Anita Desai

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Geographies of the Imagination

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SOURCE: Gerster, Robin. “Geographies of the Imagination.” Lancet 359, no. 9301 (12 January 2002): 178.

[In the following review, Gerster praises the themes, style, and settings of Diamond Dust.]

English-language writers from Commonwealth countries tend to be lumbered with the role of “representative” of their country of origin. Thus India's Anita Desai is usually dubbed an Indian writer. This is not necessarily a limiting description, but it is a prescriptive label that inspires those cliches beloved by western commentators on Asian writers—a “clash of cultures,” “East meets West,” and so on. Of course, the westernisation of India and the cultural consequences of the Indian diaspora is one of Desai's major fictional interests. But the map of her fiction is more than merely sociological. Desai's is a geography of the mind and the emotions, an intimate register of that most basic form of politics, those of familial relationships. Her “Indianness,” while essential, is also to some extent beside the point.

Diamond Dust and Other Stories, a collection of nine new stories, again reveals the breadth of Desai's vision, her characteristic psychological penetration, and her sense of humour. Her range is impressive in all sorts of ways. As if to proclaim her global sensibility, her settings include India, the UK, Canada, the USA, and Mexico. While certain themes recur and dominate—exile and divided inheritance (Desai herself is half-Bengali, half-German), and the quest for self-realisation—her chosen contexts are wildly divergent, each offering a fresh perspective on universal aspects of the human condition. Yet Desai is also an unerring portrayer of place. In “Royalty,” which opens this book, New Delhi in high summer is described as stinking “of somnolence, of dejection, like sweat-stained clothes.” And in the beautifully realised “Winterscape”, the reader is made almost to feel the cold of Toronto in midwinter and its impact on two elderly Indian sisters visiting their estranged son/nephew, sent abroad from his rural Indian home a decade earlier to pursue his studies.

In an even collection, “Winterscape” and “Tepoztlan Tomorrow” (about a US-educated man who returns to his native village in Mexico to find it disconcertingly engaged in new interests), stand out. Both stories explore the distance between generations created by education and cultural displacement. There is a particular gender dynamic at work here, as the stories deal with the tension between beloved, “elected” young men and their female elders. Desai's sympathies are evenly distributed, though her identification with Indian women is one of her defining strengths. The final story of the collection, “Rooftop Dwellers,” restrainedly but distressingly portrays the struggle of an intelligent young woman from the provinces trying to carve out an independent life for herself in the indifferent, implacable landscape of suburban Delhi.

Elsewhere in Diamond Dust, there is a startling variety of subject matter: from “Royalty,” a biting satire of male vanity and its seductive power; to the chilling “The Man Who Saw Himself Drown,” written in the vein of the classic horror story; to the quiet pathos of “Underground,” in which a hotel-keeper in an English seaside town psychologically struggles to survive the death of his wife; to the absurd comedy of “Five Hours to Simla or Faisla.” Black humour also marks the title story, which describes the tragic consequences of a man's obsession with his dog—the most domestic kind of cautionary tale.

Each story provides a master class in the art of short story writing. Desai is not an especially adventurous writer technically; but her narrative form is not linear either. Rather than aspiring to the concentrated, “single effect” celebrated by the genre's famous theorist, Edgar Allan Poe, her stories defy their limited structural dimensions and reverberate with meaning. Simple closure and the big climax are usually eschewed; in fact anticlimax is Desai's special forte. She has a profound sense of the elusiveness of self-fulfilment, of how life's possibilities seem to lie at the end of a rainbow but ultimately shimmer like some distant mirage. The epiphany, that moment of revelation or heightened knowledge so beloved by James Joyce and great tribes of short story writers, is noticeably absent in Desai: bafflement and ennui befall many of her main characters. But that, as they say, is life.

Diamond Dust and Other Stories is one of those books that remind one that reading is, or should be, a pleasure. Food for the heart and for the head. Indeed, these nine stories should be consumed slowly like a plate of oysters—every one with a characteristic tang but each a new and luxurious experience (and not a dodgy one in the lot).

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