GOOD INDIAN GIRLS

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In twelve startling and vividly imagined stories, Ranbir Singh Sidhu overturns the lives of ordinary Indians living in America to bring us a bold debut collection, Good Indian Girls.

“Achingly merciless, London-born author Sidhu’s 12 short stories sharply delineate the edges of identity and sanity…These haunting tales simultaneously attract and repel, enchant and shatter…Sidhu creates inscrutable characters inhabiting bewildering circumstances. Smart, provocative and poignantly disturbing, this collection, the author’s U.S. debut, signals a writer to watch.” —Kirkus (Starred Review)

“Though weird and eccentric, Sidhu’s stories are also empathetic and refreshingly free of the clichés of immigrant narratives. He manages to portray his characters as uniquely Indian without losing sight of their individuality, offering small, piercing looks into the humanity that resides in every situation and person, no matter how strange.”—Publishers Weekly

“With adeptly drawn characters, Sidhu demonstrates a dexterous grasp of the human psyche, while the prevalence of dark twists displays his love of the fatalistic. This propensity for the morose will be off-putting for some but is sure to please those with a taste for black humor and shades of the diabolical.”—Booklist

“‘Border Song,’… finds the transformative grace in grief and a closure of sorts that eludes characters in ‘The Order of Things,’ a masterpiece of a story that could have you marvelling at Sidhu’s incisive and distinctive perspective for the Punjab experience of violence, exile and estrangement—both within India and abroad.”—Outlook India

Whenever I pick up a story by Ranbir Sidhu, I feel as though I’ve been released from the cedarwood closet of literature into the fresh air of active creation; as though I’d been fitted with brand-new high-tech earphones picking up an infinity of eloquent microphones cleverly scattered around the world. The pops and squeaks of new life crackle in my ears, and even when they’re threatening or saddening, I’m inevitably overcome by the hope that they’ll never stop.”—Harry Mathews, author of My Life in CIA, Cigarettes and The Journalist

“Ranbir Sidhu is imaginative, with a dry, sly wit, very intelligent, and owns a wicked sensibility, all of which makes his fiction smart, daring, sensitive to human perversity, and keen in its observations. He is one of the most compelling and sophisticated younger writers today; and his writing is beautiful and entertaining.”—Lynne Tillman, author of American Genius, A Comedy and No Lease On Life

“[Sidhu’s] work takes risks, is often daring and imaginative, and I appreciate the intelligence he brings to his craft. I look forward to reading his new collection of stories, Good Indian Girls.”—Edward Albee, author of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

“The first-person narrator of ‘The Good Poet of Africa’ despises poetry, repays compassion with insult, and enjoys lying to children. but, by story’s end, the moral universe will be turned on its head, and the reader will empathize with Ranbir Sidhu’s loathsome protagonist. This is writing of uncommon assurance and skill.”—Jeet Thayil, author of Narcopolis

“In twelve vivid stories, Ranbir Singh Sidhu paints tender, uproarious and incredibly insightful portraits of Indians living in America.” —Barnes & Noble Review

Launch of The Happy Hypocrite, Issue 6

Launch of The Happy Hypocrite – Freedom, Issue 6
edited by Lynne Tillman

21 September 2013, 7.00pm onwards

Artists Space
55 Walker Street
New York
NY 10013

Readings by:
Yasmine El Rashidi
Ranbir Singh Sidhu
Robin Coste Lewis
Sarah Resnick

Followed by a discussion with Lynne Tillman and participants.

To purchase this title please visit the Book Works website.

This new issue of The Happy Hypocrite challenges the restraining notions found in art and writing about who and what can and cannot speak. What can and cannot be said or thought. In part a response to Kafka – to that which we don’t know has damaged us – freedom is presented as an important and urgent concept, and a complicated word, in which and beside which hypocrisy also resides. (Hypocrisy can be construed as a freedom). The Happy Hypocrite offers its pages to ingenious fictional, nonfictional, and visual responses to the various meanings of ‘freedom’.

Contributions from Gregg Bordowitz, Paul Chan, Gabriel Coxhead, Lydia Davis, Yasmine El Rashidi, Chloé Cooper Jones, James Jennings, Allison Katz, Robin Coste Lewis, Craig Owens, Sarah Resnick, Ranbir Singh Sidhu, Abdellah Taïa, an interview between Lynne Tillman and Thomas Keenan, a cover by Susan Hiller, and archival material from Paranoids Anonymous Newsletter.

