Diplomat into novelist - Amita Malik

'Sarna has described the middle class Indian's many dilemmas... with moods ranging from cynicism to frustration but never without compassion.'

IT has now become almost routine that when an Indian diplomat, usually an ambassador, retires, he immediately bursts into print. First as a columnist and then as an author, mostly dealing with Indian foreign affairs. Some then venture into politics. A prime example is J.N. (Mani) Dixit, who has been successful at all three. Shashi Tharoor, who is an international civil servant in the U.N., has gone beyond politics and has recently written a book which is a revaluation of Jawaharlal Nehru. Very few have written novels, so it was a pleasant surprise to find that an Indian diplomat, who is currently the official spokesperson for the Ministry of External Affairs, has written an eminently readable novel on a low-key theme, which has all the elements of quiet drama as well as credibility. And offers an informed insight into the contemporary middle class Indian's many dilemmas. Since Sarna himself belongs to the Indian professional middle class, he has described these dilemmas with moods ranging from cynicism to frustration, but never without compassion.
Perhaps it is no accident that Navtej Sarna is the son of an eminent writer in Punjabi, Mohinder Singh Sarna. And, of course, long before his retirement, which is many years away, and before his first novel, Sarna has written for The Times Literary Supplement, The London Magazine and The Little Magazine. He has also published Folk Tales of Poland. He has been posted in Moscow, Warsaw, Thimpu, Geneva, Teheran and Washington D.C. And in a subtle way, he has woven in some of these places for atmosphere, especially the U.S., but never without relevance. They have a degree of sophistication which avoids any suggestion of being contrived.
The theme is certainly unusual, what may be described as the inner thoughts of a self-pitying man, a self-confessed failure in life. He lets down his father by not passing the examination for the civil service, which his father had achieved in the aftermath of the Partition of India and under intense hardship. Not only does he fail, but he refuses to sit for it again, to his father's disappointment. He joins the private sector only to be sneered at and humiliated and ultimately forced to leave by his boss, Basu, an erstwhile bureaucrat, who brings to his job the worst traits of both the public and private sectors. Then his wife leaves him for one of their so-called good friends, a great success in both social graces and career according to her standards. To add insult to injury, she takes away their son and only child with whom he had a special relationship very different from his wife's and with whom he now communicates mostly by letter with echoes of his own happy childhood. And at the back of his mind lurks the guilty memory of the woman he really loved and wanted to marry, but whom he let down when his parents found her unsuitable.
He does these introspective self-confessions in the course of a journey from Delhi to Dehra Dun. And while doing so, we get fleeting and at times witty descriptions of Indian life as it passes by. And all along, while seeing his own life in retrospect, he describes with acute observation the life of bureaucrats and others and ordinary familiar haunts such as Khan Market and other well-known parts of Delhi. It is such detailed, many-sided observations of life in the capital and what lies behind its façade in so many areas that gives life to the novel. We sometimes see ourselves and our friends and neighbours in it, which is the ultimate test. Perhaps because the people in the novel are People Like Us.
What draws us most to this remarkable first novel is the flow of the narrative, which is effortless, in simple and elegant language though it is not easy when describing the life and emotions of a self-confessed failure in life. His descriptions of human emotions are deeply felt and at times touching. Sarna never pushes for effect so we go along with him without worrying too much about his style or the authenticity of his general observations on Indian life. Which, I think, is again the ultimate test for any writer. The only time I felt a little uncomfortable was at the ending which was sprung on us a little too abruptly, the only time I felt Sarna had contrived something. And strangely, every time I mentioned the title of the book, people did a double take, wondering what it was about.
A novel out of the ordinary and very much worth reading. We shall look forward to more novels from this most unbureaucratic bureaucrat.