Cloud 9 Minus One

Profile in New Woman

sangeetamall — Fri, 15 Jul 2011 12:54:05 +0000

This is what New Woman wrote about me.

Of Nobel Winners

sangeetamall — Wed, 29 Jun 2011 06:38:46 +0000

The reason I picked up Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys from Archana was that she spoke so well about it. Her description made me extremely curious about the book. That’s not the reason why I borrowed the book on erotic short stories from her! But that’s another story.
I’m very happy when one of the others asks to borrow a book from me. It shows that my reading of the book has been sufficiently impressive. I remember Alka borrowing Mary McCarthy’s The Group from me. How happy I was that the two of us could share our opinion about this wonderful book! When Dnyanada spoke about Silences, all of us wanted to grab it then and there! As writers and women, we felt that Olsen had written about us. I was going through an extended block at the time, and sometimes I felt that it was high time I hung up my boots and retired. This after one book! Tillie Olsen told me that my plight wasn’t unique.
Now I’m reading The Satanic Verses. It was silly for India to ban the book, since it isn’t all that great as a piece of literature. It was Haroun that inspired me to read some more Rushdie. I’ve only read till page 100 but already I feel a sense of ennui creeping up on me. There is nothing new in the book. And not much of magic either. Rushdie has tried to wrap it up in exotica, but the essential story of a fading film star and a side actor is neither original nor unique. The film star’s paramour is the wife of a manufacturer of ball-bearings. And if that isn’t a cliché, I don’t know what is!
The Satanic Verses made me think of Patrick White’s Riders in the Chariot for the way the two books portray the father-son relationship. And my first thought after reading The Satanic Verses was ‘Aha! So that’s why White won the Nobel.’ It was almost like an epiphany. Riders in the Chariot is a horribly tough book to read, and I’m not ashamed to confess that about eighty percent of it zipped over my head. But of the rest, one of the passages that impressed me the most was the portrayal of Himmelfarb’s father, the rich man of rich tastes to whom being treated as a second-class Jew is so distasteful that he converts to Christianity. White’s description of the son’s revulsion at his father’s loud behaviour and the mother’s genteel acceptance of it is one of the things that made such a powerful impression on me. And therefore I’m happy that White won the Nobel. And now I can see why Rushdie hasn’t got there yet. Rushdie doesn’t bother to touch one’s soul.

Papyrus: How Does It Begin?

sangeetamall — Fri, 24 Jun 2011 11:46:18 +0000

A gaggle of women have come to hear me read from my book, Cloud 9 Minus One, at Priti’s house. For Priti, time is a stretchable commodity. She had committed to me in April that she would host this event, but it is now finally November when I’m doing this. In the meantime, other events have intervened, Damodar’s illness being the main one, and of course the launch of the book in October. Though I don’t admit it, this is actually a better time to read, since the audience can buy a copy on the spot, rather than go to the bookstore.

I know only one of the women in that room. It’s Alka. Her face radiates peace and confidence, an irresistible combination for me. I like peaceful faces. They counter my own turbulence, even if it is hidden behind a blank visage. She introduces me to another woman, a bubbly, giggly person called Archana who, surprisingly, knows a lot about books. For this reason, she too is my kind of person, though I’m not sure I like the ever-present smile. But we chat, and after the reading, I present to them my idea of a book club. They both welcome it, but my native scepticism kicks in. Everyone likes something, nobody wants to do anything about it.

A week later, I send a message round, inviting Priti, Archana and Alka to my place for the first session of the book club. Without the children, my home is a good place to meet. We agree to meet after dinner, since Archana is always late back from work. The session begins at nine. I have lined up three books that I want to talk about. This is part of my Plan B. If no one else has prepared anything, at least I can bring some zing into the meeting. One must, I’ve learnt in life, always have a Plan B. One avoids disappointment when plan A doesn’t work. What are the chances that, in this case, plan A, ie, everyone bringing along a book to talk about, will work? About one in ten, I presume. Alka is the first to arrive, and pulls out two books from a huge bag before I can even offer her a glass of water, my way of breaking the ice. Archana follows a few minutes later, bursting to talk about her book of the month. I quietly hide my hoard. It is, I discover, a time to listen. And Papyrus is born.

