Kesavan is a historian, cricket-lover, cineaste and political thinker who writes with lively enthusiasm regardless of subject, from buffalo carcasses to veiled women, from Hindutva and hedgehogs to ugly film heroes and amorous wallabies. What distinguishes this collection of essays (and a handful of poems) from the typical compendium of tedious also-rans is that even the lightest of them includes a roguish edge of politics. Kesavan belongs to that smallest of minorities, an Indian who still believes in the "India" of the heady post-Independence era. Whatever he writes about carries within it the germ of his political beliefs which include, of course, the notion that it is right and proper for writers to express their opinions vigorously and fearlessly; that this has not yet ceased to be a nation where it is possible to do so without being fearful about the consequences. He believes in justice and the importance of being able to debate the most serious and provocative issues in the open. And he allows us to believe that it is not yet passe to hope that there are enough others who agree with him to make it worthwhile to keep the lines of communication open.
The essays in this book have been published elsewhere either as articles in magazines and newspapers or in other collections. The material is organised under headings—Looking, Reading, Travelling and Politics—but in one sense they are all about the same thing: being sentient. Whether he is enjoying the pleasures of a traditional Turkish hamam in Istanbul or watching a cricket match or marvelling at Australia’s Ayer’s Rock—Uluru, as it is known by native Australians—the little red "record" button on Kesavan’s personal input device is always assaying, comparing, savouring, analysing and providing spot information.
As someone whose parents belong to two very different Indian cultures, Kesavan is able to span the subcontinent with his perceptions. I find this quality especially interesting because I belong to a generation and subculture for which the definition "North India" is very similar to what "South India" is to North Indians: that is, even after 12 years of living in New Delhi, I can’t distinguish the variations amongst the states that make up North India except in the most general sense. I can remember saying this to a woman who belonged to a UP family and she went pale with outrage, before telling me that this was exactly as ignorant as using the word "Madrasi" to mean all Indians who hail from the south of the Vindhyas. I agreed readily to this proposition because of course it is ignorant—but surely not of much consequence? That lady didn’t agree, but Kesavan, in his willingness to embrace the differences of his two birth-cultures while simultaneously raising himself beyond either definition, would understand why it doesn’t matter. As he says in The Men of Madras, describing a journey to the city, from the air "the world isn’t north or south but simply below".
He makes an observation in this essay that literally turns the globe upside down: "Kanyakumari isn’t the end of the Indian earth and North and South aren’t directions, they are unequal castes. England sits on top of Europe but Sri Lanka hangs off India’s bottom like a sticky turd. Why? If this globe’s going round and round in black space with no beginning or end why should England be North and Sri Lanka South?" He re-imagines the map so that "Tamil Nadu is a place on top...where the Dravidian Golden Age and the old culture of the Tamil country was saved from three thousand years of foreign goondas... wearing Sri Lanka like a peacock feather".
It’s not as if I agree with everything Kesavan writes. In his title essay he extrapolates from a handful of ageing Bollywood film actors to declare that the entire universe of Indian masculinity is ugly. This is so unfair as to leave me gasping. I think we have a fabulous range of maleness. But then again, part of the charm of this book is that one can disagree violently with the author, without disliking him.
