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Hindoo Holiday
A highly entertaining and moving journal chronicling J. R. Ackerley's time in India In the 1920s, the young J. R. Ackerley spent several months in India as the Private Secretary to the Maharajah of Chhokrapur. Knowing almost nothing of India, he discovers Hindu culture, festivals and language, and reveals the fascinating attitudes of the Palace staff on women, marriage. the caste system and death. At the heart of Hindoo Holiday is the wonderfully unpredictable figure of his Highness the Maharajah Sahib who, ultimately, just wants 'someone to love him'.
276 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1932
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About the author
J.R. Ackerley
13 books67 followersJoe Randolph "J. R." Ackerley was a British writer and editor. Starting with the BBC the year after its founding in 1927, he was promoted to literary editor of The Listener, its weekly magazine, where he served for more than two decades.
He published many emerging poets and writers who became influential in Great Britain. He was openly gay, a rarity in his time when homosexuality was forbidden by law and socially ostracized.
He published many emerging poets and writers who became influential in Great Britain. He was openly gay, a rarity in his time when homosexuality was forbidden by law and socially ostracized.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 74 reviews
April 16, 2021
Well, I will start by saying, this review is going to be slightly briefer than the one I just wrote, and Goodreads failed to save - Thanks for that Goodreads!
This book is the diarised recordings of the authors five months in the 1920s spent as the private secretary of the Maharajah of Chhatrapur. The author goes some way to disguising the actual location, and goes so far as to suggest this is a work of fiction: “This journal then, which developed day by day out of almost complete ignorance, and for whose accuracy in fact, since I was depending solely upon my memory I cannot therefore vouch.” But few readers would be taken in.
Another point to note, is that this second edition has had some of more risqué bits added back in: from the preface “When this journal was first offered for publication it was thought necessary to make a number of omissions. Nearly twenty years have passed since then, and the State of Chhokrapur, if indeed it ever existed, has dissolved away in the new map of India.”
Anyway, Ackerley shows himself as an excellent observer of human nature. This is a largely a work of observation - of characters, and of their interaction, and Ackerley proves an able writer of anecdotes.
Presented in diary style, he works his way through his five months outlining may of the more amusing interactions and conversations with his cast of characters. The Maharajah of course, who provides constant amusement is his seeking of explanations for British thinking. "He wanted someone to love him - His highness, I mean. He alleged other reasons, of course - an English private secretary, a tutor for his son... He wanted a friend. He wanted understanding and sympathy and philosophic comfort, and he sent to England for them.".
The other English, or Anglo-English are ridiculed almost openly for their superiority, which the author clearly doesn't share:
P78/79
'Do you like India?' Mrs. Bristow asked me.
'Oh, yes. I think it's marvellous."
'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 Anglo-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.'
and, P22
“Talking of snakes, Mrs. Montgomery told me that once she nearly stood upon a krait - one of the most venomous snakes in India. She has been very ill at the time, suffering from acute facial neuralgia, 'so that I didn't care if I trod on fifty kraits. I was quite stupid with pain, and was going back in the evening to my bungalow, preceded by a servant who was carrying a lamp. Suddenly he stopped and said "Krait, Mem-sahib!" - but I was far too ill to notice what he was saying, and went straight on, and the krait was lying right in the middle of the path! The servant did a thing absolutely without precedent in India - he touched me! - he put hand on my shoulder and pulled me back. My shoe came off and I stopped. Of course if he hadn't done that I should have undoubtedly have been killed; but I didn't like it all the same same, and got rid of him soon after.”
There are so many great quotes for Ackerley's interactions with Abdul, his Hindi tutor, the only man who seems to be able to get on the wrong side of Ackerley. The conversations between the two of them are comedy gold, and worth reading the book for. ("He really is the most tiresome person I have ever met.")
As good as he is at capturing the moment in his writing, the book is unusual in the very repetitive suggestions of homosexuality. The author, who was openly gay, must have been quite a rarity at the time, and I suspect that the text he added back in to this book for the second edition had to do with this overt homosexual comment and suggestion - especially related to his time with Narayan, the guest house clerk and his friend Sharma, a lower caste valet. It is not reading too much into things to suggest the Maharajah was also less than interested in his own wife.
But, to some more of the memorable quotes:
P255 - The Maharaja to Ackerley:
'What must I say to God when I meet Him? What shall I say to Him for my sins?'
'I shouldn't mention the word,' I said. 'He'll be the best judge of your life. If you've got to say anything I should say, "You sent us forth into the world incomplete and therefore weak. With my own life, in these circumstances, and according to my own nature, I did what I could to secure happiness. But I did not even know what happiness was, or where to look for it, and it was whilst I was in search of it that I dare say I got a little muddled."'
P22
In the bazaar today I noticed a shopkeeper sitting cross-legged on the platform of his shop making up his ledger. A common sight - but there was something wrong, I could not at first see what. Then I understood: what was his heavy ledger resting on? It was lying open before him, on his stomach, but unsupported by his free hand, not resting against his knees. What on earth was propping it up?
The problem teased my mind so much that I had to retrace my steps for another look. There he was, comfortably scribbling away in the large ledger, which was standing up, apparently unsupported, in his lap. Then, as I stared, he closed it, and got to his feet - and the mystery was explained. He had elephantiasis of the scrotum, and had been utilising this huge football of tissue as a book-rest.
So for me this is a book that deserves to be kept in print. It is very much a book of it's time - almost a hundred years ago now, and is unusual in its presentation, but very funny, and very readable.
For the painful-to-watch worming of Abdul, to the clever Dewan, and equally clever Babaji Rao, this is a book worth seeking out, despite being somewhat hard to find.
Four and half stars from me, rounded up.
