Dear J,
You must be sleeping. I’m also yawning but Madame Bovary is lying on the bed. It’s a 1949 Everyman’s Library edition that I had… please don’t be angry… flicked from T’s house. Well, actually I’ve read the novel, a few years ago, but this afternoon when I was in the middle of the war passages of AJ Liebling’s The Road Back to Paris, I suddenly felt greedy for Mrs Bovary. I know I know I should’ve first finished Liebling but… though everyone, including David Remnick, likes him, I find him… boring. This was the third time I was attempting Liebling. Yeah, he is good. I can make that out but he’s not clicking and then I felt this craving for Flaubert and no matter what I had to read him and thank God, I had packed him while coming to a friend’s place. You know Kasim? The guy who died. His mother called me in. She’s a very nice woman. And an ex-Austen fan. Well, she still likes Jane and is in fact pestering me to read Sense and Sensibility with her but I remember your words. Remember when you were in Delhi, when we were cooped up in that yucky Karol Bagh hotel… when we had made love… that night after we returned from the Dargah… after we asked the cab walla to drive past the Red Fort… that night when I’d cushioned my face onto your fuzzy chest, you’d said that if I want to be a author, I need to go beyond Jane, that I need to crack Tolstoy… Well, I’ve finished Anna Karenina and War & Peace; now I must get on with Dostoevsky but I’m just so scared of The Brothers Karamazov… to plough through it... and I’ve already tried him thrice and he couldn’t happen and yet I’ve to read him… and not just Karamazov but also the Idiot and that Raskolnikov, too, but one day soon I will. Yeah. Oh yes, Papa called today. He was sounding very upset. I hadn’t told him about the pox. He said Mummy was crying. I should’ve gone to their place. Now when I’m better, the blisters have given way to scabs which may fall off any day, I think I must go there. After all, they’re my parents and love me in their own selfish way. And they’re old. I can’t break their hearts. But J, I’m so glad you’re not here. I haven’t shaven since I was diagnosed. Am looking like one of those unwashed, filthy Talibani guys. Just need a Kalashnikov on my shoulders! But now am going to Madame Bovary. Yes J, please take good care of yourself.
Hugs and then some more hugs (oh no, am poxed!),
mayank
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Today evening Kasim’s mother and me had Wickham, Jane Austen, Rebecca West and Mavis Gallant for biryani
“I caught it when I was in school. We would have chicken pox parties.”
“Mayank was telling me about your name, Wickham Sir. Your parents must have been great Jane Austen readers?”
“But Wick, why George Wickham? Why not Mr Darcy?”
“My mother liked Wickham. Who’s your favorite character in the novel, aunty?”
“Mine? I have forgotten the novel except that I had enjoyed it very much…”
“I like Lydia... she'ssonaughty... and Lady Catherine de Borough… O God!”
“You know, Mayank, the first novel I purchased in the Sunday Book bazaar was Pride and Prejudice…”
“But Wick, now I’ve grown tired of it… you know I really like Mansfield Park…”
“That’s her worst novel…”
“I’m asking Mayank to read Sense and Sensibility with me but he is very fickle minded.”
“Aunty, you don’t have to spill out everything.”
“As if I don’t know.”
“We packed a few of his books when I was bringing him here last week but look, he never stick to one book. Yesterday afternoon he was reading Jon Lee Anderson’s The Fall of Baghdad; in the evening he was with the Paris Review Interviews Vol. III; and just before I shut off the lights, he was reading Rebecca West's Black Lamb and Grey Falcon…”
“I know aunty… if only he reads as much as he buys… ”
“But today he was with West the whole day long…”
“You were not looking carefully, aunty. In the evening I was reading Mavis Gallant’s Paris Stories.”
“OK, enough jokes. Wickham Sir, Mayank was really looking forward to see you.”
“O, is it? Thank you.”
“I have mangoes in the fridge. I will get them... and you will not go without the dinner.”
“You don’t have to, aunty. I’m fine…”
“You said my novel’s no novel.”
“Let’s talk something else.”
“What sort of friend you are you’ve shattered my self-confidence do you know am not able to write till a month ago I thought I’ll manage to finish this novel it seemed the best thing in my life and you sent one mail and its gone kaput…”
“I consider you my friend and if I won’t tell you the right thing, who else then… besides I object that you wrote about me without my permission…”
“Here… these are desi aams… you know, Wickham Sir, we Indians eat this mango variety with hands but I have sliced them for you…”
“You are very kind, aunty.”
