When it comes to sardonic, snide and ironic asides no one does them better than women writers, never mind the genre. Not all of them, of course, and certainly not those shrill activists with sharp chips on their shoulders. They merely manage to sound spiteful.
But the ones that are normal people? Oh boy! What fun. They are simply superb. They tell the truth with such superfine needles that it begins to hurt only after five minutes.
As might be expected the British ladies are streets ahead in the game. That’s not surprising. The Brits are born with the skill of fine putdowns. They are closely followed by some Indians.
Many or most of these ladies are unknown writers, or as is more usually the case, unknown as writers. There is for example, Celia Imrie, an actress (actor?) who starred in those two Marigold Hotel movies, not to mention several others. She has just written a splendid novel about British expats in France.
Three years ago I also found Tilly Bagshawe, a writer of excellent, sophisticated “chick lit” and continuer of the Sidney Sheldon novels. When it comes to wry humour about the super rich her observations, too, are right up there.
Then there is Helen Simonson who has written two absolutely classy novels. Her acute sense of the absurdities of prejudice and social behaviour remind you ever so gently of the fools who form the majority in every society. But no one raves about her perhaps because her style is so understated.
That way, she is like our own Bhaskar Ghosh and Kiran Doshi. Both are classy writers but there’s no hoopla around them.
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Another is Shamini Flint, a Singapore-based crime writer who has made a rotund, hairy, beer-drinking, gluttonous Sikh the hero of her eight novels. Her asides and insights about Indians and their behaviour are sharp as tin tacks. She locates her novels in different countries and the latest is about Inspector Singh in London.
Young Mitali Saran, who is regular columnist in this newspaper, is also in the same league for caustic nastiness. She should write another novel, I think, but not about the Sangh Parivar. The Gandhi family might be a better subject.
A devastatingly caustic writer, but alas so far only of middles in the Times of India, is Alaka Basu. Now that she is growing a bit long in the tooth, I hope she will also write a novel. I know she has plenty to say, some of which she has said to me.
It is not just the writers in English who are good at this. I have read several excellent translations of women writers and they slice, dice and chop with their words with equal aplomb and ruthlessness.
I am certain there are many others out there who I am yet to discover. I intend to find them.
The comparative advantage that female writers seem to possess in the matter of irony and sarcasm is, I guess, because they are able to view the peculiarities in people and societies as just that: Peculiarities rather than conspiracies. This is a sign, I guess, of being perfectly adjusted because the maladjusted ones simply seem to rant.
What it takes
Recently before boarding a flight, I bought Chetan Bhagat’s new book because a review said he had written it as a woman. He has tried very hard and it is an ok book. But it does seem a little contrived, not quite the real McCoy.
Here I must make a confession: Back in 1995 I tried the same wheeze and even wrote 30,000 words of a novel as might be written by a woman. But when I showed it to my female friends, they said “Stop. NOW!” I deleted the file in a fury. I suppose shouldn’t have.
Had Mr Bhagat not already been a celebrity I am sure he would have got the same advice. I am glad though that, unlike me, he wrote it after becoming a celebrity and therefore found a publisher. These days, publishers sell names, not books.
That’s why none of the names I have mentioned above, despite being excellent writer-entertainers, find any traction in India. It is the old chicken-egg problem.
But, in fairness, it must be also said that there’s no accounting for public taste and there’s no way of saying which writer will click, which means sell around 10,000 copies. Indian readers of English novels are small in number. Those who can appreciate fine writing are smaller still.