This book is the diarised recordings of the authors five months in the 1920s spent as the private secretary of the Maharajah of Chhatrapur. The author goes some way to disguising the actual location, and goes so far as to suggest this is a work of fiction: “This journal then, which developed day by day out of almost complete ignorance, and for whose accuracy in fact, since I was depending solely upon my memory I cannot therefore vouch.” But few readers would be taken in.
Another point to note, is that this second edition has had some of more risqué bits added back in: from the preface “When this journal was first offered for publication it was thought necessary to make a number of omissions. Nearly twenty years have passed since then, and the State of Chhokrapur, if indeed it ever existed, has dissolved away in the new map of India.”
Anyway, Ackerley shows himself as an excellent observer of human nature. This is a largely a work of observation - of characters, and of their interaction, and Ackerley proves an able writer of anecdotes.
Presented in diary style, he works his way through his five months outlining may of the more amusing interactions and conversations with his cast of characters. The Maharajah of course, who provides constant amusement is his seeking of explanations for British thinking. "He wanted someone to love him - His highness, I mean. He alleged other reasons, of course - an English private secretary, a tutor for his son... He wanted a friend. He wanted understanding and sympathy and philosophic comfort, and he sent to England for them.".
The other English, or Anglo-English are ridiculed almost openly for their superiority, which the author clearly doesn't share:
P78/79
'Do you like India?' Mrs. Bristow asked me.
'Oh, yes. I think it's marvellous."
'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 Anglo-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.'
and, P22
“Talking of snakes, Mrs. Montgomery told me that once she nearly stood upon a krait - one of the most venomous snakes in India. She has been very ill at the time, suffering from acute facial neuralgia, 'so that I didn't care if I trod on fifty kraits. I was quite stupid with pain, and was going back in the evening to my bungalow, preceded by a servant who was carrying a lamp. Suddenly he stopped and said "Krait, Mem-sahib!" - but I was far too ill to notice what he was saying, and went straight on, and the krait was lying right in the middle of the path! The servant did a thing absolutely without precedent in India - he touched me! - he put hand on my shoulder and pulled me back. My shoe came off and I stopped. Of course if he hadn't done that I should have undoubtedly have been killed; but I didn't like it all the same same, and got rid of him soon after.”
There are so many great quotes for Ackerley's interactions with Abdul, his Hindi tutor, the only man who seems to be able to get on the wrong side of Ackerley. The conversations between the two of them are comedy gold, and worth reading the book for. ("He really is the most tiresome person I have ever met.")
As good as he is at capturing the moment in his writing, the book is unusual in the very repetitive suggestions of homosexuality. The author, who was openly gay, must have been quite a rarity at the time, and I suspect that the text he added back in to this book for the second edition had to do with this overt homosexual comment and suggestion - especially related to his time with Narayan, the guest house clerk and his friend Sharma, a lower caste valet. It is not reading too much into things to suggest the Maharajah was also less than interested in his own wife.
But, to some more of the memorable quotes:
P255 - The Maharaja to Ackerley:
'What must I say to God when I meet Him? What shall I say to Him for my sins?'
'I shouldn't mention the word,' I said. 'He'll be the best judge of your life. If you've got to say anything I should say, "You sent us forth into the world incomplete and therefore weak. With my own life, in these circumstances, and according to my own nature, I did what I could to secure happiness. But I did not even know what happiness was, or where to look for it, and it was whilst I was in search of it that I dare say I got a little muddled."'
P22
In the bazaar today I noticed a shopkeeper sitting cross-legged on the platform of his shop making up his ledger. A common sight - but there was something wrong, I could not at first see what. Then I understood: what was his heavy ledger resting on? It was lying open before him, on his stomach, but unsupported by his free hand, not resting against his knees. What on earth was propping it up?
The problem teased my mind so much that I had to retrace my steps for another look. There he was, comfortably scribbling away in the large ledger, which was standing up, apparently unsupported, in his lap. Then, as I stared, he closed it, and got to his feet - and the mystery was explained. He had elephantiasis of the scrotum, and had been utilising this huge football of tissue as a book-rest.
So for me this is a book that deserves to be kept in print. It is very much a book of it's time - almost a hundred years ago now, and is unusual in its presentation, but very funny, and very readable.
For the painful-to-watch worming of Abdul, to the clever Dewan, and equally clever Babaji Rao, this is a book worth seeking out, despite being somewhat hard to find.
Four and half stars from me, rounded up.
October 5, 2010
Extremely funny and perceptive of human nature. The scenes with Abdul ( 'He really is the most tiresome person I have ever met'), with the other Anglo-Indians, and certainly with His Majesty*, were hilarious. Others have commented on how not PC this is; in fact Ackerley's treatment of these characters is extremely human, and he is in love with absurdity, including his own. Further, the attitudes of Ackerley's character are nothing like the racism of the AngloIndian community, which he exposes and lampoons with gusto:
'Do you like India?' Mrs. Bristow asked me.
'Oh, yes. I think it's marvellous."
'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 Anglo-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.' (p 79 (second edition, Chatto & Windus, 1952))
Sometimes the book plodded along, but this is due to the careful observance of day-to-day life and the author's interest in the detail of Indian customs. I love the fact this is classed as travel fiction even though the name of the Princely State has been changed: "the State of Chhokrapur, if indeed it ever existed, has dissolved away in the new map of India" (Introduction). Maybe Chhatrapur?
*(His Highness asks his secretary Ackerley:)
'What must I say to God when I meet Him? What shall I say to Him for my sins?'
'I shouldn't mention the word,' I said. 'He'll be the best judge of your life. If you've got to say anything I should say, "You sent us forth into the world incomplete and therefore weak. With my own life, in these circumstances, and according to my own nature, I did what I could to secure happiness. But I did not even know what happiness was, or where to look for it, and it was whilst I was in search of it that I dare say I got a little muddled."' (p 255)
'Do you like India?' Mrs. Bristow asked me.