“You know Kasim?”
“Well… yes, I never met him but yes, Mayank has told me about him.”
“He was a great reader. He had read all novels by Jane Austen. Isn’t it so, Mayank?”
“Yeah? Yeah. Yeah. He’d read all the Jane Austens. Yeah.”
“Yes, he was as good as Mayank. He would not go to bed without Shakespeare. You see he was a great admirer of English literature… I will be just back from the kitchen.”
“I don’t know why she’d to say that…”
“It’s ok. Poor woman. Her son died. Let her lie.”
“Listen, don’t talk bout her like that.”
“Look, I was not being mean… and don’t give me that tone... and you are writing about her and her son without she knowing about it. Remember that!”
“I think it was a bad idea… my pox would’ve gone without you comin’ here.”
“I can leave if you want.”
“This ain’t my home. I don’t want a scene. Shit.”
“Did I tell you that I’ve become friends with Velutha?”
“Wow, congrats! Soon Arundhati Roy will be your buddy! Damnit!”
“He is just like that Velutha.”
“Umm, will you introduce to him? Bytheway, there’s no dining table here… she’ll spread a plastic sheet down here… on the floor…”
“I see.”
“The curry will be greasy. Make sure you don’t make a face.”
“I’m better behaved than you, Mayank.”
“So what you friends are talking?”
“Oh, we were… we were discussing Rebecca West.”
“First things first. Wickham Sir, the food is ready. Tell me when you are hungry. What about Rebecca West?”
“Aunty, I was reading a passage this afternoon and I was reminded of Kasim.”
“What was it?”
“Wick, please pass me the book. It’s there… on that low table. Yeah, there. That’s the one.”
“Yes Aunty. Wick, you also listen. But no, no… the fact is Aunty, I know you were his mother but I also miss him… very much. I feel his absence. I don’t know but he has become a closer friend now when he is no more… I think I knew him better now… and yes Wick, Kasim was a great reader. He had read all the Jane Austens. We would go to Jama Masjid and read one Austen after another. We would start with Pride and Prejudice, finish it and get on with Emma, then to Mansfield Park and once that’s done, we would go back to Sense and Sensibility… yes aunty, your favorite… and then Northanger Abbey which we both always enjoyed the most, more than Pride, you know, and then Persuasion and then back to Pride and the cycle would start again…”
“You never told me that son…”
“I was not really intending to talk about him but… Wick, ain’t you hungry? Aunty, khaana.”
“Mayank was telling me about your name, Wickham Sir. Your parents must have been great Jane Austen readers?”
“But Wick, why George Wickham? Why not Mr Darcy?”
“My mother liked Wickham. Who’s your favorite character in the novel, aunty?”
“Mine? I have forgotten the novel except that I had enjoyed it very much…”
“I like Lydia... she'ssonaughty... and Lady Catherine de Borough… O God!”
“You know, Mayank, the first novel I purchased in the Sunday Book bazaar was Pride and Prejudice…”
“But Wick, now I’ve grown tired of it… you know I really like Mansfield Park…”
“That’s her worst novel…”
“I’m asking Mayank to read Sense and Sensibility with me but he is very fickle minded.”
“Aunty, you don’t have to spill out everything.”
“As if I don’t know.”
“We packed a few of his books when I was bringing him here last week but look, he never stick to one book. Yesterday afternoon he was reading Jon Lee Anderson’s The Fall of Baghdad; in the evening he was with the Paris Review Interviews Vol. III; and just before I shut off the lights, he was reading Rebecca West's Black Lamb and Grey Falcon…”
“I know aunty… if only he reads as much as he buys… ”
“But today he was with West the whole day long…”
“You were not looking carefully, aunty. In the evening I was reading Mavis Gallant’s Paris Stories.”
“OK, enough jokes. Wickham Sir, Mayank was really looking forward to see you.”
“O, is it? Thank you.”
“I have mangoes in the fridge. I will get them... and you will not go without the dinner.”
“You don’t have to, aunty. I’m fine…”
“You said my novel’s no novel.”
“Let’s talk something else.”
“What sort of friend you are you’ve shattered my self-confidence do you know am not able to write till a month ago I thought I’ll manage to finish this novel it seemed the best thing in my life and you sent one mail and its gone kaput…”
“I consider you my friend and if I won’t tell you the right thing, who else then… besides I object that you wrote about me without my permission…”
“Here… these are desi aams… you know, Wickham Sir, we Indians eat this mango variety with hands but I have sliced them for you…”
“You are very kind, aunty.”