GOOD INDIAN GIRLS gets STARRED review in Kirkus!

Picture 1Achingly merciless, London-born author Sidhu’s 12 short stories sharply delineate the edges of identity and sanity… These haunting tales simultaneously attract and repel, enchant and shatter, evoking the ambiguous relationships between past and present, others and self… Deftly sifting through a range of less-often-visited emotions, Sidhu creates inscrutable characters inhabiting bewildering circumstances… Smart, provocative and poignantly disturbing, this collection, the author’s U.S. debut, signals a writer to watch.

 

Whole review here (paywall).

 

From an Encyclopedia of Fictional Characters: John Fante’s Arturo Bandini

A magazine asked me to write a freeform encyclopedia entry for Arturo Bandini a while back, which I happily did; but then they changed the format on me, to something considerably more dull and straightforward, and wanted me to do my work over again. This I didn’t do, and they let it slide and never paid me. So I’m posting it here, because I thought it was rather good, just as it was.

Arturo Bandini

“Ah Camilla! When I was a kid back home in Colorado it was Smith and Parker and Jones who hurt me with their hideous names, called me Wop and Dago and Greaser, and their children hurt me, just as I hurt you tonight. They hurt me so much I could never become one of them, drove me to books, drove me within myself, drove me to runaway from that Colorado town, and sometimes, Camilla, when I see their faces I feel the hurt all over again, the old ache there, and sometimes I am glad they are here, dying in the sun, uprooted, tricked by their heartlessness, the same faces, the same set, hard mouths, faces from my home town, fulfilling the emptiness of their lives under a blazing sun.”

Ask the Dust, John Fante

Not an immigrant himself, but the child of immigrants, pugilistic, angry, often starving, a wordsmith of an underbelly Los Angeles, a chronicler of a dark side of the moon city in the thirties, passionate, purposeless, bigoted, supremely egotistical, and cut through with more self-loathing than quartz in a California schist, this is Arturo Bandini, John Fante’s magnificent creation and alter-ego in his novel Ask The Dust. He steps onto the stage like many an unlettered peasant torn between two continents. “You are a coward, Bandini,” he says of himself, “a traitor to your soul, a feeble liar before your weeping Christ. This is why you write, this is why it would be better if you died.” Openly modeled on Fante’s own younger self, Bandini is a soul in agony, driven to prove himself, too poor to be a successful drunk, too self-conscious to bed a hooker, and almost choking on his own self-regard. Much as Fante remained a writer’s writer for most of his life, valiantly obscure until he was championed by Charles Bukowski, Bandini is an outsider’s outsider, his immigrant’s rage more closely twinned to Dostoyevsky’s murderous protagonist Raskolnikov. But unlike Raskolnikov, or many of the other deadbeat literary anti-heroes that bear the mark of Bandini’s paternity, there is a wild, unstoppered energy to Arturo, a lifeforce that plunges him headlong into the world, even if it’s often a world of his own hopeless dreams and unreasonable desires. His faults are the follies of too much passion, of caring too deeply, of youth in the moment of explosion, and as much as he is a mirror to torment, he is equally a mirror to a more brilliant world, whose cracked shards shimmer ever so briefly with the grace of a life lived to its very utmost.

Reinventing Michel Houellebecq and the Knitting Circles of the Future

Or my take on a tweaked title:

The Possibility of a Purl

Michel Houellebecq‘s unrelenting examination of the erotic possibilities of knitting circles in the distant future, when the only pleasure that humanity has left is the deadening and never consummated sexual charge of watching us knit each other’s clothes.

Check out others at MobyLives.

Heroes for our Troubled Times

outlook

From Outlook India by Shalini Mukerji:

“My father said that in India they gave names to the dark space between the stars. It was the darkness that was novel, scarce, that seemed brilliant against so much light. Sometimes I would find my father late at night in the living room, the lights all off, only the clock glowing on the vcr. He would say that it was such a relief, this darkness, this not being able to see. Only years later did I learn what it was he was hoping not to see,” remarks the floating narratorial voice in Sidhu’s Neanderthal Tongues. A powerful, suggestive story, it sculpts darkness from sparks of violence and finds the primal, atavistic expression of terror, one that transcends boundaries, language and time.Hero of the Nation, another disquieting story, explores the dynamics of caring for an ailing (grand)parent and how each member in the family scrabbles for air, a calming breath. Among these stories of dislocation and fragments of lives when time seems out of joint, The Discovery could have you thinking of Toba Tek Singh—Manto’s heartbreak about the madness of Partition, for it’s about a man who can’t make sense of the world as it splinters into ‘notcountries’ and ‘notwords’. The Border Song, among the lightest pieces in this collection, finds the transformative grace in grief and a closure of sorts that eludes characters in The Order of Things, a masterpiece of a story that could have you marvelling at Sidhu’s incisive and distinctive perspective for the Punjab experience of violence, exile and estrangement—both within India and abroad. Seeking in each story a ‘correct pronoun’ for our splintering selves and a ‘new grammar’ for fugitive histories, Sidhu seems to articulate Edvard Munch’s The Scream—that “infinite scream coursing through nature”, which the Norwegian expressionist sensed at sunset and painted as part of his ‘Frieze of Life’ series.

