What an absolute charmer this journal is. This is one of those books that I've been meaning to read for a number of years, but for one reason or another had never got around to. I'm so happy I finally did. Not at all what I expected. I've enjoyed a number of books covering the theme of East meets West culture clashes such as Orwell's brilliant "Burmese Days," Ruth Jhabvala's "Heat and Dust" and Forster's "A Passage to India" and "The Hill of Devi." Still, I think it is Ackerley's whimsical reminiscence I like best. Published in 1932, I know that some will find this book dated and politically incorrect. I prefer to accept it as a product of its time. The journal covers the six months that Ackerley served as a private secretary to a Maharajah. The author pokes fun at the many arcane traditions and myths of the Hindu culture, without ever becoming malicious. The Indian King is somewhat of an incorrigible lech and maker of mischief as depicted by Ackerley. The stuffy British aren't spared the barb either. I particulary loved this exchange: "...'Do you like India?' Mrs. Bristow asked me. 'Oh, yes. I think it's marvelous.' 'And what do you think of the people?' 'I like them very much, and think them most interesting.' 'Oo, aren't you a fibber! What was it you said the other day about "awful Anglo-Indian chatter"?' 'But I thought you were speaking of the Indians just now, not the Ango-Indians.' 'The Indians! I never think of them.' 'Well, you said "the people," you know.' 'I meant us people, stupid.' 'I see. Well now, let's start again.'" Openly homosexual, Ackerley has great fun documenting his flirtatious encounters with a number of the Maharajah's servants - "....And in the dark roadway, overshadowed by trees, he put up his face and kissed me on the cheek. I returned his kiss: but he at once drew back, crying out: 'Not the mouth! You eat meat! You eat meat!' 'Yes, and I will eat you in a minute,' I said, and kissed him on the lips again, and this time he did not draw away." Altogether disarming and delightful (and not at all exploitive). Highly recommended.
Ackerley is smart and funny and an excellent observer of life around him. I wanted to love this book. I know a bit about Ackerley and I like the fact that he was an openly gay man traveling in the 1920s. I love his voice and sharp observation and good humor. Unfortunately, for me, the book became quite quickly tiresome because of the implied pedophilia that was presented as all in good fun. I recognize that the shock value of the narrative at the time might have been titillating to British readers, but I am not terribly interested in hearing about the beauty of the young boys who were virtual slaves and were used as puppets and playthings by the Maharajah of the book, and yes, even by Ackerley himself. That left me with a bad taste in my mouth and I was unable to ignore it and relax into the amusing spirit of the narrative. The unexamined assumptions of privilege just left me cold and although Ackerley is wonderful at poking fun at his fellow Brits, he does not seem to have a great deal of self-awareness as he eggs on the Maharishi to acquire still more beautiful, very young boys for his collection.
Do You like book Hindoo Holiday (2000)?
With his tittering into his sleeve, his silly anxieties and his shortness, the Maharajah made me think of the Sultan in Disney's Aladdin.... And Ackerley himself became a kindly Jafar. Much of the book is those two roaming around and devising ways of seducing numerous Aladdins.Discussing their ideal man:"The sun was setting in front is us in a blaze of pink and golden light. His Highness waved a regretful hand towards it.'I want a friend like that,' he said."Another journey in the car:"Soon, however, we were clear of the crowd – except for two or three small boys who were adhering to the sides of the car like burrs to clothes, and had to be flicked off by the King's cousin with a long whip always carried for dispersing goats or cows or other nuisances."Jafar and an Aladdin:"And in the dark roadway, overshadowed by trees, he put up his face and kissed me on the cheek. I returned his kiss; but he at once drew back, crying out:'Not the mouth! You eat meat! You eat meat!"
—David
Charming, but rather lightweight-one of the "cerise" Penguin series. It is a period piece, a diary set in 1920s India, in an imaginary Indian state reflecting the petty distinctions of caste, class and colour that are never far away from writings on India at this time. Ackerley was highly regarded in his day, but the work does appear dated, and lacks any specific moments of excitement or note. Rather a snob, he is quite candid about his admiration of handsome young Indian men, however. Best read on a sunny afternoon with a gin sling.
—Jim
One of the most enjoyable books I have ever read. Not much drama develops here. Neither are there long-winded philosophical musings on the nature of life and death or some such. Instead, we get to look at the colonial India of 1920's through the eyes of a young - and naive - British subject who's in India for the first time. Despite being naive about some things, he's very perceptive about others. His characterizations of different characters and their description make the book flow. So wonderfully - that you don't even notice how much time has passed since you started reading. The cast is full of all types - rich and poor, the British and the natives, the Hindus and the Muslims, the 4 varnas of Hindu society, and even an American or two.He arrives to the provincial village of Chhokrapur (real name - Chhatarpur) to serve as Maharajah's English secretary. The Maharajah is not very interested in governance. He is interested in luxury and boys dressed as Hindu deities and heroes playing out the ancient tales for his pleasure. While this edition has included all previously expurgated passages (I believe there were only a couple), even without them you can feel the undercurrent of same-sex desire.And that is somewhat surprising since it was originally published just 4 years after the very public trial of "The Well of Loneliness". Even the invented name of the city - Chhokrapur - is a jibe at the British moralizers at it means "Boytown". Overall, Ackerley created a marvelous picture of the age.
—Corn14853