'Oh, yes. I think it's marvellous."
'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 Anglo-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.' (p 79 (second edition, Chatto & Windus, 1952))
Sometimes the book plodded along, but this is due to the careful observance of day-to-day life and the author's interest in the detail of Indian customs. I love the fact this is classed as travel fiction even though the name of the Princely State has been changed: "the State of Chhokrapur, if indeed it ever existed, has dissolved away in the new map of India" (Introduction). Maybe Chhatrapur?
*(His Highness asks his secretary Ackerley:)
'What must I say to God when I meet Him? What shall I say to Him for my sins?'
'I shouldn't mention the word,' I said. 'He'll be the best judge of your life. If you've got to say anything I should say, "You sent us forth into the world incomplete and therefore weak. With my own life, in these circumstances, and according to my own nature, I did what I could to secure happiness. But I did not even know what happiness was, or where to look for it, and it was whilst I was in search of it that I dare say I got a little muddled."' (p 255)
July 13, 2012
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!"
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!"
March 29, 2024
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 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.
April 28, 2023
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.
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.
September 1, 2018
I'm so sad this book is over. Really. It was one of the most charming books I've read this year.
more soon. Recommended.
more soon. Recommended.
April 26, 2011
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.
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.
August 10, 2020
What a weird little book!
When I read the title, I was ready to read a heavily prejudiced version of what India was during the British rule. I was pleasantly surprised to find that the book began with a caution against stereotyping and as I read on, I could see the author trying to give as balanced a view of the nation as he could. We do have some stereotypical characters, but they felt fleshed out and their views are balanced against other views. What was even more surprising about the book is that it manages to be effortlessly funny whilst doing all this.
J.R. Ackerley manages to have a unique voice with comedy that is distinctly Wodehousian. His queerness adds a whole depth of flavour too, making for a nice joyous read. I'm sure his other books would be just as fun too, and I look forward to discovering them!
When I read the title, I was ready to read a heavily prejudiced version of what India was during the British rule. I was pleasantly surprised to find that the book began with a caution against stereotyping and as I read on, I could see the author trying to give as balanced a view of the nation as he could. We do have some stereotypical characters, but they felt fleshed out and their views are balanced against other views. What was even more surprising about the book is that it manages to be effortlessly funny whilst doing all this.
J.R. Ackerley manages to have a unique voice with comedy that is distinctly Wodehousian. His queerness adds a whole depth of flavour too, making for a nice joyous read. I'm sure his other books would be just as fun too, and I look forward to discovering them!
December 24, 2010
This book should have been interesting: an openly gay Englishman in the 1920's visits an Indian nobleman and observes said nobleman's eccentric habits as well as records his own culture clash with the rest of India. Sadly, it wasn't . This was a pretty dull read for me. I don't know if it was the writing style or the pacing, but it felt like like nothing was happing. I honestly can't remember any significant events happening beyond the awkward exchanges between Ackerley and his doting tutor, Abdul. There were some interesting scenes beyond this, but nothing stood out as significant. Every event felt like some needless exchange that was only filler leading to a bigger story line. Unfortunately, there was no bigger story line. However, I feel like I'm going to reread it in a few years, and it will magically become one of my most favorite books. I can't say i completely hate it, I just feel a little let down.
February 7, 2022
A foggy memoir of an Englishman's time in a North Indian province as a royal guest. I'm always interested in people's history and this account provides glimpses into the customs and traditions of that time from the lens of a foreigner. No need to add that I'm still dumbstruck at how miserable we have made ourselves with our rigid social structures. The tantalizing queer undertone remains exactly that and I was mildly disappointed. Some cohesion is lost in the journal format and the narrative feels disjointed. We observe how colonialism suppressed and subtracted from some of the old traditions and just how much of Indian history has fallen through the cracks in history.
July 7, 2009
I read the first 95 pages of this book, which was 95 pages too many. Everything I heard about it led me to believe it would be very entertaining, so I kept reading hoping it would get funny, or at least interesting. A couple of nights ago I was struggling through another page, when suddenly I was awakened by my own snoring!!
May 11, 2012
If my paternal grandfather had been posher and more frivolous perhaps this could have been him. Enjoyed it
December 9, 2024
J R Ackerley is a forgotten author albeit an acclaimed one. This book is a memoir of the five months he spent in India as the private secretary turned friend of the Maharajah of Chhokrapur.On his arrival he knew little about India during his stay he discovers the culture,language and festivals sometimes with strange results.
He makes good and bad relationships with the Mararajah and his palace staff both of which he depicts their eccentricities and unpredictability with humour and sometimes sarcasm. Written in the form of a diary of his and his associates beliefs and life the book is delightful and highly entertaining. Well worth a read.
He makes good and bad relationships with the Mararajah and his palace staff both of which he depicts their eccentricities and unpredictability with humour and sometimes sarcasm. Written in the form of a diary of his and his associates beliefs and life the book is delightful and highly entertaining. Well worth a read.
August 25, 2011
I'm in agreement with reviewer Kelly. I wanted to enjoy this and find it charming, but I didn't. One thing I did enjoy was Ackerly's openness to the Hindu culture. Otherwise, this was just a wash for me. I'd rather read The Raj Quartet again for a mesmerizing look at colonial India.
October 27, 2008
The first thing to strike a modern reader is that curious spelling. The double O, not U as is accepted. The double O takes us to another time and place, to a view of India from not that long ago, but distant enough now to be another world. Only the double O was not Ackerley’s. He spelt it Hindu. The misspelling was down to the publisher, who felt that it gave the book another charm. And he was right, for this journal of Ackerley’s five months in India is the British social comedy transplanted to the Indian subcontinent. In the heat and dust of Chhokrapur Ackerley introduces us to a cast of characters as vivacious and alive as anything in Forster, only Ackerley’s cast is real. But the reader has need to be cautious, for in this journal not everything is as honest as it seems.
