Under-secretary general at the UN, writer, politician, Union minister, charming socialite, and now, a fledgling stand-up comedian, Tharoor comes close to the ideal of the Renaissance man—except that he has a splendid sense of humour, something I don’t think Da Vinci was famous for. And of course, Da Vinci had little occasion to speak English, while Mr Tharoor, like Amitabh in Namak Halal, can leave the ‘Angrez’ behind. He can talk English, he can walk English, he can laugh English, and it’s that last characteristic that turns his new book Tharoorosaurus into a tongue-in-cheek tour de force.
Tharoorosaurus is the author’s first book where he decides to step down from the high pedestals of fiction, history (read Brit bashing), social analysis or faith, and decide to have fun. This book is a dictionary of 53 long and complex words—in Tharoor’s own words—one for every week of the year ahead, plus a bonus for staying the course. The origin of the words and the process by which they evolved into their current avatar are lucidly spelt out. Few of the words are likely to be useful to us in everyday conversation, and the book could have turned into a musty anchor for cobwebs in your grand-uncle’s library. But Tharoor is a good story-teller and the pages are bright with wit and whiplash satire.
Excellent as his vocabulary undoubtedly is, I have always believed that if Dr Manmohan Singh was the ‘accidental Prime Minister’, Tharoor is an accidental artiste of the long word. Indeed, his early forays into this domain were not entirely happy. He burnt his fingers at the barbecue, so to speak, with his ‘cattle class’ comment. Not being twice shy, he soon came up with ‘interlocutor’, and all hell broke loose. Tharoor was not at fault but in these matters, it is not so much right or wrong but perception which carries the day. In the perception of the general public, the ‘inter’ prefix put ‘interlocutor’ perilously close to ‘intermediary’, and as is well known, any form of mediation regarding Kashmir is our red rag. The fires were doused only after Tharoor gave us all an English tutorial. Gradually, the number of Tharoor-isms and their popularity increased, and amplification through social media soon made him the prince of the polysyllabic expression.
In this book, Tharoor makes no attempt to hide his political affiliations. So the 300-odd pages throws up plenty of opportunities to take a swipe at the ruling party and its leader, and he doesn’t miss a trick. Perhaps a more objective lexicographer would have cast an equally critical eye at the Opposition (such as it is) too. So, ‘V’ for Vigilante talks about the brand of justice that gau rakshaks deals in. ‘G’ is for goon, e.g., the goons who assaulted students at JNU. Both these contemptuous references are undoubtedly well deserved. But then, ‘D’ is for ‘Defenestrate’, and not ‘Dynast’ or god forbid ‘Dunderhead’. Yes, Tharoor has his biases, but to paraphrase Churchill, it’s the kind of biases we admire.
Enlivened by Mihir Joglekar’s delightful illustrations, Tharoorosaurus is the ideal book to leave on your coffee table, and kindle a conversation. From the words that the author uses, the conversation will gather steam to develop into a spirited debate about the many lives that he leads. You can be sure there is not going to be dull moment after that.
A couple of weeks ago, Tharoor had complimented Chetan Bhagat for an op-ed piece written by the mass-selling novelist. Bhagat being Bhagat requested Tharoor to load his compliments with some heavy-duty words, and Tharoor duly obliged. Now, it’s up to Bhagat to rustle up a story about a boy who serenades his lady love in words not less than sixteen letters drawn from Tharoorosaurus.
