Going Solo

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M is away in Ooty. As a government babu, he gets to roam around the country, stay in the best of places, eat breakfasts that include fresh orange juice, and bathe with basil-parsley soaps (I kid you not). So since I was alone at home with my Margo and Tropicana, I decided to have a happy Sunday myself. First, I had to clean the whole house because CID Shakuntala (Chief Inspector of Dust a.k.a my mother) was arriving the next day. The maid helpfully did not turn up.

Since I was feeling ambitious, I decided to clean the fan in the drawing room which resembles the white canvas shoe of a very dirty child. M’s solution to making the fan look clean is to keep it switched on. That way, nobody notices. However, CID Shakuntala is an expert in such cover-ups. Standing at the towering height of five feet, I obviously needed support to reach the fan. So, I piled a fat cushion on a chair, covered it with cloth (my household skills impress me) and climbed on top with a broom. The fan creaked dangerously as I tried to dust it. And then, I felt the cushion slowly slipping away. I thought to myself- did I want to fall down, break my spine and then write a Readers’ Digest story about how I crawled inch by inch to the door and defeated death? The answer was no. And so, I sensibly got down and gave up on the project. M’s idea will have to do for now.

I cleaned the rest of the house, booked myself a ticket for Unstoppable, had a nice shampoo-bath, and wore my bubblegum pink kurta which I hadn’t worn in ages. Then I ate leftovers from the fridge (vegetable biryani and raita!) and packed my bright yellow Co-optex bag with an umbrella and my Neil Gaiman book. I walked to the theatre which is a good 4.5 kms from home, bought myself sweet lime juice and read my book till it was time for the movie.

Unstoppable was very entertaining and fast-paced. Besides, it has Denzel Washington. The guy next to me though didn’t understand half of what was going on. He kept laughing three seconds after I laughed- I tested this out by pretending to laugh for a totally unfunny dialogue. Ha. Ha.

Then, I walked to Pune University and had an extremely sweet tea at the canteen. I read some more Gaiman and pretended to be a college student. I wish somebody had asked me which department I was in. Then I could have had my Santoor moment- collegeaah? Naanah? Ohohohoho.

After this, I walked back home and made myself chappatis and paneer-capsicum curry. Jagan Mohini was running on TV and I had a blast watching it (what? I like Namitha). Then, I watched Neeya Naana which was about people communicating with ghosts and such like. It was a bit creepy and since I was alone at home and all that, I decided to read PG Wodehouse and be merry. M called and we talked about what we did the whole day. Which took less than 10 minutes. In the olden, golden days of bachelorhood, this topic would have run easily for three hours. But hey, we’re oldly-weds now and we need to be responsible about roaming charges.

Then, I read more PG Wodehouse and slept off.

One Line at a Time

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This is the editorial I wrote for the childen’s special issue of TBR.
After 2 years of rewriting, editing, and writing chunks of other people’s editorials, here’s one on which I finally got to sign! Yippie.

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A children’s writer in India often gets asked why s/he does not write for adults. Why not make some progress from writing a line a page and produce something…more substantial? To most, a children’s writer is a frog who’s waiting for the moment of magic that’ll transform him/her into publishing royalty. The children’s writer might croak in response that s/he is not really waiting for such a graduation day. In which case, the listeners get a knowing “hmph sour grapes” expression on their faces.

This dismissive attitude is but a symptom of a much larger malady: the negligence and undervaluation of a genre of literature that is, perhaps, the most liberating of all to create and consume. Though we have had literary giants like Rabindranath Tagore, Satyajit Ray, Ruskin Bond, and RK Narayan write for children, the genre still has not received its due consideration. Children’s writers in India don’t make too much money. The pay cheques are modest. Most have regular fulltime jobs that may or may not have to do with writing. Most are read by small (though growing) audiences and almost never figure in bestseller lists. They hardly win any award or occupy column space in the nation’s widely-read newspapers. A psychologist analyzing these statements would undoubtedly conclude that an Indian children’s writer must either have masochistic tendencies or an unreal optimism that’s bordering on the foolish. For, why would anyone write if not to be read?

A part of me wants to give you a detailed intellectual response to this question. Something that will put me on par with someone who’s written a real (read adult) book. But rather than churn my brain to impress you, I shall tell you the short truth: because it’s fun.