“You know Kasim?”
“Well… yes, I never met him but yes, Mayank has told me about him.”
“He was a great reader. He had read all novels by Jane Austen. Isn’t it so, Mayank?”
“Yeah? Yeah. Yeah. He’d read all the Jane Austens. Yeah.”
“Yes, he was as good as Mayank. He would not go to bed without Shakespeare. You see he was a great admirer of English literature… I will be just back from the kitchen.”
“I don’t know why she’d to say that…”
“It’s ok. Poor woman. Her son died. Let her lie.”
“Listen, don’t talk bout her like that.”
“Look, I was not being mean… and don’t give me that tone... and you are writing about her and her son without she knowing about it. Remember that!”
“I think it was a bad idea… my pox would’ve gone without you comin’ here.”
“I can leave if you want.”
“This ain’t my home. I don’t want a scene. Shit.”
“Did I tell you that I’ve become friends with Velutha?”
“Wow, congrats! Soon Arundhati Roy will be your buddy! Damnit!”
“He is just like that Velutha.”
“Umm, will you introduce to him? Bytheway, there’s no dining table here… she’ll spread a plastic sheet down here… on the floor…”
“I see.”
“The curry will be greasy. Make sure you don’t make a face.”
“I’m better behaved than you, Mayank.”
“So what you friends are talking?”
“Oh, we were… we were discussing Rebecca West.”
“First things first. Wickham Sir, the food is ready. Tell me when you are hungry. What about Rebecca West?”
“Aunty, I was reading a passage this afternoon and I was reminded of Kasim.”
“What was it?”
“Wick, please pass me the book. It’s there… on that low table. Yeah, there. That’s the one.”
“Yes Aunty. Wick, you also listen. But no, no… the fact is Aunty, I know you were his mother but I also miss him… very much. I feel his absence. I don’t know but he has become a closer friend now when he is no more… I think I knew him better now… and yes Wick, Kasim was a great reader. He had read all the Jane Austens. We would go to Jama Masjid and read one Austen after another. We would start with Pride and Prejudice, finish it and get on with Emma, then to Mansfield Park and once that’s done, we would go back to Sense and Sensibility… yes aunty, your favorite… and then Northanger Abbey which we both always enjoyed the most, more than Pride, you know, and then Persuasion and then back to Pride and the cycle would start again…”
“You never told me that son…”
“I was not really intending to talk about him but… Wick, ain’t you hungry? Aunty, khaana.”
Monday, July 13, 2009
How Isaac Bashevis Singer’s story about a Rabbi’s grief gave comfort to me and Kasim’s mother
“But aunty, this musambi juice is garam.”
“Yes, in your condition, you can not get it cold. Who knows there are blisters down your throat...”
“Am sick of this pox but aunty you know… can I be frank?”
“As long as it is nothing against our religion I guess...”
“You know aunty when I was going to the doctor’s...”
“Yes, son.”
“… I was prepared for the worst imaginable things… even cancer.”
“Do not think such things.”
“But chicken pox… I never thought I would’ve it.”
“But I had only… my Kasim… cancer took him away…”
“… I know, aun…”
“… Son, don’t talk so lightly… you, you are like him… I am, yes, I am trying to… but there is not even one moment which I live without missing him…”
“Aunty, last night I was reading a short story by Isaac… wait, let me check his full name.”
“Hmm, I say let us start Jane Austen.”
“Just wait, yes, Isaac Bashevis Singer… he was a Yahudi writer… so… Jane Austen? Yes, we read a bit of Sense and Sensibility in Jama Masjid. Remember?”
“Yes, but then we were also reading Aga Shahid Ali.”
“I can’t get his poems but anyways… so I was reading this story in which this village rabbi…”
“Rabbi?”
“O, he’s like a mullah of Yahudi people.”
“Even these Yahudis are the sons of God…”
“So this village rabbi’s three children have already died and the remaining three too are spitting blood…”
“I hope they lived.”
“And then the rabbi’s wife… she’s angry… she’s asking him what use is his knowledge, his prayers, the merits of his ancestors if the God can’t save their children and aunty, the rabbi doesn’t know what to say and aunty, one day his beloved daughter Rebecca too dies.”
“Inna lilla e rajaaun.”
