The Gentleman's Game...

“India: A country said to have two real religions – cinema and cricket.”

Two brothers are being groomed by their father to become the greatest cricketers in India. Radha, the elder, with his film-star looks and love of the game, is the better of the two, and it's accepted that he will be the star. But as they grow up, Radha's skill diminishes, just a little, but enough for him to be eclipsed by the younger Manju, whose attitude to the game is more ambivalent. Their mother having disappeared when they were little (run away? dead? The boys aren't sure), the brothers have been brought up by their tyrannical father Mohan, who is determined they will succeed in the sport as a way to raise the family out of the slums. So when the chance of sponsorship comes along, Mohan grabs it, even though it's at best an unethical deal which sells his sons into a kind of bondage and, at worst, borders on the illegal.

This is a story of sibling rivalry, tied in with a wider picture of corruption in society shown through the corruption in cricket. The game, once the preserve of all that was considered gentlemanly, has become all about money. The days of languorous five-day test matches has morphed into not only one-day cricket, but the hideousness of the ultra-short 20-20, which Adiga describes in his humorous glossary of cricketing terms at the end of the book as “in the eyes of some older fans, almost as bad as baseball.” It's not necessary, I think, to know about cricket to enjoy the book - Adiga doesn't fall into the trap of lengthy descriptions of games, tactics or technicalities, and the sport could as easily be any other. But cricket has a particular resonance, because of its origin as a game of the British Empire, a period whose influence is still vital in understanding much of Indian society.

In the next few minutes, Anand Mehta came up with the following observations about cricket: that it was a fraud, and at the most fundamental level. Only ten countries play this game, and only five of them play it well. If we had any self-respect, we'd finally grow up as a people and play football. No: let's not expose ourselves to real competition, much safer to be in a “world cup” against St. Kitts and Bangladesh. Self-obsession without self-belief: the very definition of the Indian middle class, which is why it loves this fraud sport.
Poised to offer the world more deep thoughts about the gentleman’s game, Mehta heard:
Shot! Bloody good shot!...
Confronted by the sound and smell of an instant of real cricket, Mehta felt all his mighty observations turn to ashes.

As Manju hits adolescence, he becomes fascinated by another young player, Javed. Javed is gay and Manju's attraction to him suggests that he is too. But Manju is of a lower class than Javed and has a father who's not likely to be the most supportive, so it would take considerably more courage for him to admit his feelings than Javed. But his relationship with Javed isn't purely about physical attraction – Manju finds himself influenced by the older, more confident boy in other ways. Javed, another talented cricketer, sees the corruption in the sport and wants Manju to give it up. So poor Manju has a jealous brother who feels he deserves to be the best, a friend pulling him away from cricket, and his father and his coach putting pressure on him to practice every moment he can. It's not altogether surprising that he's confused before he gets to Selection Day, the day on which the big teams pick which young players they will sign.

I love Adiga's depiction of Mumbai or Bombay (names which he uses interchangeably). He shows the poverty, corruption and class divisions quite clearly but, unlike some of the (usually ex-pat) Indian writers who love to wallow exclusively in the misery, Adiga also shows the other side – the vibrancy, the struggle for social mobility, the advances of recent years. His characters, even when they're being put through the emotional wringer, manage to have some fun along the way, and the whole atmosphere he portrays lacks the irredeemable hopelessness of so much Indian literature. There's also a good deal of humour, often very perceptive and coming at unexpected moments, startling me into laughter. This book tackles some tough subjects, but on the whole Adiga simply lays the arguments out and leaves the reader to come to her own conclusions – there's no whiff of the polemical in his writing.

“People thought I had a future as a writer, Manju. I wanted to write a great novel about Mumbai,” the principal said, playing with her glasses. “But then...then I began, and I could not write it. The only thing I could write about, in fact, was that I couldn't write about the city.
“The sun, which I can't describe like Homer, rises over Mumbai, which I can't describe like Salman Rushdie, creating new moral dilemmas for all of us, which I won't be able to describe like Amitav Ghosh.”

There is, however, some great characterisation, and he writes about them empathetically so that it's hard not to see why even the less savoury characters have turned out as they have. One of the things I loved was seeing how the perception of Mohan, the boys' father, changed as they grew up. This man who loomed over them in childhood shrinks as they grow – both physically and in terms of his influence. It's the mark of the quality of Adiga's writing that this happens so gradually there's no jarring moment, but towards the end I realised I had come to feel about him quite differently than I had in the beginning.

For me, this was a slow-burn book. It took at least a third of the book before I was convinced that this tale of cricketing brothers was going to hold my interest. But as it progressed, I began to appreciate the subtlety with which Adiga was showing various aspects of contemporary Indian life, and as always I found his writing pure pleasure to read. And by the time I reached the end, I found he had again created some characters who had become real to me, in the way Masterji did in his excellent [b:Last Man in Tower|10854908|Last Man in Tower|Aravind Adiga|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1328165348s/10854908.jpg|15021310]. This book confirms Adiga's place as one of my favourite authors, and gets my wholehearted recommendation.

