Akash Kapur: "We are all searchers, in our own way...we all envision alternative lives"

In an email interview, Kapur talked about his research for the book, and responded to critics who feel that the book glazes over the colonial aspects in Auroville's history.

Tell us about the title of the book: is it referring to your return to Auroville in some way?

No, actually the title comes from a letter written by John Walker Sr., who is the father of John Anthony Walker, one of the main characters in the book. The father was a conservative establishment man, very much at the heart of power structures in Washington, DC. His son renounced his entitled birth and moved to Auroville, where he sought to build a new society. In many ways, the son’s life was a repudiation of his father’s, and a source of great bafflement to the family. And yet while researching the book, I came across a letter the father had written to his son, late in the father’s life, in which he expresses admiration for the son’s “pilgrimage” in India, and tells him it’s “better to have gone” on it than to have stayed quietly in America. To me, this was a striking reminder that we are all searchers, in our own way, and that we all envision alternative lives—no matter how outwardly conformist and traditional our existences may appear.

Of course, there’s a note of irony, or questioning, in the title too. A couple years after receiving this letter, the son dies. So was it really better to have gone? Readers will judge for themselves.

Critics have said that your book doesn’t engage with the postcolonial history of Auroville.

To an extent, I find it a surprising critique, because there are two characters in the book who actually refer to the possibility that Auroville is a reiteration of colonialism—and, more generally, I very deliberately included a fairly long section that explores the complicated and sometimes troubled relationship between Auroville and the surrounding villages.

Nonetheless, I can understand that if someone’s overriding impression of Auroville is as a colonial enterprise, then my treatment of the subject will seem insufficient, as I tend to see the situation as somewhat more nuanced. I think part of the problem is that Auroville is many things, and has many tendencies and strands. There are elements of the community’s history (and perhaps present too) that could undoubtedly be seen through a prism of colonialism; other aspects of the community’s relationship with India and the surrounding villages are far more salutary. Auroville and the villages have often worked together in pursuit of economic development, and they have also collaborated in the remarkable ecological restoration of the land (a collaboration I discuss in the book). I understand that visitors to Auroville—especially casual visitors—may be a bit taken aback by all the foreigners they see driving around in the heart of South India, but actually, around half of the community’s population is Indian (including part of my own family). So I think simply characterizing Auroville as a colonial project is quite unfair (to Auroville, not to me).

At the same time, I do very much think this issue is an important one, and one that’s essential for Auroville to keep in mind as it develops and grows. And so in some ways, I actually welcome the critique - as a way of fostering a necessary conversation, and ensuring that Auroville does not repeat historical injustices and racial imbalances that remain so persistent despite the formal end of colonialism.

What kind of research did you do for this book?

I used some letters and diaries, especially those written by the two main characters, John and Diane.  But most of the research was conducted through interviews; I was essentially reconstructing history through oral narratives, which was quite challenging at times. I spoke to a wide variety of people, many of whom were still living in Auroville, but some who had moved away, and some who had never lived there in the first place.

Because the story takes place in multiple locations and across time, I also visited a number of places in the world. NYC was of course a major area of research, as John had spent time there and that’s where my wife moved after the deaths I describe in the book. I also visited Ravena, in Italy; Washington, DC, where John grew up (and where the National Gallery of Art, which his father managed, is located); and I spent a night in a monastery in Rhode Island, where John had spent some time. Some of these places occupied relatively little time in the final narrative, but they were essential to help me understand the broader landscape upon which the story takes place.

What do you hope readers take away from this book?

That’s a difficult question that I could answer in many ways. I guess one thing I would mention is that I tried very hard, while researching and writing, to remain open to different points of view and what we might think of as different frameworks of reality. Someone who read a draft commented that parts of the book read almost like a fairy tale, and I think what she meant is that there are some things that happen that seem pretty outlandish and simply unreal when seen from a traditional framework. I don’t necessarily condone or endorse all those things, but I don’t quite condemn or dismiss many of them, too.

One thing I’ve learned growing up in Auroville—and that’s been reinforced while thinking about this book—is that there are many different versions of reality, and many different versions of the right way to live. While we may not personally subscribe to them all, it’s a good idea to remain open to alternatives. Faith and spiritual belief are complicated phenomena; while we often focus on the dogmas of faith, we should also be mindful of the dogmas of rationalism.

Your previous book, 'India Becoming', spoke about liberalisation and the Americanisation of India. Now that you’ve been back in India for a few years, do you think this Americanisation is still ongoing?

The term “Americanisation” was a moniker (perhaps somewhat crude, in retrospect) that I used to describe a more general process of modernisation and, as you say, liberalisation—not just of the economy, but more generally of social and cultural attitudes. I do think that those have, broadly, continued—though, of course, it’s hard to know how we will all emerge from the tumult of Covid, and the wider social and cultural transformation it’s bound to have unleashed. A core component of the country’s liberalisation was a greater sense of openness, both geographic and psychological. But now the country, and indeed the world, have been closed for over a year. So we will have to see—I suspect we are living through a dramatic rupture, the full dimensions of which will take us years to fully reckon with.