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!

Off two Eggs and dog biscuits

Since this novel is paralysing my daily activities, I thought it would be fit to share two passages from it:

Gatsby walked over and stood beside her.

“Daisy, that’s all over now,” he said earnestly. “It doesn’t matter any more. Just tell him the truth — that you never loved him — and it’s all wiped out forever.”

She looked at him blindly. “Why — how could I love him — possibly?”

“You never loved him.”

She hesitated. Her eyes fell on Jordan and me with a sort of appeal, as though she realized at last what she was doing — and as though she had never, all along, intended doing anything at all. But it was done now. It was too late.

“I never loved him,” she said, with perceptible reluctance.

“Not at Kapiolani?” demanded Tom suddenly.

“No.”

From the ballroom beneath, muffled and suffocating chords were drifting up on hot waves of air.

“Not that day I carried you down from the Punch Bowl to keep your shoes dry?” There was a husky tenderness in his tone. . . . “Daisy?”

“Please don’t.” Her voice was cold, but the rancor was gone from it. She looked at Gatsby. “There, Jay,” she said — but her hand as she tried to light a cigarette was trembling. Suddenly she threw the cigarette and the burning match on the carpet.

“Oh, you want too much!” she cried to Gatsby. “I love you now — isn’t that enough? I can’t help what’s past.” She began to sob helplessly. “I did love him once — but I loved you too.”

Gatsby’s eyes opened and closed.

“You loved me too?” he repeated.

And the second one, a sort of quote that one mugs, creates convoluted situations for, and uses on unsuspecting souls:

“Oh, and do you remember.”— she added —” a conversation we had once about driving a car?”

“Why — not exactly.”

“You said a bad driver was only safe until she met another bad driver? Well, I met another bad driver, didn’t I? I mean it was careless of me to make such a wrong guess. I thought you were rather an honest, straightforward person. I thought it was your secret pride.”

“I’m thirty,” I said. “I’m five years too old to lie to myself and call it honor.”

She didn’t answer. Angry, and half in love with her, and tremendously sorry, I turned away.

Show me a Hero

Aditya Sudarshan, a great friend, comedian, metaphysicist, and a ball of slime, has written his second novel, Show me a Hero. Don't get fooled by the cricket-centred cover, the novel is about a lot more. I will share his thoughts on the book here soon. Until then, one paragraph I loved:

"The next morning, which is always the best judge of the night before, was confusing. Many times in the small hours I'd written foolish, sentimental emails to people I barely knew, only to wake up kicking myself. On more than a few drunken midnights I had told myself I was going to change the world, and then decided at 11 a.m. in the streaming sun that it was doing all right as it was. I was used to having my eye-openers in the dead of night and looking away in the morning light. That was normal. But waking up today, with a strange sense of clam and a strange sense of mission, was not. I wasn't in my comfort zone. I wasn't sure how I ought to feel."

Watch this space. Full length interview coming up.

You pray his soul may rest in peace,
I want it to haunt me.

Remembering Tyagaraja

It is funny that the average modern Indian isn't big on aesthetics, given our artistic history. But again, I might be ascribing the ornamental indulgences of the monarchs of yore, the architectural show-offiness of a few, to the entire population. Who knows, the average Indian might have always been of the jugaad variety - functionality over art.

The Tyagaraja Aradhana is on television as I blog (just heard TM Krishna's Kedaragowla) and the physical feature that dominates the scenery is the microphones. Four to an artiste - one screams 'Sekaran' in white lettering on a harsh, blue background, two have AIR written on them (why does the radio need two?) and one is nameless, but presumably not orphaned (I wonder if it will sing in Jingala. Please excuse, it is my Tyagaraja joke for the day). And from behind these microphones, bits of artistes peek out - it is like an unfinished jigsaw puzzle, or one of those game-shows where you guess the celebrity from the pieces on the grid revealed. This is a fallout of the jugaad - the different people who need the feed don't bother with the co-ordination in advance, and so they bombard the stage with their equipment. All this happens under a shamiana dominated by plastic chairs.

The background isn't easy on the eye. It is a mesh of raucous lettering in English and Tamil, a gaudy Tyagaraja portrait and a Vodafone banner incongruously meshed in on the right. As usual, the sabha takes it upon itself to make it clear to the world that they are registered. Really, I don't think anyone doubted that. City Union Bank hollers at you from below the stage, complete with region and branch details along with pin code. (Then again, sponsors are unavoidable - Tyagaraja himself practiced uncha vritti!)

The concerts happen on the banks of the Cauvery, in a town that comes to life only once a year, and you can't help but wonder: so much more can be done with that setting.

Still, it is Tyagaraja's melodic, rhythmic, lyrical and devotional genius - handed down to us through two centuries of interpretation by artistes of all varieties, from art musicians to bhakti musicians, from ace reproducers to ace innovators, from laya exponents to raga past masters, from the oral tradition to obscure manuscripts - that occupies centre-stage, making us forget, for as long as the songs last, the jarring environment in which it is sung.

Pop-philosophy moments

Real flashes of pop-philosophical brilliance come in situations like this - at 2 am, somewhere in the Western Ghats, in a place whose name I still don't know, at a biryani-chai-cigarette-dirty-loo place, during a break from a jataka-bandi-level bumpy bus ride, with the temperature at around 8 degrees, having missed a train and no clear plans for the onward journey.

