Ever since autobiographies by the rich and famous (contrary to what aficionados of 'lifestyle journalism' believe, the two are not synonymous) became an expectation rather than an exception in early 20th century Europe, authors have willingly made public that which should have remained private. In some cases, it was meant to titillate and push up sales; when the author was a politician, it was directed at providing an insight into the unknown or to set the record straight.

Possibly, it is our preference for shruti over smriti, coupled with the Hindu fear of setting the record straight lest it hurts feelings and sentiments, that we have had very few famous Indians penning their autobiography. Rare is the politician who has held high office and later committed on paper his version of events.

This is partly because our politicians are reluctant to share information—although when it comes to misinformation, they excel in their dissemination—and largely because in India, there is simply no full stop in politics. In Britain or the US, prime ministers and presidents write their autobiographies after exiting office and politics. In a sense, the autobiography marks the end of his or her political career. In India, politicians may exit office, but never exit politics.

This is not to suggest there are no honourable exceptions. Jawaharlal Nehru recorded his life and times in An Autobiography. Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi's The Story of My Experiments with Truth can still be found at what were once called A.H. Wheeler stalls. But neither really is a full autobiography: Gandhi's version stops at 1920, thus leaving out the 28 politically most important years of his life; Nehru published his autobiography in 1936, depriving us of his take on events during the subsequent decades.

The manuscript of Maulana Azad's India Wins Freedom remained sealed for 30 years till a court order in 1988 freed it from the confines of Calcutta's National Library and New Delhi's National Archives. Azad, it is claimed, was concerned that his version of the transfer of power would embarrass contemporary politicians and colleagues. In the event it turned out to be an anodyne record with nothing startlingly new.

P.V. Narasimha Rao tried the path of 'autobiographical fiction' with his The Insider, after he was forced into retirement. It was stodgy prose, verbose and poorly crafted; even the 'steamy' bits left much to be desired. His posthumously published Ayodhya is a poor attempt to redeem lost honour.

Other politicians, some of consequence and the rest inconsequential, have sought the help of 'friendly' biographers; these invariably turned out to be hagiographies. Pupul Jayakar's Indira Gandhi: An Intimate Biography, published after Mrs Gandhi's assassination, would meet with the imperious lady's approval. In all fairness, Jayakar's account is a far better read than what Mrs Gandhi collated and published as My Truth—there wasn't any in the book. For that, we have to turn to Katherine Frank's Indira: The Life of Indira Nehru Gandhi, which predictably kicked up a storm. As hagiographies go, Rashid Kidwai's Sonia: A Biography deserves the golden pumpkin; thankfully, her image minders declined permission for a cinematic version starring Monica Bellucci.

Seen against this backdrop, L.K. Advani has no doubt demonstrated courage by publishing his autobiography My Country My Life while positioning himself for the PM's office.It lacks the lyrical prose of Jaswant Singh's memoir, A Call to Honour, and is as dry as the man himself, but nonetheless, it is an important addition to the records of our times and an assessment of individuals as perceived by Advani who has played a significant role in shaping India's politics in the last two decades.

Yes, it does not reveal the entire truth and, therefore, is not an entirely accurate record. But memoirs are about what we remember and what we wish to recall—often we remember selectively and recall that which suits our purpose. In Advani's case, the purpose is to demolish the myth about his being a 'Hindu hardliner' and present a man who is more than the sum total of what people and mentors in the rss have to say, not all of it flattering or necessarily based on facts.

Advani, self-deprecating as usual, says he's neither a scholar nor intellectual. But since he is an avid reader, he should have known that Nirad C. Chaudhuri did not discover Hindu political aspirations on December 6, 1992, nor did he have to wait for an encounter with Dileep Padgaonkar to articulate his views on Hindu civilisational angst. Chaudhuri's Continent of Circe was published in 1965 and Hinduism: A Religion to Live By came out in 1979, a decade before Advani saw merit in taking up the Ayodhya issue.