In his preface to the second edition Ackerley explains himself thus:
“When this journal was first offered for publication it was thought necessary to make a number of omissions. Nearly twenty years have passed since then, and the State of Chhokrapur, if indeed it ever existed, has dissolved away in the new map of India.”
(Preface, P.i)
This second edition is still an incomplete text. The forthcoming Penguin Edition will see the complete unexpurgated text for the first time in the UK. That is the first lie. The second is with the State of Chhokrapur – Ackerley almost admits that the state is a fabrication – it is. The name means “City of Boys”, Ackerley’s private joke as an openly homosexual man during the decades when it was still unacceptable to be so. The events of Hindoo Holiday take place in Chhatrapur, where the Maharajah, also a homosexual whose biological connection to his heirs was in doubt. The first publication of Hindoo Holiday in 1932 saw these facts omitted from the text. The 1952 edition reinstated some of them, but only will the forthcoming text contain them all. The final, major error of Hindoo Holiday is the mistakes Ackerley makes regarding Hindu and Indian customs. These errors are passed away with this comment:
“This journal then, which developed day by day out of almost complete ignorance, and for whose accuracy in fact, since I was depending solely upon my memory I cannot therefore vouch.”
(Explanation, P.iii)
So why should a book whose honesty can be so easily dismantled, be hailed as a modern classic, and deserve reprinting? For Ackerley’s interest is not to be a chronicler of India or its customs, but to be a profiler of men. What remains when one finishes Hindoo Holiday is the portrait of his Highness the Maharajah Sahib of Chhokrapur (to grant him his full title), one of the most comically complete characters in the fiction of India. For that is what Hindoo Holiday is: a fiction based upon the truth. The truth is Ackerley visited Chhatrapur upon the behest of his friend, E.M. Forster, and stayed for five months. It is probably also true that many of the events contained within did happen, but Hindoo Holiday is constructed as fiction and must be read as such.
If Hindoo Holiday were a travelogue or an anthropological investigation, there would be details that are simply missing from Ackerley’s text. We gain no insight into how or why Ackerley is there, no descriptions of the temples, such as Khajaraho which was nearby, that he must have visited, or of his sojourn to Benares that bridges Part One and Part Two of this book. All we have is this portrait of the Maharajah and his peculiar state of Chhokrapur. And what a portrait.
From the outset Ackerley is getting it wrong. A miscommunication summons the Maharajah to Ackerley’s house at the most inopportune moment:
“I had spent several months in corresponding and arranging this meeting with His Highness; I had travelled over six thousand miles to accomplish it; he might at least have managed better than to catch me in this state of unreadiness.” (P.5)
The comedy of errors continues as Ackerley, unconscious of Indian custom, makes many social blunders, and ends up eating “leathery buttered toast” that he does not even desire (P.7). This is the tone for the bulk of Hindoo Holiday, but very slowly this visitor begins to become accustomed to Indian ways, and before long is joining them in major ceremonies, and discussing Indian customs and debating ethics.
Where Hindoo Holiday falls apart is towards the end of its second part, where the Maharajah disappears from view, and Ackerley is taken up with his petty squabbles with his tutor, Abdul. Very quickly these petty feuds become tiresome, and though they last but a short while, they became a little repetitive. But it is in this second half where Ackerley also faces up to the issues that have been simmering beneath the surface of his life and his companions in Chhokrapur. The savaging of a fly by some ants evokes memories of the First World War, in which Ackerley fought and lost a brother, and his kiss with Narayan, the guest house clerk, which highlights some of the discordances Ackerley sees in Indian society:
“What does my friend, the Dewan, think of all that, I wonder, with his squeamishness about dirt and germs, his disgust with other people’s mouths, his dread of sputum in the tea-cup, his repugnance to the kiss upon the lips. With all his shrill prejudices against European customs, how does he fare in his own land? Indians are great expectorators. Hawked-up phlegm, streams of red betel-juice saliva, are shot about incessantly as they walk. I noticed it when I landed in Bombay, the patches everywhere of bright red spt. I thought it must be blood, until I was forced to the conclusion that, in that case, everyone was bleeding… give me the unhygienic customs of Europe! Give me the loving-cup! Give me the kiss!” (P.247)
And that is also why Ackerley fails in India and returns to Europe. His attitudes cannot be reconciled with the Indian. Ackerley leaves India after five months, returning to Piccadilly, to city life, to a life where his homosexuality cannot be restrained.
While it lasts Ackerley’s portrait of this community and its people is fascinating and comedic. Ackerley has an eye for detail, and time and again it is the small portraits, the descriptions of moments, that ring the truest, in this journal of a holiday in India.
J. R. Ackerley’s name is used annually for the J. R. Ackerley Prize for Autobiography.
In his preface to the second edition Ackerley explains himself thus:
“When this journal was first offered for publication it was thought necessary to make a number of omissions. Nearly twenty years have passed since then, and the State of Chhokrapur, if indeed it ever existed, has dissolved away in the new map of India.”
(Preface, P.i)
This second edition is still an incomplete text. The forthcoming Penguin Edition will see the complete unexpurgated text for the first time in the UK. That is the first lie. The second is with the State of Chhokrapur – Ackerley almost admits that the state is a fabrication – it is. The name means “City of Boys”, Ackerley’s private joke as an openly homosexual man during the decades when it was still unacceptable to be so. The events of Hindoo Holiday take place in Chhatrapur, where the Maharajah, also a homosexual whose biological connection to his heirs was in doubt. The first publication of Hindoo Holiday in 1932 saw these facts omitted from the text. The 1952 edition reinstated some of them, but only will the forthcoming text contain them all. The final, major error of Hindoo Holiday is the mistakes Ackerley makes regarding Hindu and Indian customs. These errors are passed away with this comment:
“This journal then, which developed day by day out of almost complete ignorance, and for whose accuracy in fact, since I was depending solely upon my memory I cannot therefore vouch.”
