Long March to Nowhere

On October 16, 1612, Thomas Coryate, a somewhat eccentric Englishman nursing scholarly pretensions and a broken heart, took a ship from Lond...

On October 16, 1612, Thomas Coryate, a somewhat eccentric Englishman nursing scholarly pretensions and a broken heart, took a ship from London to Constantinople. From the Ottoman capital, he intended to trace the land route to India, across Jerusalem, Damascus, the Persian empire and the rest of the magical mystery tour called the Middle East. Coryate, having travelled similarly across Europe, now wanted to 8216;8216;walk to the Indies8217;8217;, meet the Mughal emperor there and use his good offices to secure a visa for Cathay China.

Eventually Coryate only got as far as Surat, being buried in a cemetery subsequently swept into nothingness by the river Tapti. No traces of him remain, other than a few stray references. As probably the first leisure tourist to travel to India from England 8212; the buccaneers and other East India Company agents who were his contemporaries came here strictly on business 8212; he makes for little more than interesting trivia.

If The Long Strider be taken at face value, Coryate has long been a subject of Dom Moraes8217;s obsession. This book is designed as part-biography 8212; fictionalised biography, if you prefer 8212; and part-travelogue.

Chapters alternate between Coryate8217;s story and those of Moraes and Sarayu Srivatsa as they try and catch a glimpse of him, a good four centuries later. Moraes and Srivatsa travel to Coryate8217;s village in Somerset, retrace his footsteps in the heart of the Mughal empire and, in what is probably the best part of the book, look up his final resting place in southern Gujarat, many thousand miles and notional lightyears away from home.

	BOOK EXCERPT

			The Indus, when he saw it first, took Coryate by surprise and filled him with awe. Never in his life had he conceived that so mighty a torrent could exist. He estimated it to be at least twice as wide as the Thames. On the farther side of this stupendous body of water, human figures, trees and houses were dwindled to minute dimensions, like a child8217;s toys. The river had come from the Himalayan peaks, snowfed. The transparent blue water had not yet been muddied by the dust of the plains. Whorls and eddies on the surface told of treacherous currents; here and there rocky reefs showed their teeth, and isolated islands rose.

That in a nutshell is the framework of the book, as promising as an attempt at popular history can get. Unfortunately, the proof of the pudding lies in the reading and The Long Strider is for the most part a pointless exercise.

Page after page leaves you wondering. Are you being introduced to Coryate8217;s life and thoughts 8212; or to Dom Moraes8217;s ideas and stray opinions on life, the universe and everything?

Story continues below this ad

Rather than rigorously recount what Coryate may have seen, the prima donna figure behind the book appears insistent on forcing the hapless reader to see what he Moraes decides Coryate saw or, any rate, should have seen. Srivatsa writes the contemporary chapters, recording less the making of the book and more the itinerant philosophy of the man she shares the copyright with.

The book has some bad 8212; if completely unnecessary 8212; sex. Anachronisms creep in. Years before Guru Govind Singh was born, Coryate meets a Sikh sporting a flowing beard and a steel bangle.

Whether it8217;s the Hindu-Muslim relationship or the treatment of lower castes in Hinduism, is this 21st century left-liberalism speaking or are these authentic conversations involving a 17th century European traveller? The treatment of India is sometimes akin to what one would expect of a jejune foreign correspondent, fresh off the plane.

It is hard being cruel to such a work. In an early chapter, Srivatsa writes that when Moraes realised he had cancer he wanted to finish the book before the disease consumed him.

Story continues below this ad

The Long Strider has its moments, few and far between but moments all the same. The Bohra Muslim freelance researcher who helps Moraes and Srivatsa 8212; taking time off from catering business 8212; is quite a packet of energy, if a trifle importunate. Moraes and Srivatsa meet odd characters in Odcombe, the one-pub village that Coryate walked out on.

Yet the story is just so coldly told. The passion, the drama, the fervour are absent. For all their skills the authors are strangely unable to evoke the sheer romance of this little-known Indo-Anglian intercourse. The ingredients are there but the dish is oh so bland.

What wouldn8217;t a William Dalrymple have done with the story of Master Coryate!