I don’t know what I expected of
Rudyard Kipling’s Kim. A militaristic
novel that enthusiastically endorsed the British Raj. A nineteenth century tome
(Kim was actually published in 1901)
portraying Indians in a manner politically incorrect at best and with deeply
offensive potential for a 21st century readership; a set-piece of orientalism.
A Kipling novel, so one with lively action, vivid depictions, and memorable
(male) characters. I didn’t expect a spy novel. I didn’t expect the “Great Game”
among British, Russian, and other colonial powers with non-Western peoples and
their lands as the tokens to be treated so openly. I didn’t expect a book that
takes seriously Buddhist ideals that devalue the material world. (I didn’t
expect the poetry – verse lead-ins to every chapter – although I should have.)
I didn’t expect a portrait of India that aims to paint in the finests of
shades, delineating different castes, countries of origins, and most especially
religion, attempting nuances that it seemed to me are just beginning to be in
English by the nonfiction of the past few decades (mostly written
contextualize, warn of, or understand global conflict).
So Kim is the spy story I didn’t expect,
beginning when Kim’s picaresque adventures lead to him stumbling upon a message
of urgent military import. One of the critics quoted in my editions annotated
bibliography writes insightfully that the “India of Kim … is like a vast and
well-equipped nursery full of benevolent mothers and fathers, who are all
regarded as belonging to the gang.” Kim’s is a coming-of-age story that
involves learning from many mentors, but mostly it’s of choosing between two –
Col. Creighton and the opportunity to be a valuable but hidden cog in British
espionage machine, or Teshoo Lama whose way offers few comforts but is devoted
to gaining spiritual merit. Kim is described as very much of the world, and I
never doubted that he would choose the life of a spy for the English – and yet,
of the two paths, it’s not clear that the novel holds the spy’s to be superior.
I’d argue that the lama (perhaps unintentionally) is portrayed as the better
(more morally upright) man, and whenever the lama’s advice comes into conflict with,
it usually the lama whose wisdom is proved.
While Kim certainly endorses British colonial
rule and practically redefines “loyalty” as “loyalty to the British empire,” being
part of the patriotic effort is not the unambiguously cheerful adventure one
might expect from Kim’s early
chapters. Spoiler: Although one can expect that when an aged holy man enters a
book in its first pages, his demise is likely to follow at some point, leaving
his protegé with responsibilities and lessons learned, Kim complicates the narrative by making the lama’s death a direct
result of Kim’s covert mission. The lama’s death can be seen as an eulogoy for
native cultures lost or corrupted by colonial rule, but it can also be seen as
the sacrifice of ideals on the altar of realpolitik. Kim’s breakdown/illness at
the novel’s end is chalked up to exhaustion from tending to the weakened lama
and the burden of holding significant intelligence with no clear means to pass
it on, but its timing suggests it’s a guilty conscience that provokes his
collapse. (The technique by which this collapse is introduced – with the
initial focus on the return journey and the state of the lama’s health while
the seriousness of Kim’s exhaustion only becomes fully clear from the reactions
to his recovery – is interesting, and after reading the biographical notes,
it’s hard not to see parallels to Kipling’s own nervous breakdowns.) Kim’s
decisions and those of other characters have real stakes, and while specific to
Raj setting, they also have wider implications – who is worth emulating, and how
does one choose between competing loyalties? how does one reconcile religion
with pleasure or with individual goals? is there a value to diplomacy even if
one holds the upper hand?
There are
certainly problematic aspects to Kipling’s potrayals of native Indians (and
Afghanis and Tibetans). The lama may be venerated by the text as well as by his
title, but I can’t believe a white character would have been written as
gullible-bordering-on-idiotic, most particularly in the final discovery of the
River. (While the Protestant and Catholic army chaplains have their humorous
flaws, they are not presented as fools, not even holy fools.) The most
offensive charicature is Hurree Badu (whose desire to become a Fellow of the
Royal Society, although ostensibly genially accepted in the book by Col.
Creighton, is most often depicted as an attempt to literally ape his betters –
are we meant to believe that this is the best Kim could have aspired to,
despite his education, if he had actually been a Hindu orphan instead of Kimball
O’Hara?). Muslim Mahbub Ali comes off as a more respectable figure. Much of the
narrative serves to underscore how important both the contributions of native
Indians and an understanding of native cultures, yet Kipling provides a
protagonist with conveniently white shoulders as the symbol of cultural
sensitivity.
The female
characters (few and far between in a book that highlights male bonds) deserve a
word. At first, I thought Kipling would stick to true “The Vampire” form,
seasoning in an occasional whore or nag for local flavor. But while not quite
real people, Kipling does give his female characters their own histories and
motivations but these are chosen from a narrow range of stereotypical options
(a loquacious grandmother who nurtures with her cooking, a woman seduced and
abandoned by an English soldier who neverthless provides lavish aid to Kim out
of romantic sentimentalism). The Woman of Shamlegh was intriguing (is there a
symbolism to her appearance at the end of the tale? was it only because she
happed to be available, recycled from an earlier short story? does the fact
that she lives in an area where polyandry is indeed practiced make the emphasis
on her two husbands and sexual desires more or less palatable?). Despite the
female characters’ limitations, it’s clear that Kipling means the reader to
ultimately value their contributions to the novel and on Kim’s behalf.
What do I take
away from Kim? It is in many ways a relic
of a historical worldview with continued global implications. It utilizes all
the elements of a story and is able to weave in consideration of politics and
religion, too. In its dense descriptions, its affectionate wealth of detail,
its panorama of places and personalities, it’s a book that places understanding
of others high amongst the values (not all so noble) that it champions.
No comments:
Post a Comment