(Explanation, P.iii)
So why should a book whose honesty can be so easily dismantled, be hailed as a modern classic, and deserve reprinting? For Ackerley’s interest is not to be a chronicler of India or its customs, but to be a profiler of men. What remains when one finishes Hindoo Holiday is the portrait of his Highness the Maharajah Sahib of Chhokrapur (to grant him his full title), one of the most comically complete characters in the fiction of India. For that is what Hindoo Holiday is: a fiction based upon the truth. The truth is Ackerley visited Chhatrapur upon the behest of his friend, E.M. Forster, and stayed for five months. It is probably also true that many of the events contained within did happen, but Hindoo Holiday is constructed as fiction and must be read as such.
If Hindoo Holiday were a travelogue or an anthropological investigation, there would be details that are simply missing from Ackerley’s text. We gain no insight into how or why Ackerley is there, no descriptions of the temples, such as Khajaraho which was nearby, that he must have visited, or of his sojourn to Benares that bridges Part One and Part Two of this book. All we have is this portrait of the Maharajah and his peculiar state of Chhokrapur. And what a portrait.
From the outset Ackerley is getting it wrong. A miscommunication summons the Maharajah to Ackerley’s house at the most inopportune moment:
“I had spent several months in corresponding and arranging this meeting with His Highness; I had travelled over six thousand miles to accomplish it; he might at least have managed better than to catch me in this state of unreadiness.” (P.5)
The comedy of errors continues as Ackerley, unconscious of Indian custom, makes many social blunders, and ends up eating “leathery buttered toast” that he does not even desire (P.7). This is the tone for the bulk of Hindoo Holiday, but very slowly this visitor begins to become accustomed to Indian ways, and before long is joining them in major ceremonies, and discussing Indian customs and debating ethics.
Where Hindoo Holiday falls apart is towards the end of its second part, where the Maharajah disappears from view, and Ackerley is taken up with his petty squabbles with his tutor, Abdul. Very quickly these petty feuds become tiresome, and though they last but a short while, they became a little repetitive. But it is in this second half where Ackerley also faces up to the issues that have been simmering beneath the surface of his life and his companions in Chhokrapur. The savaging of a fly by some ants evokes memories of the First World War, in which Ackerley fought and lost a brother, and his kiss with Narayan, the guest house clerk, which highlights some of the discordances Ackerley sees in Indian society:
“What does my friend, the Dewan, think of all that, I wonder, with his squeamishness about dirt and germs, his disgust with other people’s mouths, his dread of sputum in the tea-cup, his repugnance to the kiss upon the lips. With all his shrill prejudices against European customs, how does he fare in his own land? Indians are great expectorators. Hawked-up phlegm, streams of red betel-juice saliva, are shot about incessantly as they walk. I noticed it when I landed in Bombay, the patches everywhere of bright red spt. I thought it must be blood, until I was forced to the conclusion that, in that case, everyone was bleeding… give me the unhygienic customs of Europe! Give me the loving-cup! Give me the kiss!” (P.247)
And that is also why Ackerley fails in India and returns to Europe. His attitudes cannot be reconciled with the Indian. Ackerley leaves India after five months, returning to Piccadilly, to city life, to a life where his homosexuality cannot be restrained.
While it lasts Ackerley’s portrait of this community and its people is fascinating and comedic. Ackerley has an eye for detail, and time and again it is the small portraits, the descriptions of moments, that ring the truest, in this journal of a holiday in India.
J. R. Ackerley’s name is used annually for the J. R. Ackerley Prize for Autobiography.
November 1, 2015
Written in the form of diary entries, Hindoo Holiday records the period of time that a young Joe Ackerley spent as private secretary to the Maharaja of Chhatarpur (renamed in the book). (The position was arranged by E M Forster who knew the Maharaja from when he was in India writing Passage to India).
Parts of the book are very funny, especially his comments on British and Anglo-Indian guests of the Maharaja whom he clearly dislikes.
A beautiful young Brahmin boy named Narayan and a younger low caste boy named Sharma who loves Narayan and is also a lover of the (homosexual) Maharaja are significant characters in the book. The relationship between the author and the two young men is understated but clear.
There is also the obnoxious Abdul, who was employed by Ackerley to teach him Hindi but ends in an uncomfortable situation.
One of the those books that I found very funny while reading it but which left me with a feeling of sadness and regret.
Parts of the book are very funny, especially his comments on British and Anglo-Indian guests of the Maharaja whom he clearly dislikes.
A beautiful young Brahmin boy named Narayan and a younger low caste boy named Sharma who loves Narayan and is also a lover of the (homosexual) Maharaja are significant characters in the book. The relationship between the author and the two young men is understated but clear.
There is also the obnoxious Abdul, who was employed by Ackerley to teach him Hindi but ends in an uncomfortable situation.
One of the those books that I found very funny while reading it but which left me with a feeling of sadness and regret.
April 1, 2009
This is the book that finally convinced me Ackerley couldn't write.
March 25, 2010
I really wanted to like this book. Alas, I just couldn't. Every character comes off as a major twit.
July 15, 2018
I REALLY wanted to like this book. I usually enjoy books with quirky characters. I couldn't find a character I liked. I was very disappointed.