For three days, I lived under the delusion that my waitlisted train ticket would get confirmed by that Indianest of methods, the nomenclatural red herring, the Emergency quota. Apparently, I had access to the Minister of State for Railways, who would recognise my 'emergency' and get me a seat. 99% confirmed, I was told. Somehow, I've always been in that 1%.

I had been looking forward to this train journey for a while - seventeen hours of solitude, good books, good music - a chance to catch up with myself. Hello me, what's up? Even on the car to the station (its an hour and a half from home), I was quite excited, listening to Ramani Sir and MSG trade fireworks in a 1980 concert, yapping, driving, cursing bus drivers. This was a journey I wanted to make. So, when it fell apart, I was quite heartbroken.

Then came this random travel, last minute tickets, a phone running out of balance, doubts on the state of the road, the time the bus will take as a result, and slight tension about morning flights, trains, buses (also booked last minute). It was in this background, when I got down from the bus at that unknown place for a chai, unsure but strangely confident of making to Madras, that I had that pop-philosophy moment.

It's nice to have a confirmed ticket, yes. (It's not often that a Mamidipudi has a confirmed ticket.) It's nice to know where you're going and how - that brings with itself an excitement - you can pack some dinner from home, . But it's funner to not know. It's funner to realise you've mistaken 20:00 for 10 pm, landed up late at the station, and then hitchhike on a lorry. It's fun to land up at the bus stand and find that you have a ticket to Madras instead of Bangalore, and go to Madras for the weekend instead. It's fun to decide where you want to go for the long weekend at the ticket counter. It's fun to find you have booked a ticket for the wrong date, and then run around Paradise looking for shady buses and tickets. It's fun to spend nights in the unreserved compartment, spreading newspapers on the floor and catching up on sleep (or standing by the door without a sweater - only the romance of the whole thing keeping you warm).

There you have it - pop-philosophy for the day - unplanned journeys are more fetching than planned ones.

Finding Shebait

This piece first appeared on mylaw.net.
***

In the wake of the Ayodhya judgment, I learnt a lot of law. The place of birth is a juristic person, apparently. Wait till the income-tax department, always looking for newer people, juristic or otherwise, hears of this. Two of the cases were dismissed on the grounds of limitation. That's rich. You're deciding whether some character called Babur built a mosque in 1528, and whether he destroyed a temple to do so, and you dismiss suits because they're filed beyond limitation.

Merits aside, the judgment threw up some interesting concepts - the "next friend" and the "shebait". Both terms sound shady.

I've heard that in Indian politics, the major political parties have their outwardly democratic structures - the President, the Vice-President, the Spokesperson and so on. But most politicians, apparently, also have an important figure around them, called their "best friend", who wields enormous power over their decisions - right from what he will have for lunch, what he will wear for a meeting, whom he will meet and what course the economy will take. A "next friend", I discovered, is someone like that. That treasure house of authoritative legal knowledge (I'm serious, ask the dudes in the big firms to swear that they've never relied on it to figure out what futures and options are), Wikipedia, defines it as "a person who represents in an action another person who is under disability or otherwise unable to maintain a suit on their own behalf as a result of their circumstances, who does not have a legal guardian". Our politicians are mostly in disability, they are usually a product of rather unfortunate circumstances, and their guardians tend to be illegal.

"Shebait" was harder to crack. Wikipedia has no entry on this word. A google search only reveals a lot of judgments from Indiankanoon.com, which suggests that beyond Indian temple law, the term does not have much use. A friend and I found the term highly useful. "I wish the High Court had more shebait." Or, "Dude, shebait, 7 o clock." "You're coming for this party?" "Depends on the shebait, macha."

And there were the jokes.
Q: How do you describe a Goan prostitute who specialises in temple administrators?
A: She baits shebaits on the sea shore.

My first hunch was that the term was Latin in origin. (I also had a feeling it might be French, given their shebaitic tendencies, but I rejected that thought immediately. Well, almost immediately.) I went through a large compendium of Latin maxims - a delightful old book that a family of rats had colonised. No luck there.

Then, I tried reading those old Indian judgments. They were of little help.

"It is true, it was a suit by some of the shebaits against the other shebaits, for the proper management of the debutter property but it cannot be said as contended on behalf of the appellant that two sets of shebaits were fighting with each other about the management of the properties...."
- Rangacharya v. Guru Revti AIR 1928 All 689

Sounds like quite a cat-fight. These judgments, though, threw up another curious word - "debutter". Who the hell is this guy? "I am putting on too much weight. I must debutter." The context suggested that "debutter" meant the Lord himself. But there was no assistance from Google on why this should be the case.

A friend at the bar, whose office has dealt with a fair number of debutters and shebaits over the years, told me that the term could be of Egyptian or Hebrew origin. He even pronounced the word as "shebayat". I spent a whole night on Hebrew and Egyptian dictionaries on the internet. I now had a collection of some choice swear words in two more languages, but no leads on the word "shebait". That night, I dreamt of shebaits and debutters locked in combat over a copy of the Bible.

In Court, the next day, I remembered - some kindred soul, whose family had no lawyers left, left me a thoroughly soporific book called "Essays on Classical and Modern Hindu Law." Flipping pages of this tattered tome, I came across a sole beacon of hope contained in a lengthy footnote, "... prefer the Bengali term 'shebayat' to describe these persons." Bengali!

One more fevered night of Googling ensued, at the end of which I found the entire story on a book on Sir John Woodroffe (the dude who wrote that book on evidence). "Shebait" came from "shebayat", although the origins of that word are still unclear. "Debutter", funnily enough, is a corruption of the word "devata".

"Dude, that shebait is quite the debutter!"