Writing for children is at once a huge responsibility and an invite to the Mad Hatter’s party. It’s an opportunity for you to become a part of a child’s treasured memory. It could also become criteria for how the child develops its reading in the years to come. If you commit the unforgivable sin of boring a child in your story, you might turn him/her away from books for a long, long time. On the other hand, if the pages of your book turn old and frayed with use and love, you could just have hooked the child into a world where travel requires no passport. These are the selfless reasons for writing for children. The selfish and gleeful reason is that it’s a key that opens several delightful doors that years of being a grown-up have shut for you.

Fortunately, now more than ever before, publishing for children in India has become easier. Today, there are more publishing houses committed to the cause of producing quality children’s literature that veers away from the usual didactic and preachy fodder that has formed the staple for too many years. Though the sales figures of these houses pale in comparison to the millions of conventional children’s mythological titles sold by the big players in this field, they nevertheless are developing a loyal audience that comes back to them for more. There is greater awareness (though not as much as one would desire) amongst parents and teachers about stereotyping, violence, politically incorrect depictions and insensitive treatment in children’s literature. Parents are not so nonchalant about narrating Cinderella to their child as they used to be in previous generations. Today, Cinderella’s stepmother and stepsisters are likely to be painted with a softer brush. The Black Vs White kind of morality is slowly giving way to a more intelligent and less judgmental representation.

It is thus an exciting and advantageous time for an Indian children’s writer to experiment with style, depiction, and narration. The acknowledgment of this is coming about slowly: for the first time this year, the Sahitya Akademi has instituted an award for children’s literature: the Bal Sahitya Puraskar. The Vodafone Crossword Book Awards, considered to be corporate India’s biggest book award, also instituted an award for the children’s category this year. Though Indian children’s books have received international recognition even before this, it is heartening to be cheered and applauded by the home audience at last. One hopes that in the years to come, the award categories will also take into consideration the age group for which the books are being produced within the genre itself to provide a more equal platform. Is a picture book for a 3-year-old any less weighty than an adventure novel for a 10-year old? These nuances need to be given due consideration and sub-categories need to be framed. Though the primary aim of a writer in writing a story is not to win an award, these developments are critical in elevating this much neglected genre to respectability.

A writer today also has the added advantage of having multiple media to experiment in. One needn’t be restricted to the print medium alone: there are audio books, e-books, i-books, each that’s new and exciting. Technology has widened and diversified the audience for a story- so even if a writer is unable to persuade conventional print editorial boards to publish, s/he can always try to breach other media that may be more receptive to innovation. These also nullify the problem of having to persuade bookshops to allot a reasonable space for the genre. Some feel that such ‘new-fangled’ media might turn children away from ‘good old books’, but these should be seen as opportunities that co-exist rather than threaten each other. Closing oneself to the future, however unfamiliar or unconvincing it may seem, is not a sustainable solution. Instead, a children’s writer must be willing to be educated in these developments and use them to advantage. It is thus a friendly climate for a children’s writer to flourish.

A child is a very busy person. The world is trying its best to teach it everything that it has on offer. If having to go to school every other day is not bad enough, a child today also needs to have about five talents apiece to be considered ‘smart’. In such a scenario, it becomes very difficult for a book, in whatever format it might be in, to compete with the limited time that the child has in its hands. Of course, Indian children have been reading Enid Blyton, JK Rowling, Roald Dahl, Lemony Snicket and many more recent writers ardently. And so they should. But it is equally important that they get to read contemporary fiction set in India too. The disconnect between their real world experiences and the experiences they read about in books set in unfamiliar places is not bad- but it leads to a situation where they are unable to articulate their own experiences because they haven’t found the language for it. This is a gap that needs to be filled- by writers, publishers, and by the buyer market. And hopefully, someday, the Indian children’s writer can stay a frog and still wear a crown.

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I fell for her like a suicide from a bridge.

Neil Gaiman, M is for Magic

Neil Gaiman is my current obsession. And no, he does not write romance novels if the one line I’ve quoted here gives you that impression. I put it up because I love how enormously well he captures that plunging, reckless, intuitively fatal feeling you get when you dare to fall in love. And you know that it’s hopeless.