February 22, 2022
This delightfully humorous book, charmingly written, is the chronicle of the author J.R. Ackerley’s five month stay in India, as private secretary to the Maharaja of Chhatarpur, in 1923.
Apart from being a thoroughly enjoyable read, the book is interesting on a number of levels. I was very surprised by the overt references to the writer’s homosexuality and, indeed, to that of the Maharaja himself. This was published in 1932, decades before homosexual relationships were made legal in the UK. The author’s attraction towards young Indian men (or boys) is a theme that runs throughout the novel. In fact, the realm of the Maharaja is renamed by Ackerley as “Chhokrapur”, or “place of the boys”.
Another town that features in the novel is Garha, which is almost certainly Khajuraho from the references to the erotic sculptures of the temples. It was the last place I visited before the Covid crisis, and I have very fond memories of the beauty and relative calm of the town (a welcome break after the intensity of Varanasi), which especially endeared the book to me.
Ackerley is keen to understand the local beliefs and customs of both Hindus and Muslims, which are comically alien to him, in addition to taking language classes. Whilst he himself is clearly enamored of the country, he sketches some wonderful caricatures of the British officials and their families who are certainly not. The Maharaja himself is portrayed as another comic character, capricious and deeply superstitious. Ackerley was recommended to him by E.M.Forster, whose “A Passage to India” was published a year later. But while he makes much mention about his role as friend and confidant, there is little of his actual work for the Maharaja.
Perhaps the most engaging aspect of the book is the relationship between the writer and his language teacher, Abdul. He describes the desperation and resignation that he feels towards Abdul to hilarious effect.
Apart from being a thoroughly enjoyable read, the book is interesting on a number of levels. I was very surprised by the overt references to the writer’s homosexuality and, indeed, to that of the Maharaja himself. This was published in 1932, decades before homosexual relationships were made legal in the UK. The author’s attraction towards young Indian men (or boys) is a theme that runs throughout the novel. In fact, the realm of the Maharaja is renamed by Ackerley as “Chhokrapur”, or “place of the boys”.
Another town that features in the novel is Garha, which is almost certainly Khajuraho from the references to the erotic sculptures of the temples. It was the last place I visited before the Covid crisis, and I have very fond memories of the beauty and relative calm of the town (a welcome break after the intensity of Varanasi), which especially endeared the book to me.
Ackerley is keen to understand the local beliefs and customs of both Hindus and Muslims, which are comically alien to him, in addition to taking language classes. Whilst he himself is clearly enamored of the country, he sketches some wonderful caricatures of the British officials and their families who are certainly not. The Maharaja himself is portrayed as another comic character, capricious and deeply superstitious. Ackerley was recommended to him by E.M.Forster, whose “A Passage to India” was published a year later. But while he makes much mention about his role as friend and confidant, there is little of his actual work for the Maharaja.
Perhaps the most engaging aspect of the book is the relationship between the writer and his language teacher, Abdul. He describes the desperation and resignation that he feels towards Abdul to hilarious effect.
March 2, 2023
Quite a funny tale/memoir. The double “o” in Hindoo Holiday immediately signals that the reader is returning to another time: one that was not so long ago, but which now feels so antiquated. An era that was tragic, perhaps, in its essence, but comic in its particulars; a time of unspeakable wealth and inconceivable poverty, continual cultural misunderstandings, unfettered whimsy, and cruelties large and small: the age of the British Raj and the Indian princes. The writer has a way with words which brings to life that time in India in a brilliant manner. Thoroughly enjoyable. 3.8 stars.
August 13, 2021
Rating 2/5
Can be royally ignored. There might be few funny anecdotes and incidents but digging them amidst truck loads of description of people, places is increasingly overwhelming and ridiculously unnecessary.
The description of the book is completely misleading, do not fall for it.
I do appreciate author's power of observation, but, I can't appreciate anything more than this.
Can be royally ignored. There might be few funny anecdotes and incidents but digging them amidst truck loads of description of people, places is increasingly overwhelming and ridiculously unnecessary.
The description of the book is completely misleading, do not fall for it.
I do appreciate author's power of observation, but, I can't appreciate anything more than this.
March 25, 2024
Thoroughly amusing!
December 24, 2021
A journal of the five months Ackerley spent in India, ostensibly as tutor to the son (two years-old) of, though actually personal companion to, the Maharajah of Chhokrapur. (He says this is a made-up name). Ackerley explains in a preface that the Maharajah, a figure poised quaintly and sadly between two cultures, wanted above all to be admired and loved. He has a relationship with his wife, in her young twenties and in purdah, closed off to any man; he has advisers, a formidable Prime Minister and sympathetic personal secretary; but his temperament and education make him seek out a Western confidant. Ackerley gets a tip about the position from his friend and mentor E. M. Forster (not described in the book); Ackerley is a man of striking, almost feminine beauty, disturbingly so to a flirtatious English military wife; and 'Prince', the Rajah, is a connoisseur of boys. It emerges slightly bathetically at the end that reportedly the Maharajah uses his valet, the son of a barber, as his catamite; complaints about favouritism, and the King's judgment being blinded by partiality, are the only times any of his subjects speak disoblingingly of him.
The book is principally a series of affectionate and astute portraits of the King and his ramshackle court. On a pilgrimage to a holy site, a town apparently racked by plague, he takes a retinue of seventy-five. The rajah has an enthusiastically miscellaneous knowledge of European culture that is already, late in the 1920s when Ackerley visits, two generations out of date--trashy novels like Hall Caine and Marie Correlli, and Herbert Spencer on the question whether there is a God. Meanwhile his observances are imperturbably Hindu, taking the five products of the cow, the great mother, every day, which means drinking cow urine and eating dung. 'I like it very much'. He is given to invocations of half-remembered English, repeated by the curious, childlike question, 'what is 'lurk'?', 'what is 'Parthenon'?', asked of the term he has just used. His Dewan, or Prime Minister, a fat, shy man of great capacity feared by the British Political Secretary, says that the Rajah sometimes has an interest in passing hinself off as a fool, but has an iron grip on everything that goes on. He is personally demanding: he built an architecturally nonsensical extension to his summer house so that his composer and poet 'lawrit' (laureate), men of eighty and eighty-five, could be within call when he got up to conduct business in the middle of the night.