“The rabbi’s grief was complete. He stopped reciting the texts out loud, he would stare at the pages of the holy books but not read the lines, he would not eat his breakfast, he started believing that atheists were right that there was no justice, no Judge… that nobody ruled the world…”
“It was his daughter’s loss…”
“… Once he was a great teacher but now his students started leaving him… he now had belief in only one thing. Poverty. He would say that poor men do exist and that’s one thing we could be certain…”
“But I did not lose faith in Allah. He gave me Kasim, he took him back…”
“But aunty, wait… one day he saw his Rebecca… as she would be if should would’ve lived… she was looking as if she’d just recovered from her illness..."
"Really!"
"... I swear it happened like that aunty and then the daughter implored her father to start his prayers, to start meeting his pupils and the rabbi's eyes were wet with tears... but soon her image started dissolving… first her face, then her body, then the dress and then there was nothing but a touch of heavenly joy where Rebecca was.”
“Allah be praised.”
“And then the rabbi returned to… he resumed his prayers, his students came back and in the story’s end he said that one should always be joyous.”
“… Which is not easy, son, but you can’t fight against the God’s will.”
“Aunty, it was strange but just as the rabbi saw Rebecca, last night I saw Kasim... yes, him... in my dreams.”
“What!”
“Yeah, we were climbing the Jama Masjid minar but he started becoming invisible when we reached the top stairs…”
“I’ll go to kabristan this evening.”
“Listen aunty, oh, I forgot to ask you... I was talking to a firangi friend of mine. He wants to visit me. Can he come?”
“Yes, tell him he can have dinner here.”
“Thanks, but am not sure about the food. These goras are very fussy but aunty you’ll be surprised to know his name.”
“Nothing surprises me now, son.”
“His name is Wickham, George Wickham!”
“Yes, in your condition, you can not get it cold. Who knows there are blisters down your throat...”
“Am sick of this pox but aunty you know… can I be frank?”
“As long as it is nothing against our religion I guess...”
“You know aunty when I was going to the doctor’s...”
“Yes, son.”
“… I was prepared for the worst imaginable things… even cancer.”
“Do not think such things.”
“But chicken pox… I never thought I would’ve it.”
“But I had only… my Kasim… cancer took him away…”
“… I know, aun…”
“… Son, don’t talk so lightly… you, you are like him… I am, yes, I am trying to… but there is not even one moment which I live without missing him…”
“Aunty, last night I was reading a short story by Isaac… wait, let me check his full name.”
“Hmm, I say let us start Jane Austen.”
“Just wait, yes, Isaac Bashevis Singer… he was a Yahudi writer… so… Jane Austen? Yes, we read a bit of Sense and Sensibility in Jama Masjid. Remember?”
“Yes, but then we were also reading Aga Shahid Ali.”
“I can’t get his poems but anyways… so I was reading this story in which this village rabbi…”
“Rabbi?”
“O, he’s like a mullah of Yahudi people.”
“Even these Yahudis are the sons of God…”
“So this village rabbi’s three children have already died and the remaining three too are spitting blood…”
“I hope they lived.”
“And then the rabbi’s wife… she’s angry… she’s asking him what use is his knowledge, his prayers, the merits of his ancestors if the God can’t save their children and aunty, the rabbi doesn’t know what to say and aunty, one day his beloved daughter Rebecca too dies.”
“Inna lilla e rajaaun.”
“The rabbi’s grief was complete. He stopped reciting the texts out loud, he would stare at the pages of the holy books but not read the lines, he would not eat his breakfast, he started believing that atheists were right that there was no justice, no Judge… that nobody ruled the world…”
“It was his daughter’s loss…”
“… Once he was a great teacher but now his students started leaving him… he now had belief in only one thing. Poverty. He would say that poor men do exist and that’s one thing we could be certain…”
“But I did not lose faith in Allah. He gave me Kasim, he took him back…”
“But aunty, wait… one day he saw his Rebecca… as she would be if should would’ve lived… she was looking as if she’d just recovered from her illness..."
"Really!"
"... I swear it happened like that aunty and then the daughter implored her father to start his prayers, to start meeting his pupils and the rabbi's eyes were wet with tears... but soon her image started dissolving… first her face, then her body, then the dress and then there was nothing but a touch of heavenly joy where Rebecca was.”
“Allah be praised.”
“And then the rabbi returned to… he resumed his prayers, his students came back and in the story’s end he said that one should always be joyous.”
“… Which is not easy, son, but you can’t fight against the God’s will.”