The first book by Gaiman that I read was Coraline. It certainly is one of the scariest books I’ve read. I read it in one stretch the very night I got it. Coraline discovers a door in her drawing room that leads her into the Other World in which live her Other Father and Other Mother. Two people who look just like her parents. Except, they have buttons for eyes. Can you imagine a world like that? With people you know and trust in real life…who look just the same but are not quite? The creepy, quiet pace of the book struck a delicious terror in my heart and I mourned deeply when I reached the last page and it was all over.

The second book by Gaiman that I read is The Graveyard Book. Now don’t let the title mislead you into thinking that it’s one of those Halloweeny dumb thrillers. Mixing horror, fantasy, and sheer narrative power, Gaiman once again delivers a book that’s just so terrifically original, you fail to understand how somebody can have an imagination such as his, seeing and living in the same world that we roam. The book is about a boy called Nobody who lives in a graveyard. I bought the book for N, who is also a Gaiman fan, and read half of it on my flight to Chennai. I was hooked immediately. And I just had to buy it for myself the second I hit a bookstore.

I’m presently reading M is for Magic, a collection of short stories. I’m not a big short stories person. I love the works of Roald Dahl and Saki, but usually, I shy away from the genre. The first story in this book is a detective story. And the detective is investigating the murder of Humpty Dumpty. Don’t you want to know who the killer is? Don’t you?

Every once in a while, a writer comes along who transforms your life and the way you think about it. No, I’m not talking about the self-motivation books. I’m talking about the books that make for ripping entertainment. The books that grip you and live in your brain and bring tears to your eyes when you discuss them with another loony such as yourself. The lines that you can never forget because you’ve fallen for them like a suicide from a bridge.

For no particular reason other than the fact that I feel like getting back to college and writing literary essays, here’s a list of my top books. Not listed by author, rank or genre. You might have read some or all of them and they might not have struck you as being specially spectacular. But the point is, this is my list. And they are all books I keep re-reading because… well, I love them.

1. The Catcher in the Rye, JD Salinger
2. Nine Stories, JD Salinger
3. Franny and Zooey, JD Salinger
4. Coraline, Neil Gaiman
5. On Beauty, Zadie Smith
6. A Room of One’s Own, Virginia Woolf
7. Mrs Dalloway, Virginia Woolf
8. The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath
9. A Spot of Bother, Mark Haddon
10. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time, Mark Haddon
11. Lolita, Vladimir Nabakov
12. Othello, William Shakespeare
13. Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen
14. The Old Man and the Sea, Ernest Hemingway
15. The Graveyard Book, Neil Gaiman
16. The Collected Short Stories of Roald Dahl, Roald Dahl
17. Matilda, Roald Dahl
18. The Collected Short Stories of Saki, Saki
19. Waiting for Godot, Samuel Beckett
20. The Bluest Eye, Toni Morrison
21. Swami and Friends, RK Narayan
22. A Fine Balance, Rohinton Mistry
23. Midnight’s Children, Salman Rushdie
24. A Suitable Boy, Vikram Seth
25. The Female Eunuch, Germaine Greer
26. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, JK Rowling
27. Curtain, Agatha Christie
28. Embroideries, Marjane Satrapi
29. Persepolis, Marjane Satrapi
30. The Adventures of Hop, Skip, and Jump, Enid Blyton
31. Reading Lolita in Tehran, Azar Nafisi
32. The Velveteen Rabbit, Margery Williams
33. Harold and the Purple Crayon, Crockett Johnson
34. Where the Wild Things Are, Maurice Sendak
35. The Seed, Deepa Balsavar
36. Kartography, Kamila Shamsie
36.Peanuts, Charles Schulz
37. Calvin and Hobbes, Bill Watterson
38.
Blandings Castle, PG Wodehouse

There are several more books that I’ve loved reading. But these are the ones that I keep coming back to. And each time I come back, there’s always something new waiting.


The Shah of Blah

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I’ve not been too busy in life. Which explains why I haven’t been blogging regularly. It’s only when I have a million things to do that I rebel and do something else altogether.

Winter is here. It’s probably the first Winter in my life because when I was in the UK, I sat on the heater for the whole year and the seasons passing by didn’t really register. Apart from writing at work, I haven’t been doing anything remarkably productive. I guest-edited the November issue of TBR. It’s a children’s special…this month having Children’s Day and all. I finally got to write my first editorial *applause* and feel important.

