Seeing Kafka for sale in the tiny street kiosks of São Paulo some years ago, I thought: this is surely a sign of civilization. In India, however, Kafka would have no meaning — so quotidian is the surreal, so unmoving the rot.
In this example, a politician on tour detects a lack of “genuine” farmers in his artificial audience, and demands that local functionaries do more. So, farmers are driven in from surrounding areas, and made to sit on simple cots, as an illustration of their rural nature. The politician mounts the stage. As in every self-respecting republic, his great-grandfather was the prime minister, as also his grandmother, and daddy too, of course. After his speech is done, the audience picks up the cots they have been sitting on, and walks away.
Meanwhile, the genuine farmers with genuine debts continue to commit suicide.
Why would anyone read Kafka in India?
(Picture taken from original newssource; listed below)