Gaze

At a lecture on native language and Indian English writing, I first felt his gaze upon me. It had this reassuring warmth, as if I were sitting at the perfect distance from a campfire in mild winter. It came from three rows in front of me combating the harsh air-conditioning, enclosing me in its cosiness - it was like he picked the ideal spot to get a clear view. The gaze was distant, but pointed; it was welcoming I smiled at him, once, and he turned away immediately. After that, I pretended not to notice, and he pretended not to look. The gaze followed me after the lecture, as I walked through the lobby, down the stairs and into an auto.

A week later, I felt the gaze on my neck, from behind me, at a book launch. I was surprised to see him, and that manifested itself in a smile. He was bolder now, he smiled.

I remember his face vaguely - it was shaped like an elongated egg and punctuated by a round nose that ended almost as soon as it started. His hair could only be described the word nondescript. His eyes were as genial as his gaze. He wore a dangling earring in one ear - but that was a fashion fiasco I could live with (or eliminate).

There was this moment, after the launch, when we passed each other, a colony of butterflies fluttering in my tummy, when I hoped he would say something. He didn't.

The gaze was upon me frequently over the next few weeks, at a concert here, a play there, at the beach, even at a bookstore. He often moved in my direction, exciting those butterflies each time, but never said hello.

I am in a concert now, and I feel a warmth that I only vaguely remember now. I turn around, to see an elongated egghead and nondescript hair. I am in the blanket of his gaze now. The earring has disappeared - perhaps he works in a cultured atmosphere - and his eyes look tired, but the gaze still envelops me snugly, and I can still feel it upon me even when I'm not looking.

The concert starts, I drown in the tambura's drone and melt into the song.

The concert ends, I head out into the cavernous lobby. He approaches me, with purpose this time. The butterflies wake up from a six year slumber.

He talks, finally, in a baritone warmer than his gaze, with clarity of expression that suggests he has practiced this speech, "Some years ago, I came across a short story by Haruki Murakami. About this guy and girl who walk past each other, but don't make conversation."
I say, smiling, "They know they are 100% perfect for each other..."
"And yet, they don't talk. They just walk past."
"And the guy says he knows exactly what he would have told her had he walked past her now."
"Yeah. He'd tell her a story."
"One that starts with 'Once upon a time...' and ends with, 'A sad story, don't you think?'"
"Yes... That story."

We pause, breathlessly, and I say, "Sorry for ruining your speech."
He says, "I like the way it went." He pauses, and says, "You disappeared." He wants an explanation, I think.
"I moved. I don't live here now. I'm only visiting..."
"Oh," he says, indeterminately. If he intends to convey sadness, he fails. He asks, "Coffee?"
I cannot, I know, but I make it look like I'm giving it some thought before saying, "I should be going, I'm in a hurry."

I walk away, leaving him jolted. The gaze is on the back of my neck until I disappear amidst the crowd. I walk out to the blustery evening, and wait on the pavement until a car pulls up. My daughter waves at me from behind the glass. I open the door, hurry into the warmth of the car-heating, and close my eyes. The car stereo starts - I drown in the tambura's drone and melt into the song.

The Bard and I

I can state with great nationalistic jingoism (or jingoistic nationalism) that I have read more Kalidasa than Shakespeare. But that isn't a great achievement - in fact it is a matter of great literary shame (or shameful literacy) - for, in twenty-six years, I have read only two verses of Shakespeare. Both the verses were found in my fourth standard English textbook, and come from this poem called Under the Greenwood Tree. And even in that fourth standard textbook, there were poems I liked more than this one - like Silver by Walter De La Mare.

(Just revisited Silver. These two lines are so beautiful:

From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep
Of doves in silver feathered sleep


Silver-feathered sleep... Sigh.)

Under the Greenwood Tree is a curious poem - I still don't understand it fully. I think I must blame my Shakespeare illiteracy on B. Madambudithaya, the man who compiled the Karnataka State syllabus textbooks for picking a poem that leaves me baffled all the time, even eighteen years after my first encounter with it:

Under the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And turn his merry note
Unto the sweet bird's throat,

Right. Wonderful. Who is "who"? And who turn "his" merry note? When someone lies with me, do they lie and in speak the untruth? Why can't the Bard make himself clear?

And then he says,

Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.

Thankfully, my English teacher told me what 'hither' means, and saved me some agony. On an aside, has Shakespeare forgotten about wild animals in the forest? Or did the English forests have no such creatures? Only winter and rough weather? Really? That's easy. "He" will bring a couple of sweaters along.

Shakespeare then kills me with the next line,

Who doth ambition shun,

Argh. What a line. Drafted in the same convoluted vein as an income-tax legislation. Firstly, it takes my mind a couple of seconds to wrap itself around the meaning of "doth". Not to mention the thou, thee, hath. And then, I have to get down to figuring, "Who shuns ambition".

