Anthony Burgess’ Malayan Trilogy
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The difficulties of organising a house-system in a school of this kind had been partly solved through weak compromise. At first it had been proposed to call the houses after major prophets – Nabi Adam, Nabi Idris, Nabi Isa, Nabi Mohammed – but everyone except the Muslims protested… The pupils themselves, through their prefects, pressed the advantages of a racial division. The Chinese feared that the Malays would run amok in the dormitories and use knives; the Malays said that they did not like the smell of the Indians; the various Indian races preferred to conduct vendettas only among themselves. Besides, there was the question of food. The Chinese cried out for pork which, to the Muslims, was haram and disgusting; the Hindus would not eat meat at all, despite the persuasions of the British matron; other Indians demanded burning curries and could not stomach the insipid lauk of the Malays.
But soon the students do come together, albeit only out of opposition to the British headmaster who has imposed a strict punishment on one of their peers. To complicate matters, rumors swirl that a looming communist insurgency in the countryside has infiltrated a student group on campus. In addition to Victor Crabbe’s doings, the book follows the lives of several other characters. Crabbe’s wife, Fenella, longs for a more exciting and cultured atmosphere than what their small Malaysian city has to offer. But Crabbe does not drive, and there is a taboo in Malaysia against female drivers. To transport Fenella to cultural activities outside the city, he buys a used car and hires a Malaysian driver — a married Sikh junior police officer named Alladad Khan who becomes a bit too fond of his wife. Unbeknownst to Crabbe, Khan had teamed up with Nabby Adams, a British police officer, to work a grift to buy then sell the used car to Crabbe. Adams is an alcoholic who ceaselessly schemes for ways to make money and rip off local kedais for a few beers. He longs to return to his previous posting in India, a country for which he has an abiding affection that some of his countrymen find repulsive. His British flatmate dresses him down:Oh, God, man get wise to yourself. And make up your mind about what bloody race you belong to. One minute it's all about being a farmer’s boy in Northamptonshire and the next you’re on about the old days in Calcutta and what the British have done to the Mother India and the snake-charmers and the bloody temple-bells. Ah, wake up, for God’s sake. You’re English right enough but you’re forgetting how to speak the bloody language, what with traipsing about with Punjabis and Sikhs and God knows what. You talk Hindustani in your sleep, man. Sort it out, for God’s sake.
These characters and their quirks come together in a car trip through the communist countryside, where the calls of wild tigers perhaps insinuate a greater significance to the book’s title than the well-known Tiger beer. A breakdown forces the entire party to pass the night in the jungle. Burgess’s early talent shows especially in his descriptions of setting, which here foreshadows a latent disorder lurking just below the surface of organized British rule: The rain, like a football crowd, was waiting to charge and rush at the opening of the gates. The jungle that stood back sullenly and threateningly to let the road go through looked defiled and clotted in the thickening light. Mist rested halfway up the mountains. Soon the rain started in an orchestral roar. [caption id="attachment_11512" align="aligncenter" width="800"]There was a problem reporting this post.
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