What we Indians want in literature, at least the kind written in English, is not literature at all, but flattery. We want to see ourselves depicted as soulful, sensitive, profound, valorous, wounded, tolerant and funny beings. All that Jhumpa Lahiri stuff. But the truth is, we are absolutely nothing of that kind. What are we, then? We are animals of the jungle, who will eat our neighbor's children in five minutes, and our own in ten.I've long been a fan of Indian literature – shaped by a long and complicated history, exotic religious practises, the lingering caste system – and as today's Indian middle-class grows and more of the very poorest citizens appear to be improving their own situations, it's been interesting to watch a shift in the country's literature as well: whereas Rohinton Mistry and Vikram Seth may have told me in the 90s that your average starving country bumpkin is satisfied to make it to Bombay and cobble together a shack in the slums, today's social climber sees the slums as a mere stepping-stone to an even better life. In Selection Day, when former starving country bumpkin Mohan Kumar discovers that his elder son is a cricket-playing prodigy, he can already imagine himself moving from their mud-brick hut to an air-conditioned flat. I came to this book knowing nothing about cricket, but it wasn't necessary when this is really about striving and want and being true to yourself in the face of the desires of others. In the end, the locale and details may have been exotic to me, but the themes are universal. A fine read.
The “selection day” of the title refers to the annual event at which cricket scouts recruit talent for the pro teams. The book begins with a section called “Three Years Before Selection Day” and introduces us to the Kumar brothers – Radha (destined to be “the best batsman in India”) and the younger Madhu (wishing only to be “second best” behind the brother he admires and adores) – and their father Mohan: a chutney-peddlar and self-taught cricket expert whose questionable edicts on the proper nutrition, exercise, and hygiene for young athletes has nonetheless propelled both of his sons into public notice. When a well-known coach desires to take over the boys' training, he puts the father in touch with an investor who agrees to pay a monthly stipend to the family in exchange for a share in future pro salaries and endorsements. Cue The Jefferson's theme song as they're moving on up to that de-luxe apartment in the sky-y-y.
Selection Day is primarily told from the younger brother's, Madhu's, point-of-view, and in the beginning, his position as the second best cricket player in the family protects him from most of his father's abuse and expectations – Madhu is able to dream that once Radha makes the big leagues, he'll be able to go to college and pursue his own goal of becoming a CSI-style forensic scientist. But as the years pass and the selection day that they will qualify for comes closer, and as Radha hits puberty and begins to have “weight transference” issues that allow Madhu to surpass his brother's batting records, the father's hopes to climb even higher on the social ladder fall heavier onto Madhu's reluctant shoulders. How much responsibility does Madhu have to repay the mortgage that Mohan took out on his boys' future? What responsibility does Madhu have to his own dreams, career, and love life? Doesn't he also have a responsibility to protect his older brother's ego and reputation? That's a lot of pressure to put on a sixteen-year-old.
Looking at class issues through the lens of a sporting family is an interesting idea – and especially as I've seen my share of crazy dance moms and hockey dads. And as little as I know about cricket, this British-transplant seems the perfect vehicle for exploring post-colonial Indian values.
Cricket is the triumph of civilization over instinct. As he left the showers by the swimming pool, and dried his hair with his towel, Tommy Sir remembered that wonderful little essay of his. American sports, baseball or basketball, made crude measurements of athletic endowments: height, shoulder strength, bat speed, anaerobic capacity. Cricket, on the other hand, measures the extent to which you can harness these raw endowments. You have to curb your right hand, your bottom hand, the animal hand, giving sovereignty to the left, the elegant, the restrained, top hand. When the short-pitched ball comes screaming, and every instinct of panic tells you, close your eyes and turn your face, you must do what does not come naturally to you or to any man: stay calm. Master your nature, play cricket. Because a man's body, when all is said and done, is a loathsome thing – Tommy Sir slapped his underarms with Johnson and Johnson Baby Powder, his favorite deodorant – loath-some loath-some loath-some. More baby powder. Much more. Mumbai is a hot city even at night.Yet there was something kind of shallow about Selection Day: it was full of a lot of ideas, but not much heart. Author Aravind Adiga squeezed in plenty of commentary on modern day Mumbai – female infanticide has led to a gender imbalance, fundamentalist Muslims are reproducing faster than the majority Hindu population, homosexuality is still punishable by a life sentence – but most of these facts had little to do with the characters in the story. Unsurprisingly, rich people have more options than do the poor and the police and bureaucrats are still corrupt; but I do appreciate how this book helped to evolve my ideas about modern Mumbai. The writing was fine and the plot was interesting and maybe I'm just a little disappointed because it's not The White Tiger again. I'm wavering between three and four stars, but as I can't say I “loved” this, I'm settling on three.
