In the Hindustan Times V.S.Naipaul-biographer Patrick French writes at some length on Writings on India [via].
He finds, for example:
He finds, for example:
A rough hierarchy of respectability has formed among Indian critics. At the top of the heap come writers in vernacular languages, who are deemed to be authentic: they are the aam aadmi of Indian literature, to whom lip service is paid. Next come Indian writers in English who live in India, followed by those who live abroad, followed by foreigners who have the temerity to write about India. At the bottom of the pile are the high-selling purveyors of the new economy, with their embarrassing locutions. There is also a subsection -- a sort of hell realm -- inhabited by second or third-generation authors of Indian origin who return to the land of their ancestors with a view to writing about it. V S Naipaul was the founding father of this genre with An Area of Darkness in 1964. Suketu Mehta pulled it off with Maximum City, but since then most of the carpet-bagging NRIs have been eviscerated by didactic Indian reviewers.Also on offer: some fascinating incidental titbits:
While there are millions of Indians in Canada, Europe and the USA, comparatively few foreigners live in India. Immigration is nearly impossible. Under post-26/11 visa regulations, many old-school "Indophiles" have been chased out of the country. The home ministry gives citizenship to about 1,000 people a year, whereas Britain, for example, gives it to around 250,000.I look forward to the Indian reactions to this.