Since December 2009, Papyrus has met every month to talk about books over wine or coffee or food. From meeting at someone’s house, usually mine or Alka’s, we have shifted to coffee shops and restaurants, getting together for tea or dinner and even, once, for breakfast. Through deaths, and marriages and other catastrophes, we have clung to Papyrus like a solid boat in a very rocky sea, replenishing our energy with the vitamin shot of discovering new books and writers and genres.

I have been introduced to Tracy Chevalier, Jean Rhys and Seamus Heaney. In turn, I have introduced Sarah Waters, Richard Ford and Jonathan Franzen to the group. We have discussed pornography and mystery writing and feminist literature, and workshopped each other’s stories. One of the most memorable sessions was when Dnyanada and Archana, the two poets in the group, read their poems. I came back, scintillated, then, and wished for that particular breakfast to go on forever.

Last week we spoke about Haroun and the Sea of Stories, Rushdie’s charming book for children, which, as I discovered when I read it, is not really for children at all. We discussed his control over both language and ideas, and the fact that he has successfully combined political satire with fantasy in this book. After reading Haroun, I felt he might not be such a tiresome writer after all. I had started finding his style overpowering, with his dense usage of words. Haroun restored my belief in Rushdie’s greatness as a writer. I felt ashamed that I hadn’t read this book sooner, though it had been lying on my bookshelf for the last ten years.

The July session of Papyrus moves to Alibagh. I can’t wait to hear Dnyanada’s exposition of Murakami’s South of the Border, West of the Sun. Dnyanada brings a wealth of theoretical knowledge to our group of philistines. In August, all of us are going to read Sophie’s World, and I can’t wait for these events.

Lost Character

sangeeta — Fri, 18 Jun 2010 10:27:45 +0000

There are some words that simply mustn’t be allowed in English literature, or any other literature. Sex, whore, pimp, fuck and all its colourful variants, also anything to do with bodily effluents, and so on. These terms, and activities related to these terms, are a bad influence on one. I wonder if Shakespeare knew about this? Or Chaucer? Their plays and poems are rife with bawdiness and vulgarity of all kinds, and yet nothing is more exhilarating than reading Macbeth with a glass of red (of course) wine on a winter evening.

And yet, I’m strongly told that today’s books with their heavy dependence on reality, and the portrayal of the amazing range of depravity and degradation that the human race is capable of, are spoiling the youth and turning them into lascivious and sadistic freaks, who believe that it is acceptable to be depraved. Of course, nothing could be further from the truth. It is my firm belief that a good piece of literature is one that transports you into an alternative reality, one that is far, far away from one’s own world, and gives flight to one’s imagination. Lolita, for instance, is not about paedophilia, but about the twisted beauty that can exist in the mind of a rapist. Lolita is poetic and wild and beautiful beyond belief. What a shame to interpret it as an ode to paedophilia!

In fact there are only two varieties of books – good and bad. The former uplift you upon reading them, and the latter make you want to sink in shame and despair. There can be no other interpretation of literature. Literature does not encourage depravity – it’s only role is to release mankind from it.

My New Kindle

sangeeta — Sat, 05 Jun 2010 13:22:10 +0000

The first time I heard about Kindle, I dismissed it out of hand as a non-reader’s fake toy. People who weren’t ‘into’ books bought the gadget, or people who were into gadgets, or show-offs, anyone but a true lover of books. I little realised that I was being the show-off here. Like a true snob, I had dismissed something without understanding it. And then my husband gave it to me as a gift. Then, too, I didn’t use it immediately. Gadgets scare me. Even the simplest instruction is a mindbending task for me. So I postponed activating the reader until my husband’s disappointed but eager look propelled me into doing what needed to be done to set the thing going. Since then there is, as someone once famously remarked, no looking back.
There are people who say that they can’t read a book unless they can feel its pages. To them I say ‘B—-s’! It is what lies inside the book that matters, not its glossy cover, or amazing paper quality. I’m ashamed to confess that I’ve read pirated books that feel like newsprint, because the original wasn’t immediately available, and I couldn’t wait. I’m not going to describe the features of the Kindle. Amazon.com does it much better than I can. Suffice it to say that there is no beating carrying an entire library with you on travel, not having to bother with physical bookmarks, and not having to lend one’s precious collection to potential book-stealing felons. And the fun of changing the font size to suit my failing eyesight is unbelievable. Sometimes I listen to the book. But most important of all, I’m a part of a digital revolution that’s happening almost as I breathe. And what could be more exciting than that!
A back of the envelope calculation tells me that my Kindle is going to be sufficient for my needs for the next twenty years. Perhaps a lot will change by then, including the fact that there won’t be too many novelists around, but till then, what a relief not to have to add another bookshelf in my already cramped apartment!

