THE travel book has become something of a debased genre in recent years. Where once it used to be about the collision of cultures, now it has become a vehicle for egoism and smugness; very often reducing the society encountered to the status of a mere sideshow. This usually takes the form of a collection of anecdotal quirks served up to paint the self-regarding narrator in a pseudo self-deprecating light. With the insufferably smug and superior writer able to unpack their suitcase, put their feet up, and smirk about the idiosyncrasies of the natives.

Thankfully Manchan Magan's new book is different. When we first meet Manchan he is drinking his own urine in a decaying stone hut, halfway up a mountain near the Indian village of Almora, while experiencing what he calls the "inner realms". His main contact with the outside world is provided by helping out at the local leper station. It's an inauspicious beginning to a travelogue that soon develops a subtle and steely narrative grip from early on. He confesses that "the whole reality set up had never been enough for me . . . I had always wanted more", and at this point it looks like he is about to drift dangerously away from reality until the unlikely intervention of his brother, Ruan, who phones him with the news that he is about to arrive in India with nothing more than a camera, and the blind faith of a newly-established T na G who want him to film a travel documentary.

It's this phone call that becomes the catalyst for Manchan's journey. A journey upon which he manages to gently re-discover himself without any of the traditional navel-gazing and attention seeking which can tend to mar the genre.

Manchan becomes "the last Dodo", the unlikely and reluctant saviour for what he calls "an awkward, inexact, barely fathomable, semi-dead language" as he and Ruan try to encapsulate India through the medium of Irish. His boyish openness leads him to allow a street vendor apparently poke around the inside of his brain with a wire, bargain with the hijras, India's all powerful hermaphrodite and gender nonspecific underclass, and attempt a dangerous descent of a mountain in a rickety van, with only the dubious pleasures of a cassette of Phil Collins' greatest hits for comfort. Each encounter is marked by open-mindedness and honesty. The humour is subtle and pleasantly unforced, and the effect of all of this is like having a close up experience of his TV documentaries with added bite.

The brothers Mangan set to work, each in their own unique way. Ruan is energised by charm and a passionate attitude that gets things done. Manchan's approach is more oblique and reflective, and there are inevitable tensions. During one typically heated moment, Manchan, lost in a characteristically introspective moment, riffs along with a lovely reminiscence that perfectly encapsulates the big brother, little brother relationship, as he describes simply, and beautifully, moments from their childhood when Ruan showed filial concern for him.

What's most refreshing about this book is the lack of egoism.

Manchan steers clear from heavy-handed preaching, and the lure of sweeping statements on Indian culture. Instead he poses questions and theorises without falling back on pat answers.

There is a tremendous sense of being immersed in a culture without being swamped; a sensual panoply which ebbs and flows through a narrative that is vivid without being showy. The effect is of being brought along for the ride, and having your eyes opened without feeling alienated.

It's Michael Palin as gaeilge; gently determined, inquiring, and refreshingly free of narcissism.