NB This book was provided for review by the publisher, Scribner.

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I was approved an ARC of this book by the publishers via NetGalley in exchange for an honest review. This review in its entirety was originally posted at my blog, eclectic tales: http://eclectictales.insanitysandwich.com/blog/2017/01/10/review-selection-day/

Now, I was pretty excited when I initially agreed to read this book for review: set in India, a story about family with the running theme of cricket, a sport I have never truly understood nor learnt about, but especially the family dynamic aspect of the novel. Unfortunately I found that for most of the novel, the characters and the family were apart so whilst the shadow of each other’s personalities and achievements weighed down on the other characters, there weren’t as many confrontations or scenes together as I thought there would have.

I also wished I understood cricket more–I thought the book would sort of enlighten me a bit about the game and how it works, but I finished the book feeling even more confused than ever before =/

Overall, whilst Selection Day had great ideas and a great premise, I felt like perhaps there was too many things going on: a coming of age story, family dynamics amongst a strict single father and two rivalling sons in dreams and ability, sexuality, class/religion…In the end I just didn’t feel for the story nor truly cared for the characters.

„… der Sieg der Zivilisation über den Instinkt“ (S. 92)

Aravind Adiga hat in seinem dritten Roman „Golden Boy“ viel zu erzählen darüber, wie Menschen einander manipulieren und betrügen und damit letztlich auch sich selbst. Er schreibt über enttäuschte Träume und Hoffnungen. „Manju kannte den Blick: Erschöpfung, die daher rührt, dass man tagein, tagaus Leute treffen muss, die mehr von einem wollen, als man ihnen geben will.“ S. 202

Mohan Kumar hat große Träume und Hoffnungen: sein älterer Sohn Radha soll der beste Schlagmann beim Cricket werden, der jüngere Manju der zweitbeste. Alles wird diesen Plänen und dem Trainingsregime untergeordnet, keine Kohlenhydrate, kein Junkfood, eiserne Disziplin – und Kontrolle über jegliche pubertären Begehrlichkeiten. Manju ist wissenschaftlich interessiert – der Vater wirft selbst Experimente für die Schule weg. „Mit seinen vierzehneinhalb Jahren war Radha klar, dass die Regeln seines Vaters, die ihm die Welt ringsum gerahmt hatten, Gefängnisgitterstäbe waren.“ S. 38 Reine Ablehnung ist hier eine zu einfache Lösung: gerade für Jungen aus den Slums, gerade innerhalb der Zersplitterung des Vielvölkerstaats Indien mit seinen Religionen und Ethnien ist der sportliche Erfolg DIE Chance auf sozialen Aufstieg – und (über-)ehrgeizige Eltern gibt es leider überall.

„Cricket ist der Sieg der Zivilisation über den Instinkt“ S. 92 Der indische Autor schreibt darüber – denn in diesem Umfeld leben seine Protagonisten, hieran machen sie diese Träume und Hoffnungen fest. Das „funktioniert“ auch für einen Leser außerhalb des Commonwealth, des „Einzugsgebietes“ für Cricket, wenngleich man natürlich wenig von den Regeln und Ritualen versteht – man kann einfach stattdessen an Fußball denken oder an American Football. In Deutschland kann man sagen, man sei beispielsweise von jemandem beruflich ins Abseits gestellt worden, einfach, weil die Fußball-Begrifflichkeit so omnipräsent ist – auch ohne die Regeln komplett nachvollziehen zu können. Die Betrügereien mit Fußballwetten finden ihr indisches Pendant. „Wir sind von uns selbst besessen, ohne an uns zu glauben – das ist genau die Definition der indischen Mittelschicht, die diesen Betrugssport eben deshalb so sehr liebt.“ S. 283

Für die begabten Brüder bietet der sportliche Erfolg eine Chance – dabei liegt die tragische Ironie durchaus auch darin, dass sie mit diesem Erfolg ihrem kontrollsüchtigen Vater entgehen können gerade INDEM sie dessen Erwartungen erfüllen. Und durch den Sport öffnen sich ihnen auch immer wieder Türen zu anderen Welten, anderen Möglichkeiten. So lernt Manju den moslemischen Cricketspieler Jarved kennen. Dieser widersetzt sich der wenn auch sanfteren Manipulation seines reichen Vaters und beendet dessen Cricketträume. „Aber was willst du denn machen, wenn du kein Cricket mehr spielst?“ fragt ihn Manju. Jarved: „Alles“ S. 198 Das sexuelle Erwachen von Manju verkompliziert die Situation, da er nicht den gesellschaftlichen Vorgaben entspricht.