Storytelling – The Female Way

sangeeta — Tue, 01 Jun 2010 06:39:40 +0000

The other day I found myself including a long sambhar recipe in a story that had nothing to do with sambhar or indeed food of any other kind. The inclusion just happened. I stared at what I had written, wondering how it got there. It had got there, of course, because I had typed it out there myself. It wasn’t something I had cut and pasted off the Internet. I had written the recipe, inside my story. I didn’t remember doing it, since, till the previous day, I had been concentrating on writing a mother-daughter narrative replete with bathos and sarcasm. And suddenly, the recipe.
I don’t have a very healthy relationship with my sub-conscious. I don’t understand it, never talk to it, and most of the time don’t believe in it. So it could offer no help to me whatsoever on why I should be writing recipes instead of stories.
And then my logical self told me why. Like most female fictioners, I’m not a writer alone. I’m also wife, mother, daughter, daughter-in-law, and maid about the house. Irrespective of what I’m writing, of what my deadline is, of what my book promotion schedule is, or of what research I’m required to do for my next book, I have to ensure that everyone dependent on me, kids, husband, parents, are all looked after PROPERLY. After all, writing a novel is no excuse for slacking off!
And since I needed to make sambhar for dinner that night, it was the recipe that engaged me, and not the next plot twist in my potentially award-winning story.
Female writers are writers on-the-go. Their writing is fractured and inconsistent, and therefore more passionate. They write when they can, where they can, sometimes sitting at the kitchen counter where they write in between doing other chores, sometimes at the dining table, when it is not occupied by family dinners or children’s homework, sometimes at the crack of dawn, when nobody else in the whole world is awake, and there is no risk of inadvertently writing down a sambhar recipe, sometimes in the late hours of the night, when finally everyone is asleep. They write because they can’t help it. It is the only way they can regain their sanity and self-esteem.

Writing 101

sangeeta — Thu, 27 May 2010 04:52:07 +0000

Unlike what many writers will declare after the event, writing is a damn hard thing to do. And since it isn’t easy for me to write this, I shall put together the following bullet points for new writers, and I shall call it Six Tough Rules to Writing Well:

• Write everyday at a fixed time for a fixed number of hours/minutes
• Read everyday for a fixed number of hours/minutes
• Prepare to trash every single thing you have written in favour of writing better stuff
• Never omit to do a spelling/grammar check after each page
• Write down the plot first
• Revise, revise, revise and then when you’re done, revise again

The most important rule, and it is such an important rule that it cannot be included in the Six Rules, is NEVER GIVE UP. This, in fact, is the easiest rule to follow. All it means is that you start at the beginning and keep going on till you reach the end.

The above is the essence of any good writing. In any creative writing course, the first half of the schedule should be given over to reading. A book a week should be a good way to inculcate the reading habit amongst students. Without reading, how can one write? How does one even know where to begin?

And of course, writing cannot be taught. I didn’t learn writing at Pittsburgh. My faculty, all of them well-known writers, opened my eyes to the world of books, and writers, so that I could revise my own writing, and turn it into something that I could enjoy.

Therefore, the only teaching methodology for creative writing programs, if they are indeed required, is the workshop method, where students write, and write, and write, and read, and read, and read. There must be no teaching.