The story in the diary, such as it is, is of how Ackerley unwisely allows himself to get involved in the machinations for favour and a higher-paying post of his Hindu teacher, Abdul, a Muslim. Abdul's slavish and intermittent affections for him, the Sahib, are inseparable from his self-interest in a way the narrator comes to find repellent. Ackerley arranges for the tutor, an Army subaltern on twelve rupees a month, to be moved to manager of the guest house; this would necessitate displacing his friend and companion Narayan, his friend and companion, a young man in his early twenties of great beauty, who once, despite Hindu strictures on cleanliness, allows Ackerley to kiss him on the mouth. Ackerley tries behind Abdul's back to arrange for him to get the raise without moving job. The Muslim is indignant that he can love the Englishman without being loved back--something 'very bad', and unheard-of in India. His home, with a sitting-room between sheets so small that he and Ackerley fill it up sitting in it, nevertheless contains all his possessions nailed on hooks on clapboard; it is mean and ill-assorted like his mind, comments Ackerley harshly. When it emerges that all the men he likes, like Narayan, have wives and sex lives with their wives, or are inpermissibly having gay sex, and the weather gets hot in May, he goes home.
The book is principally a series of affectionate and astute portraits of the King and his ramshackle court. On a pilgrimage to a holy site, a town apparently racked by plague, he takes a retinue of seventy-five. The rajah has an enthusiastically miscellaneous knowledge of European culture that is already, late in the 1920s when Ackerley visits, two generations out of date--trashy novels like Hall Caine and Marie Correlli, and Herbert Spencer on the question whether there is a God. Meanwhile his observances are imperturbably Hindu, taking the five products of the cow, the great mother, every day, which means drinking cow urine and eating dung. 'I like it very much'. He is given to invocations of half-remembered English, repeated by the curious, childlike question, 'what is 'lurk'?', 'what is 'Parthenon'?', asked of the term he has just used. His Dewan, or Prime Minister, a fat, shy man of great capacity feared by the British Political Secretary, says that the Rajah sometimes has an interest in passing hinself off as a fool, but has an iron grip on everything that goes on. He is personally demanding: he built an architecturally nonsensical extension to his summer house so that his composer and poet 'lawrit' (laureate), men of eighty and eighty-five, could be within call when he got up to conduct business in the middle of the night.
The story in the diary, such as it is, is of how Ackerley unwisely allows himself to get involved in the machinations for favour and a higher-paying post of his Hindu teacher, Abdul, a Muslim. Abdul's slavish and intermittent affections for him, the Sahib, are inseparable from his self-interest in a way the narrator comes to find repellent. Ackerley arranges for the tutor, an Army subaltern on twelve rupees a month, to be moved to manager of the guest house; this would necessitate displacing his friend and companion Narayan, his friend and companion, a young man in his early twenties of great beauty, who once, despite Hindu strictures on cleanliness, allows Ackerley to kiss him on the mouth. Ackerley tries behind Abdul's back to arrange for him to get the raise without moving job. The Muslim is indignant that he can love the Englishman without being loved back--something 'very bad', and unheard-of in India. His home, with a sitting-room between sheets so small that he and Ackerley fill it up sitting in it, nevertheless contains all his possessions nailed on hooks on clapboard; it is mean and ill-assorted like his mind, comments Ackerley harshly. When it emerges that all the men he likes, like Narayan, have wives and sex lives with their wives, or are inpermissibly having gay sex, and the weather gets hot in May, he goes home.
December 24, 2011
"I do not need it," he cried, "but I am worth it and therefore I must have it."
There is a golden mohur tree near the Guest House, and I sat on the verandah to-day looking at its beautiful cascading orange flowers. A mina bird perched on its branches, looking very inquisitorial and making a variety of inquisitorial noises. The mina is a kind of starling, and is said to be as intelligent as the parrot in learning to talk. Maybe it is; and its harsh voice is no less unpleasant to listen to. Bird noises are seldom pleasant, however. The peacock's voice is as ugly as his nature, but then he is beautiful to look at, so perhaps nothing more should be expected from him.
Give me the unhygienic customs of Europe! Give me the loving-cup! Give me the kiss!
"What must I say to God when I meet Him? What shall I say to Him for my sins?"
"I shouldn't mention the word," I said. "He'll be the best judge of your life. If you've got to say anything I should say, 'You sent us forth into the world incomplete and therefore weak. With my own life, in these circumstances, and according to my own nature, I did what I could to secure happiness. But I did not even know what happiness was, or where to look for it, and it was whilst I was in search of it that I dare say I got a little muddled.'"
There is a golden mohur tree near the Guest House, and I sat on the verandah to-day looking at its beautiful cascading orange flowers. A mina bird perched on its branches, looking very inquisitorial and making a variety of inquisitorial noises. The mina is a kind of starling, and is said to be as intelligent as the parrot in learning to talk. Maybe it is; and its harsh voice is no less unpleasant to listen to. Bird noises are seldom pleasant, however. The peacock's voice is as ugly as his nature, but then he is beautiful to look at, so perhaps nothing more should be expected from him.
Give me the unhygienic customs of Europe! Give me the loving-cup! Give me the kiss!
"What must I say to God when I meet Him? What shall I say to Him for my sins?"
