Ésta no es una historia de la India. Casi todo lo que sabía de ese país cuando me embarqué era lo que recordaba de mi época de colegial: que había habido un motín, por ejemplo, y que parecía un cuerno invertido en el mapa, rosado porque nosotros lo gobernábamos. Lo que equivale a decir que mi conocimiento no era exhaustivo; no es exhaustivo ahora. En esa tierra confusa, me han dicho (pues no tuve la oportunidad de viajar lejos o mucho), no hay uniformidad; las distinciones raciales, religiosas y de casta han separado a un hombre de otro, y el idioma, la indumentaria, las costumbres y supersticiones varían de un lugar a otro. Este diario, entonces, que se desarrolló día a día a partir de una ignorancia casi completa, y por la veracidad de cuyos hechos, dado que dependo sólo de mi memoria, no puedo dar garan­tías, este diario, entonces, trata exclusivamente del pequeño estado hindú de Chhokrapur (nombre que sería ocioso buscar en el mapa, porque acabo de inventarlo); y no pretende haber sido exhaustivo ni siquiera en eso.

Fun, soft travel porn without the "porn." Ackerley is hardly explicit and yet manages to imply so much when he reveals the odd kiss or stray hand holding episode. His Highness, the reigning prince in the small Indian principality where Ackerley spends a few months, is very gay and yet seems good-naturedly tormented. If you have ever lived in a third world country, you will be able to sympathize with Ackerley's plight at the hands of everyone who wants to take advantage of him. ( )

One suspects that the profound sadness often seen in his fictional characters, reflects troubles in Ackerley’s private life. What a pleasure it is then, to experience Ackerley’s “bright-young-thing” moment in Hindoo Holiday. The memoir is set in the 1920’s when the writer was employed as the personal secretary to an eccentric Maharajah. The book offers fascinating historical detail, naughty fun and a waggish indifference to political correctness.

Hindoo Holiday is an account of the time that the author, JR Ackerley, spent in india working as a secretary to the Maharajah of Chhatapur (jokingly changed to Chhokrapur, apparently meaning “City of the Boys,” for this book). The Maharajah is an eccentric old man who enjoys riddling conversations and the company of boy actors.

The setting is the British Raj, when Indian rulers had a fair amount of autonomy—but in the wake of peace, there was very little that the Maharajahs could actually do. So, in possession of vast amounts of wealth, according to the introduction to this book, these rulers spent their money on untold luxury. It was amidst this environment that this book is set, and the Maharajah Sahib of Chhokrapur is one of these.

The diary covers roughly six months in 1923 and 1924; apparently, the Maharajah, a great reader of Rider Haggard, had wanted a secretary similar to Olaf in The Wanderder’s Necklace. Ackerley rarely interjects his own thoughts into the pages of his diary, but he’s skilled at depicting the minutiae of the court he lives in as well as describing the people with whom he interacted. As such, the tone of the books seems a bit insulated, because Ackerley rarely discuses what’s going on in the larger world. Hindoo Holiday was an instant hit when it was published in 1932, primarily due to its salacious content (in fact, much of the original book had to be cut because of Ackerley’s references to homosexuality). ( )

HINDOO HOLIDAY, while it does contain Ackerley's familiar low-key self-deprecating brand of humor, does not measure up to his other three books. It is essentially an edited journal of the several months he spent as a so-called secretary to the Maharajah of a small kingdom in India in the 1920s. It is an interesting look at the customs and foibles of the native people during the Raj. And yes, Ackerley's sexual afinities also play a constant and subtle part as he comments continually on certain beautiful young boys he longs for. In fact, it seems his 'employer,' the Maharajah, is also gay, and invites Ackerley to private parties featuring enticing scantily clad dancing boys.

The truth is, however, there is little point to this book. Its journalistic content and style became simply tiresome eventually, so much so that I finally abandoned the book altogether about 2/3 of the way through. I still think that Ackerley was a fine writer. His MY DOG TULIP is a classic memoir, as is MY FATHER AND MYSELF, about his relationship with his father, a work that is both comical and heartbreaking. HINDOO HOLIDAY might be classified as a light entertainment, an anomaly in a small but fine literary legacy from a talented and tortured soul. ( )