15 May, 2021

An Indian Summer

It's The New Yorker's turn to celebrate subcontinental writing

An Indian Summer

SEVENTEEN flight-hours away from India, two months from the fiftieth anniversary of its independence, and at any street corner in New York, $3.50 will buy you a paean to the subcontinent, a toast to its literary elves, fairies and giants. Ganesha graces the cover of the June 23-30 special India issue of The New Yorker.

India has arrived on the international literary scene--or, the world has discovered India at its bewildering, evocative, intellectual best. The New Yorker celebrates both those thresholds masterfully. "What can you say about Indian fiction? Too much and too little. You can point to both its extravagance and its spareness. It can be fabulist, realistic, chatty, mad, or wildly eccentric. There are qualities in its language that you won't find elsewhere," writes Bill Buford in his introductory comment.

The selection that follows is a marigold garland of the most creative modem Indian minds: from Midnight's Child Salman Rushdie to skilful debutantes Arundhati Roy and Kiran Desai, from Amitav Ghosh to Vikram Chandra, from Rohinton Mistry to...

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