from England and America that had been selected by listeners with messages for their loved ones. She read these messages in a seductive voice—“This is for Bunny, and a million billion thanks, darling, for the fabulous times”—which made Sahib nod and smile in some sort of recognition, while Bibiji looked down shyly, as if she were the one being addressed.
P.S. Will someone advise the New Yorker to find better illustrations for the stories they publish about India? Jhabvala’s story comes accompanied by a sepia-tinted photo that seems to have been borrowed from a colonial harem. Hello? For a story that details a near-contemporary, metropolitan middle-class life? Some weeks ago, there was a story in the New Yorker by Jhumpa Lahiri, and again, for some mysterious reason, the photo accompanying it showed a part of a woman’s body, clad in a churidar-kurta, clasping in her hands what the photographer no doubt imagined was a pot full of steaming dal.