Nach einem etwas schwierigeren Start in die Handlung wegen der vielen Sportbeschreibungen (einfach weiterlesen) und fremden Begriffe aus Indien (meist Regionen, Sprachen, Gerichte – einfach gelegentlich nachschlagen) konnte ich mich einlesen, mir blieb aber ein Problem: Immer, wenn einer der Charaktere mich zu berühren anfing, wechselte der Autor die Perspektive. Ich hatte ein wenig das Gefühl, als wisse er selbst nicht so sehr, ob er nun die Geschichte von einem seiner Charaktere erzählen wollte – am ehesten die von Manju – oder über die indische Gegenwart oder über das Dilemma des Erfüllens von Träumen anderer, und als trete er deshalb immer wieder in eine gewisse Distanz zu seinen Figuren. Außerdem schildert der Autor eindrucksvoll bestimmte Sachverhalte oder Ereignisse, die er später auch auflöst oder zumindest Ansätze bietet (wie Manjus „Gedankenlesen“), während er bei anderen für mich völlig diffus bleibt, ohne dass es sich um ein stilistisches Mittel zu handeln scheint (Manju und die Taube). Insgesamt also für mich kein ungetrübter Genuss wegen zu vieler offener Fäden, wobei ich sprachlich durchaus angetan war. 3,6 Punkte....

With this I've read all three of Adiga's novels (I haven't gotten to his short story collection yet). He is a terrific novelist: a wonderful stylist (great sentences!) and a sharp observer of his characters and the spaces they inhabit or pass through. Selection Day is ostensibly about boys coming up as cricket players, but the book has much more to say about growing up, grappling with challenging parents and other flawed adults, exploring relationships between boys, and coming as near to terms as possible with emerging sexualities than it does about sport. Perhaps a bit hurried toward the end, but mileage on this may vary. A good read, GoodReads!

Overall, Aravind Adiga is a great author. But if you're reading this after reading The White Tiger, this may be a let down.

A story about cricket, but not about cricket. Selection Day is a coming of age story about two brothers whose father has reared them to be professional cricketers. We see their challenges and identity crises as they face virtually impossible odds to be chosen for the Under-19 cricket team by the selectors. Will the elder brother Radha be chosen since his father made a deal with Lord Subramanya (cricket god) to bestow his son with the title of best cricketer? Will the younger Manju overshadow his brother's talent and be chosen? Will the selectors pick both or them? Neither? Does either brother even really want to play cricket or is this their father's ambition that's being thrust upon them?

But in this novel Aravind Adiga asks more important questions: when you spend your life pursuing one goal, what happens if you don't get it? What happens if you do? Who are you when you spend your entire life preparing for something that you're not sure that you want?

Aravind Adiga skyrocketed to literary prominence with his debut novel, White Tiger, a hilarious and biting satire about modern India, won the Man Booker Prize in 2008. Departing from previous Indian fiction that gained popularity in the West, which focused on the aftermath of independence, Adiga focused on the modern economic and cultural tensions of contemporary India.

In his newest novel, Selection Day, Adiga delves into new terrain, exploring the pressure of economically marginalized families as they try to gain uplift through the athletic prowess of their children. At the heart of the story is Manju, the younger of two brothers whose father has assiduously trained to become cricket stars. Although Manju's older brother, Radha, is seen as the true prodigy, it quickly becomes apparent that the younger/less attractive/sexually confused sibling is the talent, while Radha's star quickly burns out prior to Selection Day, where professional teams draft teenage players.

While gifted as a batsman, Manju's true dream is to pursue a college degree in sciences. His feelings about the game he excels at are ambiguous at best but he feels burdened to pursue an athletic career by a father who has thrown his entire self into assuring one of his children succeed. Manju is forced to confront these pressures, as well as his own sexual identity and attractions that would certainly marginalize him and undermine any chance of success.

Adiga is certainly ambitious in his writing. He challenges difficult issues facing Indian society, intertwining how children respond to familial pressures for social and economic uplift with the difficulties of young gay men trying to come to terms with their sexuality when doing so could undermine the dreams of aspirations of all around them.

That said, while Adiga is ambitious topically I didn't find his writing to be quite as biting as it was in White Tiger. The latter was hilariously tragic and satiric and while Adiga tries to match this tone in Selection Day the writing does not quite match what you get from White Tiger.

I still recommend this to those who enjoyed White Tiger, but don't expect it to match the award winning novel.

Don't get this book if you don't know anything about cricket!
Really drew me in, I finished it quite quickly. Probably not quite as good as the White Tiger but the same tinge of madness in the prose.

I thought I'd like it, but the style isn't working for me and more, turns out I'm not interested in stories about 14-year-old boys playing cricket (right now, at least, and to be fair, that's only part of the story).