M and I went for a Wine and Cheese Festival yesterday. I know, we’re very uppity people. I took a bite of a six-year-old goat cheese (because I watch Masterchef Australia, dooood) and felt like I’d eaten goat droppings. The basil cheese was nice though. And coffee cheese. I could pretend to be a gourmet and write about the delicacy, texture, and smoothiness of it all but I’m not a cheese bore. It was yum and it was free and that’s all matters.

We had Lemon Cheesecake for dessert. Woot.

In other news, I got a haircut. After 11 months of steadfastly refusing to find a beauty parlour, I forced myself to go. I went to a place called Reshu’s. I was the only person there and I said right at the beginning that my Hindi was ‘thoda thoda maloom’, so I didn’t get any generous advice on how I should beautify my ugly self more.

I watched Harry Potter and the Deathy Hallows (which, by the way, has been released by Shri Then Andal Pictures in Chennai). I wish they hadn’t cut off Dobby’s epitaph from the film- Here lies Dobby, a free elf. Dameeeet….where’s my checked kerchief? As is my luck when watching a HP movie, I sat next to a bunch of men who’d not read the books and didn’t care about anything other than Emma Watson. They were also eating groundnuts loudly and laughing at Kreacher. Idiots. Avada Kedavra to you.

I re-read On Beauty by Zadie Smith. It’s undoubtedly one of my favourites. It’s hilarious, sad, and very real. Also, I learnt about a very important work of art from the book: Merda d’artisa. Don’t be put off by the fanciness of the name. It’s worth a click.

Okay then, I’m going to be upper class and drink green tea now. Bye bye, my pretties.




Settled

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I’ve always thought ‘settled’ is a dreadful word. It has such a finality about it- like you’ve suddenly turned into stone and there’s nothing new or fantastic that can happen to you. When you are a child, you think you are immortal. That’s why you jump across flights of stairs, never thinking for a moment about your head that could split open like a beautiful hibiscus in the fraction of a second. As you grow older, you realize that mortality is actually common. It could happen to you and at one stage, just as now all your friends are getting married all of a sudden, all of them will start dying too.

I know, cheerful right?

‘Settled’ seems like a point of no return. All your decisions are made. Your rebellions are over. You can no longer colour your hair pink or get the tattoo of a Chinese character on your arm. You are already with the person you want to be with the rest of your life, so those wonderful, hazy hopes of meeting a stranger who gets you within the space of a train ride or flight sink forever. You bump into friends from school on Facebook and the giggly faces you once knew have become nearly unrecognizable. Everybody’s put on weight, you note with some sense of victory. Your parents are growing old, you realize. This seems shocking because they were once the all-powerful beings who controlled your existence. Your sibling, the one you hated with all your energy during your childhood, has become closer to you though you may not talk all that often. Suddenly, you no longer find the expression ‘blood is thicker than water’ to be corny. You understand it for the first time in your life and it makes you feel old.


When you were a student, you had a plan. You just had to decide what course to take next and the timetable of your life slipped into your mind with ease. Now, you no longer know where it is that you have to go. The bell does not toll for you, it tolls for those much younger, calling them to the plans you once had. This leaves me thinking that despite the fact that I can no longer get the African braids that I once wanted, I’m more unsettled than ever before. I don’t have a plan and each day does not bring something new. Unless I go looking for it. The fear of knowing your life is entirely in your hands, as the existentialists sagely say.


Ironically, the more unsettled you become, the more settled you think you are. We grow more and more insecure as we grow old. Before you know it, even Fab India stops making clothes your size and you stop getting a haircut because there’s not much hair left there anyway. You are stuck in a job you hate, you have two children who find you irrelevant, and a neighbour who is more interested in your life than your spouse. Depressing, I agree. But what if you suddenly throw it all away and catch a bus? I know it sounds mental. But what if you did?

There’s this story by Somerset Maugham called The Lotus Eater, which we had in our BA English course. It’s about a man who goes to Capri in Italy. He’s a very ordinary bloke who has a regular job. Nothing fancy about him. But he falls in love with the place and comes up with a fantastic, even insane, idea to stay there. I’m not telling you what it is because that’s the story. The first time I read it, I liked it more for Maugham’s gentle, murmuring narration. Now, I think about it often though I haven’t got a copy of the story with me. Now that the ‘settled’ adjective keeps haunting me, I think about Wilson and his Capri. It is to remind me that no matter how happy or content, no matter how final everything seems to be, you can be unsettled if you really wish to be. I like that possibility to stay open.

Maybe I can still get my African braids.


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