Novels Entertain no more, Nor does Aravind Adiga

People entertain others and themselves. The mediums are, of course, countless, ranging from writing stories, taking pictures, performing drama, making films to even being in the headlines for scams, murders, rapes and controversies. My inclination is towards writing first, reading second, watching movies third and so on and so forth.

In writing, my first preference is always for serious literature. From serious literature, I don’t mean I like absolute darkness and insipidness. There is a breed of authors, which after the success of Slum Dog Millionaire and The White Tiger has started serving readers with whatever is filth. Of course, the approach is no less than lampoonery. It’s absolutely ridiculous to take readers for granted that they like to read filth, feces, poverty and things that are gibberish.

I’ve read Adiga’s both books–The White Tiger and Between the Assassins. The first deserves accolades, but the second is full of darkness and all the squalor that flows down the sewers in India. And now Adiga is all set to raise curtain on his second novel “The Last Man in the Tower.”

I do not expect much from his third book. He has already started raising uproar about it in the newspapers. He has already turned down his love for Mumbai, where he once stayed to experience the negativity of life. His long article in the Mint was one of the most boring things I’ve ever read. And without doubt, his novel would be full of seer darkness, monotony and dearth for human emotions. It seems he’s pre-occupied to write whatever bad exists in India. Maybe he was blinded in the winter, which is why everything smells to him wintry.

His first book was interesting. He created a malevolent character and posited it as a pivotal person around whom revolves the story, but his stories in the second book were barren, bereft of plots that are considered central for creating interest and binding a reader till the end. Cathartic emotions hardly well up in the sterile world he has created. I understand the parameters for literature over the years have seen a major shift. Nevertheless, readers are hungry for interesting literature and stories. They are on the look out for quality material that does also entertain. Because of the failure of modern novelists (and I talk of those who are thought to be acclaimed) to do so, there is a cast of C-grade authors such as Chetan Bhagat emerging fast in the scene. Books that don’t even deserve a furtive glance are widely read. The cheapsters have taken the revenues by storms too.

I do not criticise Adiga because he doesn’t write well. He does it, of course with perfection. But authors like him need to grab the pulse and equally focus on the entertainment part the absence of which makes books partly, if not entirely, monotonous. Readers do not want to appreciate your writing skills alone. The best example is, of course, Adiga’s The White Tiger, which ended at a place where it should actually begin. Even then it was a praiseworthy work, though there are flaws at places.

Beyond doubt, the matter is debatable and can not be sorted out in a brief blog post. People have right to differ and share their opinion on mine. I know my argument is incomplete and remained focused only on Adiga, who has just emerged in the scene. But he has shown traits of a good promising author who should be grilled to reach perfection. And good authors are, were and will be criticised.