"I shouldn't mention the word," I said. "He'll be the best judge of your life. If you've got to say anything I should say, 'You sent us forth into the world incomplete and therefore weak. With my own life, in these circumstances, and according to my own nature, I did what I could to secure happiness. But I did not even know what happiness was, or where to look for it, and it was whilst I was in search of it that I dare say I got a little muddled.'"
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May 30, 2023Some more things to know about this: JR Ackerley makes no pretense whatsoever about knowing much about Hindu culture, India, or the men and women he’s profiling in this novel. And that’s sort of the fun.
After his soldiering is done in 1918, JR Ackerley wants to get away so he signs up to be a kind of attache to a Maharajah in an un-named (or more specifically pseudonymously named Chockripur). What follows is 300 pages of absurdity in which the Maharajah attempts through various misadventures to gain power, exert power, and gain legitimacy as a ruler and becomes a kind of mirror held up to both the pressing weight of modernity in the face of British Empire rule as well as a mirror to that very empire itself. The writing is generally hilarious…very inappropriate at times, and consistently uncomfortable.
There’s a LOT of orientalism going on here, but of course as even Edward Said talks about, that doesn’t mean it can’t be good writing.
All around, I can’t tell you everything that really happens in this novel because a lot of it contained in bizarre conversation, JR Acklerley’s inability to speak meaningfully on the culture of India, and even his discomfort with a masculine culture exerting heteronormativity (he is gay and not out in public because of British law), and so the result is madcap, funny, and just a good book. It’s an experience to be sure.
After his soldiering is done in 1918, JR Ackerley wants to get away so he signs up to be a kind of attache to a Maharajah in an un-named (or more specifically pseudonymously named Chockripur). What follows is 300 pages of absurdity in which the Maharajah attempts through various misadventures to gain power, exert power, and gain legitimacy as a ruler and becomes a kind of mirror held up to both the pressing weight of modernity in the face of British Empire rule as well as a mirror to that very empire itself. The writing is generally hilarious…very inappropriate at times, and consistently uncomfortable.
There’s a LOT of orientalism going on here, but of course as even Edward Said talks about, that doesn’t mean it can’t be good writing.
All around, I can’t tell you everything that really happens in this novel because a lot of it contained in bizarre conversation, JR Acklerley’s inability to speak meaningfully on the culture of India, and even his discomfort with a masculine culture exerting heteronormativity (he is gay and not out in public because of British law), and so the result is madcap, funny, and just a good book. It’s an experience to be sure.
May 15, 2017
A lovely book, quite funny, which Ackerley manages without becoming smug or belittling, as was the habit of many of the English in India at that time. Set in the 1920s when Ackerley spent some months as the "personal secretary" to a rather eccentric Maharajah during the British Raj. Most of Ackerley's time seems to be spent talking with people; Marharajah Sahib sends for him frequently to discuss his many problems - his health, his state projects, and his wish to buy his favorite boy from an acting troupe.
Ackerley also describes the tangled web of Indian societal dependencies and tensions that rule daily life. The annoying teacher Abdul wants a new job and a pay rise, but the complicated mechanizations that arise when the author writes him a letter of recommendation are simply astounding. Running eneath the daily goings- on is an erotic undercurrent which is deftly done, tender as opposed to the occasional giggling lewdness of Marharajah Sahib. All told, a delightful book.
Ackerley also describes the tangled web of Indian societal dependencies and tensions that rule daily life. The annoying teacher Abdul wants a new job and a pay rise, but the complicated mechanizations that arise when the author writes him a letter of recommendation are simply astounding. Running eneath the daily goings- on is an erotic undercurrent which is deftly done, tender as opposed to the occasional giggling lewdness of Marharajah Sahib. All told, a delightful book.
May 18, 2020
Six of ten. "Hindoo Holiday" was highly entertaining, quite witty, and indeed charming at times. Ackerley does a really great job of fully drawing his readers into these situations without using excessive description. His scenes are minimalistic and it is certainly enviable how effective they are.
The characters in the book are memorable: from the eccentric Maharajah, to the honest and familiar Babaji Rao, the mysterious Narayan, the timid Sharma, the insufferable Abdul, the pesky Habib, and the self-centered Dewan.
The second part of the book drags, only slightly, but I would say this is a good selection for someone who wants some light-hearted reading that still has literary/cultural value.
The characters in the book are memorable: from the eccentric Maharajah, to the honest and familiar Babaji Rao, the mysterious Narayan, the timid Sharma, the insufferable Abdul, the pesky Habib, and the self-centered Dewan.
The second part of the book drags, only slightly, but I would say this is a good selection for someone who wants some light-hearted reading that still has literary/cultural value.
April 29, 2022
As a young man in his thirties, Ackerley visits India for a protracted amount of time. This book is essentially his diary of what takes place. As out as he can be for his time, Ackerley has no problem stating his admiration for a handsome man. He is not, however, a typical British tourist. He lives the life, hiring a young man to tutor him in the language. The man turns out to be more of a pest, always conniving to extract money or favors from Ackerley, like a pesky dog begging for scraps. But Ackerley learns enough to get by. He also learns the intricacies of the Hindu religion, finding, as with Christians, that some people practice it with a certain flexibility or laxity. A still entertaining book these many decades later.
August 22, 2021
Surprisingly risqué in a diplomatic way. Ackerley makes no secret of his attraction to men or of the Maharajah's boys who are more or less purchased from their relatives. He (Ackerley) is a great observer and mostly tolerant of even with the most irritating of Indian customs and behaviour. The princely states have now gone but the customs have not. Many Indians still refuse to eat outside the home for fear of who may have touched the dishes or food and to only employ Brahman cooks who will always be the same or a higher caste and thus not contaminate the food and equipment. Interesting and a very easy read. (Purchased at Skoob Books in London, UK.)
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