After the election: crisis postponed, not averted.

An update to the article published in Open Magazine:

Last night, the conservative, pro-bailout and pro-austerity New Democracy party won the elections, but not decisively enough to have an outright majority. To be able to form a government, they will need to form a coalition with one of their opponents. The second vote-getter, and close second in the elections, was the upstart, radical left party Syriza. It’s leader, Alexis Tsipras, has ruled out any coalition with any pro-bailout party, and so a coalition will likely be formed with PASOK, and one of the other, smaller, leftist parties.

While the election of New Democracy averts the immediate crisis of Greece leaving the euro, it in no way changes the long-term picture. The requirements of Europe’s bailout haven’t been fully implemented, and some of the most severe cuts are yet to come. These will be very difficult to get passed into law, and if they are passed, will likely cause a violent reaction on the streets in the coming months. But the larger picture is more disturbing. Even if the cuts are implemented, Greece will still ultimately be unable to live up to its commitments. It will not be able to pay back its debts in full, even at the current levels where much have been forgiven, and it will not be able to grow its economy effectively under the burden of such severe austerity measures.

The reaction of international markets to the Greek election struck me as quite rational. An initial sense of optimism because the immediate crisis was averted, followed by a pullback and a dose of reality, because even with the election of the conservatives, there is no obvious way forward for Greece within the euro. We’ll be exactly here again a year or so from now, if not sooner, and between now and that time, Greece will continue to suffer. The only chance that a deeper crisis can be averted is if Germany and the rest of Europe acts proactively with real stimulus measures designed to actually grow Greece’s (and Europe’s) economy. I’m not holding my breath.

Zombie highways, and other features of the Greek crisis

From last week’s issue of Open Magazine, my take on the (then) imminent Greek elections:

The highway from the airport is eerily empty. It’s mid-afternoon in the middle of the week, and there are fewer cars than on highways in a California desert at the quietest daylight hour. Another unsettling sight are the billboards. From the airport to the city, except one, all are blank. Some of them drip with papery fragments of old ads. It looks like a set for a zombie movie where everyone has died except me. Office parks and foreign factories line the highway’s edge, but most appear closed. The Ikea parking lot is empty.

Read the whole story here.

Why the Greek Elections Don’t Matter

It’s hard to avoid. Sooner or later, once you arrive in Greece, you’ll hear it. The first time for me was a few days ago in the port town of Chania on the island of Crete. I am sipping a coffee at a corner stand when the tourist shop kitty corner started blasting the tune through its speakers. It is the theme to Zorba the Greek, the 1960’s classic movie of repressed Englishness brought out of its shell by life-loving Greekness, and a little dancing. Hearing it makes me cringe. I cannot think of any other country on the planet whose history, culture, thought, and most fundamental life force has been reduced to the bars of a jingle.

A few days earlier, on another island, this time Tzia in the Cyclades, I sit at lunch with a Greek writer. “Zorba killed Greece,” she says bluntly. “That’s what half the people who come here are looking for, something to turn them inside out, take them out of themselves. But that’s not how he killed this country. It was the Greek men. You see, just like the English fell in love with the Englishman in that movie and all wanted to be him, the Greek men did the same, but with Zorba. All that life, all that drunkenness, all that macho… stupidity. They’ve spent their lives trying to be him, and look at where it’s got us.”

Children at a school graduation on Crete dancing. Credit: Ranbir Sidhu.

