The question of whether diasporic writers like Rohinton Mistry possess a prejudiced or unclear view of India is complex and warrants careful examination. Writers who leave their homeland often carry with them a version of India frozen in time, which may evolve into a nostalgic or critical lens over time. This phenomenon is not unique to Mistry but is a recurring theme in diaspora literature, where memory, distance, and cultural assimilation shape narratives in ways that differ from those of authors who remain rooted in India. Mistry, who moved to Canada in the 1970s, writes about India with a blend of intimate familiarity and the detachment of an outsider. His works, such as A Fine Balance and Such a Long Journey, are deeply rooted in Indian socio-political realities; yet, some critics argue that his perspective is tinged with an exile’s melancholy or even a Western gaze that amplifies India’s struggles while overlooking its resilience and dynamism.

One of the primary reasons diasporic writers may develop an unclear or prejudiced view of India is the nature of memory and nostalgia. Memory is selective, and over time, it can distort or idealise the past. For writers like Mistry, who left India decades ago, their portrayal of the country is often filtered through the lens of their younger selves. The Bombay of Mistry’s fiction, for instance, is the Bombay of the 1960s and 70s, a city that has since transformed dramatically. This temporal disconnect can lead to narratives that feel anchored in a bygone era, sometimes missing the nuances of contemporary India. Nostalgia can also romanticise or demonise the past, depending on the writer’s personal experiences. Mistry’s works often depict an India grappling with corruption, poverty, and political turmoil, which are undeniable facets of its history. Still, critics argue that his focus on these themes can overshadow the country’s cultural vitality and everyday joys.

Another factor is the audience for whom diasporic writers often write. Many authors who settle abroad cater to a global readership, which may have preconceived notions about India as a land of extremes—spiritual yet impoverished, colourful yet chaotic. This can unconsciously influence the writer’s portrayal of their homeland, leaning into stereotypes that resonate with international audiences. Mistry’s A Fine Balance, for instance, was celebrated globally for its unflinching depiction of the Emergency. Still, some Indian readers felt it presented a one-dimensional view of suffering without capturing the resilience and humour that define Indian life. In contrast, writers like Ashwin Sanghi, who lives in India, or Perumal Murugan, who writes intensely localised Tamil novels, often present a more textured and immediate picture of the country. Their works, such as Roy’s The God of Small Things or Murugan’s Poonachi, are steeped in the sensory and emotional realities of Indian life, reflecting its contradictions without reducing it to a tableau of misery.

The political and ideological leanings of diasporic writers can also shape their portrayal of India. Living in liberal Western societies, many expatriate authors absorb the dominant discourses of their adopted countries, which often frame India through a critical lens, whether about caste, religious strife, or political authoritarianism. This is not to say their critiques are invalid, but they may lack the lived experience of India’s evolving social and political landscape. Mistry’s Such a Long Journey, for example, critiques the Indira Gandhi era with a sharpness that resonates with historical hindsight. Still, it may not capture the grassroots movements or cultural shifts that have emerged since. In comparison, contemporary Indian authors like Amitav Ghosh, who divides his time between India and abroad but remains deeply engaged with the subcontinent, offer narratives that balance critique with a sense of possibility. Ghosh’s The Great Derangement examines climate change and colonialism but does so with a granular understanding of India’s ecological and historical specificities.

Language and cultural hybridity further complicate the diasporic writer’s relationship with India. Mistry writes in English, a language that, while widely spoken in India, carries colonial baggage and is often the medium of the elite. His prose, though beautiful, can feel distant from the vernacular rhythms of Indian speech, unlike the works of Hindi, Tamil, or Bengali writers who code-switch seamlessly between languages. For instance, the novels of Geetanjali Shree, who writes in Hindi, or Benyamin, who writes in Malayalam, are steeped in the linguistic and cultural cadences of their regions, offering a more immersive experience of Indian life. Mistry’s English, while elegant, may lack the immediacy and colloquial vibrancy of writers who are daily participants in India’s linguistic tapestry.

The question of how diasporic writers portray India, and whether their distance from the homeland distorts their perspective, is deeply tied to the broader power of narratives in shaping global perceptions. As Alok Mishra astutely observes, stories are not merely artistic expressions but instruments of soft power that can uplift or undermine entire nations. When writers like Rohinton Mistry, who left India decades ago, depict the country through themes of suffering, corruption, or political turmoil, their works risk crystallising into a singular, reductive narrative for international audiences. Mishra highlights this danger by contrasting such portrayals with those of writers rooted in India, like Sudha Murty or Chetan Bhagat, whose stories capture the nation’s aspirational energy and everyday resilience alongside its challenges. The dissonance becomes stark when foreign readers, fed a steady diet of “poverty porn” or dystopian tropes, express shock at encountering a modern, dynamic India—as seen in Miss Germany’s reaction after her visit. Mishra argues that this narrative imbalance isn’t incidental but often strategic, shaped by market forces that reward critical or exoticised depictions of India to satisfy Western literary tastes. He warns of the geopolitical consequences: “If India’s primary storytellers focus only on its failures, they may inadvertently aid external actors who benefit from portraying India as a failing state.” The solution, he suggests, lies in embracing nuanced storytelling that acknowledges both flaws and triumphs, ensuring India’s cultural and historical complexity isn’t flattened into a monochrome of despair. In Alok Mishra’s fitting words:

“Narratives and stories have the power to influence generations, not only the present audience!”

However, it would be reductive to dismiss diasporic writers as out of touch or prejudiced. Their distance from India can also afford them a unique perspective, one that is unclouded by the immediacy of local biases or political pressures. Mistry’s Family Matters, for instance, examines Parsi identity with a clarity that might be harder for a writer embedded in the community’s daily struggles. Diasporic writers often act as cultural translators, bridging the gap between India and the world, and their critiques, even when harsh, can serve as vital correctives to nationalistic narratives. The challenge lies in recognising that no single writer, whether based in India or abroad, can fully capture the vastness and complexity of the country. The Indian experience is plural, and its literature is enriched by multiple perspectives—the insider’s intimacy and the outsider’s detachment, the local’s granular detail and the global citizen’s broader lens.

Ultimately, the debate over diasporic writers’ portrayal of India reflects larger questions about authenticity and representation in literature. Writers like Mistry offer invaluable insights into India’s historical and social fabric. Still, their works should be read alongside those of authors who live and write within the country’s ever-changing reality. Together, these voices create a fuller, more nuanced portrait of India, one that acknowledges its wounds but also celebrates its enduring spirit. The key is to approach all literature with a critical yet open mind, recognising that every writer’s vision is shaped by their unique position in the world.

Guddu for Intellectual Reader

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