All this is too much for a fourth standard kid, especially one who can't see unapparent meaning.
***

My mother, who has a literary bent of mind, then made me mug some portion of Shakespeare's legendary All the world's a stage for some speech competition - you know, one of those competitions where various kids' parents write speeches for them, bully their kids into mugging them up and delivering them with a fake accent and irritating intonation, and the teachers judge which kid's parents write the best speeches? Yeah. So, my mother with a literary bent of mind wrote a few lines from that poem for that competition.

The poem gave me sleepless nights. If all the world's a stage, everyone's acting in the drama (which would mean that everyone's backstage waiting to make their entries and exits), who's watching? I began, for days, thinking of life as this flop play being performed to empty audiences. I began seeing dead people stare at me from backstage, envious of my continuing role. It scared me at every level - was I going to be a bit part that no one ever remembers? Or the fellow they point at, snigger and say, "Oh God, this guy's such a ham!" Many nights, I woke up, thinking, "Please, please. Can we do that scene again? I didn't get the chance to rehearse properly.

But then, again, there's no one watching, right?
***

At some point, I watched Shakespeare in Love, without understanding much. I pretended to understand, though, just like I pretend to understand national politics, because in my line of work, pretense and posturing is as crucial as actual knowledge. Around this time, I discovered some weird Shakespeare graphic novels in my school library, and they interested me greatly.

(Ok, fine, I'll admit it. They were Shakespeare stories in comic book form.)

They provided me with many afternoons of entertainment, and gave me enough background to remain relevant in conversations about Shakespeare. I watched Maqbool and Omkara with only these comics as my placeholders. (And oh, Langda Tyagi and Kesu Firangi did look like Iago and Cassius in the graphic novel!) Which is why I was able to say smart things like, "Oh, in Maqbool, the three witches are replaced by Om Puri and Naseeruddin Shah as soothsaying policemen..."
***

My grandfather quotes Shakespeare often. Something about mercy, justice, rain and twice-blesseth. I don't think he remembers any other quote, but he makes it a point to point it out that he has read real literature while I haven't. I tell him that I tried, many times, and I tell him that I never understood. He tut-tuts and remarks that education standards in the country are falling.
***

This morning, as I turned my merry Kalyani throat to the sweet mixie's note, I realised why I was never able to comprehend Shakespeare. My inability arises from a mistake and an arrogance. The mistake is my presumption that Shakespeare wrote in English. And the arrogance is that I don't need any annotation to understand English. The reason I read Kalidasa with annotation is because I know that my Sanskrit isn't good enough to read simply from the original.

Once I accept that Shakespeare didn't write in English, I can easily convince myself that I should get an annotated version, with the meaning of the verse in plain English. Armed with this, I shall revisit the Bard with a vengeance. And who knows, soon I might be able to quote that verse about mercy, justice, twice-blesseth and rain.

Showing us Heroes: Aditya Sudarshan on his Second Novel

Aditya Sudarshan's second novel is out, as I have already mentioned to the (approximately six) readers of this blog. The novel is centred around Prashant Padmanabhan, an engineer graduate (like half this country) making an amateur film on his cricketing idol, Ali Khan (who seemed, to me, like a strange mix of Azhar and Tendulkar). In a style that evokes Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby, the novel is told through the eyes of Vaibhav, a friend of Prashant's, also involved in the movie and in the story, but not its central character in the traditional sense. The title itself comes from a Fitzgerald quote, "Show me a hero and I will write you a tragedy."

I interviewed him via a few broken emails.

Congratulations on your second novel. Must be satisfying...

Thanks! Yeah it felt great to write it. Also good to get it published, although that was more of an ordeal. This book wasn't such an easy sell, so it took some perseverance to publish. Which is eventually satisfying, although as an author you also feel that's the least you deserve!

Do you find it surprising that a book that involves a cricketing hero and movie-making would be difficult to sell to a publisher in India?

Well it does sound surprising, but I didn't feel that way myself, because I know that those aspects of the story aren't treated in the obvious ways. So on a cold reading of the bare manuscript I don't think a publisher would sense immediate saleability on those counts. Maybe the reason it was tough to sell is that it is not easily categorized, in terms of genre. The story has many elements, and by the standards of conventional crime fiction, it moves slowly.

Last time I interviewed you, you said, "I think, almost more than any other story-telling device, the device of a detective story forces the author to have something to say." Is that why you choose a mystery again? Actually, would you classify this as a mystery?

I'd classify it as a mystery, a tragedy, and a coming-of-tale, the way it's mentioned in the back cover blurb. Because this novel does have distinct layers- the over-arching story is the narrator's self-discovery, so to speak. Then a major part of that process is the murder and the mystery he becomes involved in. And in the backdrop is the story of the forgotten cricketer. But if I had to mention just one genre, I would say 'coming of age', not 'mystery', because the coming of age is the 'overall' story- what everything else flows into or leads up to.

Why I chose a mystery again, well it maybe wasn't that volitional. But after my first book (which followed a fairly conventional crime fiction structure) I wanted to write another piece of crime fiction that altered that structure. Something where the victim was a central character, and where the crime and the reasons for it were not just a puzzle in themselves, but part of a bigger story. So that was one of the ambitions in my head while I was thinking up this novel.