It was my first time in Greece, and I arrived not knowing what to expect. The May elections produced no parliament, and new elections are scheduled for this Sunday, June 17. These are widely considered to be a referendum on whether Greece will remain in the Eurozone or leave. If it votes for the socialists, the upstart Syriza party and its charismatic young leader, Alexis Tsirpas, then it votes to leave; and if it votes once again for the old guard, who have shuffled in and out of power for the last thirty years in ever more corrupt regimes, then it votes to stay. Staying means years of bone-crushing austerity measures, measures which have produced none of the promised results of financial growth, while leaving means a return to the drachma and the wiping out of property values and the savings of any Greeks who still have money in the country.

This is not a decision any rational person can make.

I’ve been here for two weeks now, following the elections, talking to locals when I can, and trying to understand the choices presented to the voters. And I’ve come to one conclusion. There is no way to reach a clear-headed decision on who to vote for.

I see this in the people I talk to, as even this close to the election, there are many who still don’t know how they will vote. Who can blame them? On one hand, disaster, and on the other, disaster. Who wouldn’t be paralyzed when faced with such choices?

Again and again, I see it in their faces. Greeks are exhausted. After five years of recession, and two years of devastating austerity cuts, cuts which still haven’t been fully implemented, few people have the energy to keep going. For Greece to rise above the current crisis, it needs something to look forward to, a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel. Europe’s punishing caning of austerity certainly doesn’t offer that, and the muddle-headed, leftist policies of Syriza, which ignore basic economic realities, don’t either. It is extraordinary that at this time of real crisis, when the lives and futures of millions hang in the balance, no one is willing to step up and offer a real, workable solution.

A this point, such a solution could only come from Brussels and Berlin, and they have decided, in grand European tradition, to bury their heads firmly in the sand and let Greece suffer. With seventeen sovereign members of the Eurozone, its easy to pass the buck, or what may soon be left of the euro, and paralysis is almost guaranteed. By insisting on years more of austerity, Europe has already decided Greece’s fate. It will almost certainly leave the euro, the disaster will happen, the only question now is when.

In Athens, I eat dinner with a young, artistic couple who are considering plans to leave. There’s no future here for them, and likely none for their two young children.

They tell me they don’t blame the Germans, or the Europeans. The Greeks did this to themselves. Years of corruption, years of useless red tape, of a state overflowing with bureaucrats, and years of switching between the same two, pathetic parties. “When we joined the euro, everyone spent, credit was cheap, money was pouring in. No one thought the party would end.”

I hear this many times. It’s not the Germans, or not only the Germans, that the Greeks blame. Their responses are almost always more nuanced than that, and many lay the blame squarely on themselves. The deep corruption of the both major political parties, the lure of easy money, the lack of scrutiny given to the many international deals they entered into, etc.

Only one person I meet plans resolutely to stay, a depressed Scots woman I encounter on Crete who arrived in 1979 to free herself from the shackles of the repressed life of Scotland, searching, no doubt, for her own Zorba. “We had such parties,” she says wistfully, “before the crisis.” Now she keeps her claws in, she tells me, desperate to stay, and prays for a Syriza victory. “Everyone’s lost everything already, they’ve spent all their money. At least with the drachma, things will be cheaper.” I suspect she has euros abroad, and hopes for disaster just so she might be able to spend them at a discounted rate, and enjoy one last summer of partying in the sun.

The view from Agia Simeon on Tzia. Credit: Ranbir Sidhu

At that lunch on Tzia where my friend the Greek writer told me how much she hated Zorba, she adds this. “If we’re going to survive this crisis, if we’re going to change, we have to kill Zorba, we have to kill that idea of ourselves, and learn to make ourselves modern.”

There are signs of hope. On a gorgeous, secluded beach one afternoon, a group of men and women in their teens and early twenties lie about in bathing shorts and bikinis, talking animatedly with each other. To me it sounds like they’re talking about what young people everywhere talk about: boys, girls, music, movies, clothes, etc. My friend tells me no, that’s not what they’re talking about at all. “They’re discussing the economics of growing peas,” she says. “How to grow them, how to market them, how to export them. A year ago, who would have thought of young people talking like this, but it means at least they are trying to take control of their future.”

Mitt Romney, a Man for All Seasons. Or Not | OPEN Magazine

Mitt Romney, a Man for All Seasons. Or Not

There has always been something a little too perfect about Mitt Romney. He is a lifelong teetotaller, a non-smoker, the kind of fella who eschews salty language for an old-fashioned “aww shucks”, a dedicated family man with an overflowing brood of gorgeous children and grandchildren, and a successful Republican governor in one of the nation’s most liberal bastions, Massachusetts, the home of the notoriously drunken, cursing, womanising and bleeding heart Kennedys.