Less of literature and more of a slam piece, Durbar is an intelligent and indulgent piece of work

THERE ARE exasperating books—they read smoothly even brilliantly in parts and deplorably in rest. They are exasperating because they leave a reader confused—is it even worth the effort? Tavleen Singh’s memoir is one such. It hooks you in some pages or bores the pants off you. There are sentences which make you think did a seasoned journalist actually write it? Then there are sentences which make you wish you were standing by her side when she experienced a slice of India’s equally exasperating and checkered history. Sentences such as “...I ended up doing a course in journalism at the New Delhi Polytechnic only because it was the shortest course on offer” may be honest. As is the sentence “...as a result, I did not discover that the earth moved around the sun until I became a journalist but I learned how to type”. But, they do little to give credibility to an old-time profession or to its participants. Which is important especially today, when newspeople are fast becoming news-makers in their own right (to expand the point I can only request readers to find out Arnav Goswani’s “remixed” interviews which are being played by young people at dance parties). Also, a small complaint; why could she not provide her readers a sample of all the brilliant political speeches which she had the fortune of hearing. Personally, I would have given my right arm to know just what Atal Behari Vajpayee said to the congregation at the Ram Lila Maidan in 1977. From a celebrated and well-calibrated author like her, one did expect more of newsroom experiences to fill the pages. Instead of newsrooms, I got more of lazy, booze parties. In most parts, Singh offered beautifullywritten genealogy of famous people. Where they hung out, cool places of yesteryears (again, do we really care?) and how bootlegger’s supply was the only poison available for the rich and famous under Indira Gandhi’s Emergency (oh, poor them!). Singh often feeds us mind-numbingly worthless details of posh people—what they wore and how they smelt—who could be found prowling the drawing rooms of Delhi, where she found most her contacts and fodder. Does the details manage to create an atmosphere? Sure it does, if Nora Roberts is your favourite author. The first few chapters of Durbar does serve as a treasure trove of pet names, as well. If you are expecting a baby any time soon, how does Mapu, Roon, Dumpy, Biki or Goodie sound? If Ms Singh is planning a sequel, there were three alternative titles which popped into my mind while I was reading it. How about; My Life with Sonia, Delhi’s Drawing Rooms or Foreign Matters. However, everything is not bad in the book. For the good parts—which make the book well worth it at the end of it all. When Singh really concentrates on writing reportage she gets really, really precise, eloquent and crisply descriptive. The bits in the Kumbh Mela where the then Prime Minister Indira Gandhi decides to makes an announcement which booms across the fairground like voice of god, goes on to show the absurdity of India’s political circus. Her portrayal of Rajiv Gandhi’s strengths and weaknesses, the cruelty and stubbornness of his brother Sanjay— are all fascinating bits to read. And she is less unkind to her subjects than a lot of others who have come out with their memoirs recently. Where she earns her readers’ attention is when she writes about the 1984 anti-Sikh riots. Her style (which appears burdensome when she talks of Cartier rings or lasagna cooked by Sonia Gandhi), suits passages where she talks of hopelessness and terror of those days. A takeaway; it is comforting to note that the rich, upper middleclass, public school educated India has changed very little in the years after the Independence. It had little clue then as to what was going on and has little clue now. While the poor were too unempowered then and too unempowered now to actually make a difference. Thus, one blanket (reductionist) statement that we can take away is that status quo—of not caring—has not changed much. It is a pity, that books such as these will not help matters much either.