Eeny Meeny Miny Friend

sangeeta — Wed, 26 May 2010 17:13:52 +0000

‘I wish I had known,’ said Divya. ‘Just a hint.’ And she started crying, small sobs that were threatening to rise to large gulps any moment. After some time she settled down, and took a deep breath to drown out the sobbing. She wiped her tears with the back of her hand.
‘I knew nothing,’ she said with a dash of her normal composure. ‘None of us did. Three years ago, it was like we couldn’t get enough of each other. Akash and Ajay and Chitra and another couple of people. And me, of course. In college we did everything together. Studied, ate, chatted, talked about our parents and siblings and bitched about our former girlfriends/boyfriends. Everything.’ She looked at me, though I thought she was seeing something else. ‘Do you understand everything?’
I nodded but Divya wasn’t looking now. ‘And then poof! Gone. All gone. The day we left Nasik, it was as though none of us knew each other.’ The sobs threaten to overcome her again. ‘I can barely remember what Akash looked like. Can you imagine? He was my b..b..best friend! Just three years ago! And now he’s dead.’ The sobs threaten to overcome her again. ‘Cyanide! Where did he get cyanide from? And why, why did he do it? What could have gone wrong? How come none of knew anything? And I checked. None of the others knew either. I mean, what kind of friends were we? Tell me that. One of us was in trouble, and we didn’t have a clue.’
Divya dissolved into tears again. I had no answer to give her, no reassurance to offer. I couldn’t possibly speak my mind to her, that that’s what friendship is about, that you take from it what you choose and give to it what you choose. Being a friend means making choices. Akash made his, and Divya wasn’t it.

Times of Trouble

sangeeta — Tue, 25 May 2010 06:54:03 +0000

Rhonda is beautiful and blonde. She has short hair cropped close to her skull, and smiling lips. Her eyes radiate peace. She wears a skirt suit, with an olive green tank top underneath, and low-heeled black shoes. In her ears she wears tiny diamond studs, and around her neck a small diamond pendant on a thin chain. On her right wrist, there’s a medium sized watch with a narrow twin coloured strap. She is always calm, no matter what I say to her. And she listens to me as often and for as long as I like. Sometimes, she wears a starched handloom cotton sari with a comfortable blouse, but the rest of her jewellery remains the same.
Rhonda, of course, doesn’t exist except in my head. I picked out a name for her from a character in one of the CBS TV series, and made her my friend. An ideal friend. One who only listens, who doesn’t ask questions and who gives advice that one can follow. But most of all, one who listens. Listens to all my complaints, my dreams and desires. As Rhonda assumed an increasingly central role in my life, I thought I was becoming insane. After all, it isn’t normal to talk to an imaginary person all the time.
Then I spoke to a friend, a real friend, not an imaginary one. This real friend has a real name, Stuti. Stuti and I were talking one day about everything under the sun, and then she told me with a half-ashamed smile on her face, “You know, when things get too much for me, I talk to an imaginary friend. Isn’t that weird?”
In that exchange, Rhonda took a backseat as I hugged Stuti and told her it wasn’t weird at all. It was perfectly normal. We were perfectly normal. We need to rely on someone in times of trouble. Who better than our alter ego, in my case, Rhonda?

Forever Who

sangeeta — Mon, 24 May 2010 04:35:53 +0000

Akash was a 47 year old alcoholic. His first wife left him because he loved his second wife more than her, and his second wife left him because he loved whisky more than her. His parents abandoned him because divorce was a disgrace for their family, and a double divorce was inexcusable. His children couldn’t decide whether to leave him or not since they were too small. Then one day his daughter grew up and decided to be with her dad. He was her dad, though she had never seen him fully sober or fully a dad. Her father, to her, was a maudlin piece of wreckage floating in the ocean.
But all of us had seen Akash before his ship fell apart. We had seen him in his full glory, when he was a brilliant Indian citizen, a student at one of the best educational institutions of this country, a talented and only mildly eccentric young man whose brilliant wit just sparkled more when mixed with a dash of alcohol. And then alcohol got the better of him, and his life halted. And then one day it ended. Cirrhosis of liver.
His cremation was attended by four people, Akash, the priest, his daughter and Mohit, his former classmate and distant friend. It was Mohit who told us of Akash’s death, Mohit who found out that the daughter was now indigent, having been abandoned by her mother for being loyal to her father, and Mohit who started a fund to see the daughter through college. And all of us rallied to the daughter’s cause. Why? Because that’s what friends are for, for never asking why, for never abandoning one, for never passing judgment on our misdeeds, for always remembering the best in us and laughing away the worst. Cause unlike family, unlike wives and husbands and errant children, friends are indeed forever.
So, Akash, you were, even in your loneliest days, never alone. There was a whole bunch of people looking out for you. And they still are.