How difficult is a second novel? Are there expectations to live up to? Suggestions you might have got from people that lodge themselves uncomfortably in the back of your mind?

In my case, I had written the draft of this novel before the first one got published. So factoring in other people's opinions or expectations wasn't so much of an issue. But even so, I think writing a second novel is definitely very different from the first. With a first novel, you tend to 'ride a wave'- you don't analyse so much and you just do things more instinctively. But the second time around you feel a lot more in control of your work. Therefore also a greater sense of responsibility. So it is more difficult and maybe less pure fun, but it's also more rewarding, because you can legitimately take credit for more things. (And feel like a professional)

Basically, if you divide fiction writing into 'creative' and 'editorial' dimensions, then starting from the second novel I think the editorial side of things is much more at work. (Not that it can ever, ever dominate, because then you wouldn't be able to write at all.)

What has been your experience with publishers' reactions to the manuscript of a second novel? Any different from their reaction to the first?

Hmm not really. I mean, a rejection is a rejection! I know it sounds like it should be an advantage to show that you've written one already, but I think unless the first one made a big sensation, it could even be a disadvantage. My sense is that publishers like debut authors, who are eager and 'unspoiled,' much more than the veteran journeyman type.

One novel hardly qualifies you as a 'veteran journeyman', Sud!

Hehe, no. But I didn't mean me - was just describing two ends of a scale.

Your novel is being billed as a cricket novel - the cricket-centric cover... I think the novel could have been about cockfighting in rural Tamilnadu, or rivalry amongst rock bands - you just happened to choose cricket. Your thoughts on that? Any reason why you chose cricket specifically?

Here I partly agree with you, partly disagree. The reason I arrived at cricket was because one of the themes of this novel is hero-worship. So I wanted to write about a larger than life public figure whom a young man could idolize. Of course it could have been a musician or someone more niche like that, but I also wanted the figure to be 'national'- someone whom all the diversity of Indian society might have an opinion about. And someone whom I myself could feel close to and interested in. So all of that kind of led to cricket, and a cricketer. But it definitely isn't just a 'cricket' novel, because that's not it's central focus.

Hmmm. That is a fair point, yes. Were you ever tempted to use fictionalised versions of real life cricketers as characters? What led you to creating a parallel cricketing world?

Initially I had made some references to actual cricketers, but I changed that later. I felt it would pull people too far out of the story because a real life cricketer is so larger than life, and provokes strong opinions on his own account. I didn't want that distraction. The character of my cricketer Ali Khan wasn't based on anybody either. Although one of the things I had thought while writing him was: what if a guy had the cricketing ability of a Tendulkar minus the saintly public persona?


Your first book, A Nice Quiet Holiday, was published by Westland, and your second book by Rupa - are the publishing cultures in the two houses very different?

I think they are. Although I'll be able to answer this better in another six months, once I know more. When I published with Westland I think they were keen on experimental fiction, new genres, niche genres etc. Rupa is a huge publisher, and they publish many kinds of books, so it's tough to assess them that way. But they are of course very strong on mainstream books and cultivating a wide (as opposed to niche) readership.

Last time, I asked you how personal your novel was. And whether you could update us on your love life. Can you answer those questions again?

This novel is probably more consistently personal than my first. It's a more emotional novel, the first one was more intellectual (and therefore more distanced from me personally). And my love life is a lot of self-love. Let's check back again after the next bookl!


You are right. Anything even remotely intellectual is necessarily distanced from you.
:-P

I've been asked to ask you this question - any reason why your first protagonist was called Anant and the second Padmanabhan?

Well Anant is my brother's first name. Padmanabhan is my friend's sur-name. So I took the names from them. But the characters aren't drawn from either my brother or Pappan (as you will be able to vouch for!)


You are moving to Bombay soon to work in films. Tell us something about this shift. Were you always planning to work in cinema at some point? Can we expect more novels from you?

Yes, I'm shifting to Bombay! There are many reasons for that, but purely professionally I think I do need to do more script-writing (I already do some for television), and Bombay obviously has more opportunities for that. I wasn't always planning to do this, but I figured about a year ago that to sustain my writing over the long-term I need to diversify into areas other than novels and stories. The way I look at it, an English language fiction writer in India who wants to make ends meet, has three options. He or she can either try to break into the foreign market, or do a lot of journalistic work- or write scripts. I think of those three options script-writing is the one I would find the most enjoyable and interesting.

But I certainly hope you can expect more novels from me (relax, you can :-)). In fact I want to write a novel that is set against the backdrop of the film industry- I think that's a powerful setting. Let's see, but hopefully things will fall into place.

Thank you, Sud. It was lovely interviewing you. Hope we can catch up soon. On Juhu Beach perhaps!

You're welcome Mami, it was my pleasure. Yes, I'll introduce you to my new film star friends!