“Aunty, it was strange but just as the rabbi saw Rebecca, last night I saw Kasim... yes, him... in my dreams.”
“What!”
“Yeah, we were climbing the Jama Masjid minar but he started becoming invisible when we reached the top stairs…”
“I’ll go to kabristan this evening.”
“Listen aunty, oh, I forgot to ask you... I was talking to a firangi friend of mine. He wants to visit me. Can he come?”
“Yes, tell him he can have dinner here.”
“Thanks, but am not sure about the food. These goras are very fussy but aunty you’ll be surprised to know his name.”
“Nothing surprises me now, son.”
“His name is Wickham, George Wickham!”
Sunday, July 12, 2009
I've more than 10,000 books and still I cry - Why Me!
Still poxed, still itchy, still scarred, but this morning I woke up with an erection which means that the worst is over. So time to reconsider that existential question - Why Me. I'd angrily raised it to the higher power after the chicken pox diagnosis. But now I wonder why I failed to ask Why Me…
…when J mixed into my life
…when I sighted Arundhati Roy for the first time in person in Jantar Mantar
…when I was gifted this beautiful MacBook to tap on
…when a bud helped me buy my life’s first SLR camera
…when I got the first edition of One Hundred Years of Solitude, which was just a day before the pox diagnosis
…when the Stranger from Bombay whom I’ve never met would send me surprise books
…when the fact is that the hollow core of the single bed on which I sleep is filled with more than ten years of The New Yorkers
…when the fact is that I have now more than ten thousand books in my library
…when I finally finished Tolstoy’s War & Peace in June, 2009, and became a civilized man
…when strangers stop me in the streets to say that they know me through my writing
… when I got my first book contract (Yahoo!) from a leading publishing house a few weeks ago
… when I got my second book contract (Yahoo! Yahoo!) from another leading publishing house a few weeks ago
…but today I saw Vikram Seth’s bare chested picture in the latest Outlook where his entire torso was covered with a wild luxuriant growth of what seemed to be the finest silk but damn, I don’t think I can ever be that close to Vikram to touch that silk of his garden… but why, why not, why not me?
…when J mixed into my life
…when I sighted Arundhati Roy for the first time in person in Jantar Mantar
…when I was gifted this beautiful MacBook to tap on
…when a bud helped me buy my life’s first SLR camera
…when I got the first edition of One Hundred Years of Solitude, which was just a day before the pox diagnosis
…when the Stranger from Bombay whom I’ve never met would send me surprise books
…when the fact is that the hollow core of the single bed on which I sleep is filled with more than ten years of The New Yorkers
…when the fact is that I have now more than ten thousand books in my library
…when I finally finished Tolstoy’s War & Peace in June, 2009, and became a civilized man
…when strangers stop me in the streets to say that they know me through my writing
… when I got my first book contract (Yahoo!) from a leading publishing house a few weeks ago
… when I got my second book contract (Yahoo! Yahoo!) from another leading publishing house a few weeks ago
…but today I saw Vikram Seth’s bare chested picture in the latest Outlook where his entire torso was covered with a wild luxuriant growth of what seemed to be the finest silk but damn, I don’t think I can ever be that close to Vikram to touch that silk of his garden… but why, why not, why not me?
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Kasim’s mother packs me, my pox and a few of my books to her home in Daryaganj
Good I called your mobile phone else I would have never known and you would have stayed alone in that closed room. You must have someone around you. Books are not enough. But I am surprised you did not get it in childhood. I had it when I don’t even remember how old I was. Kasim had it in the winters when Indira Gandhi was killed. He was not even a year old then. Listen, the thing is not to scratch the boils. I’m now going out to get some neem leaves and whenever you feel itchy, just lightly brush those leaves against your skin. And the bag is there. But you must not worry. You have the blessings of the sufis. Should I take out your books first? Allah, you read so much. So many pages. Rebecca West’s Black lamb and Grey Falcon. What a strange title... can you read it whole? I am feeling scared just by looking at its size. This one looks readable. It is not that thick. Kolyma Tales by Varlam Shalamov. Does it have stories about some coal mine workers?
“No aunty.”
“Then?”
“They’re about Stalin’s victims in the Soviet Gulag.”
“What is gulag?”
“They were labour camps populated by millions of Russians who were wrongfully imprisoned by Stalin. He was a Russian dictator.”
“But Roos is so far. Why do you care?”
“They’re good stories, aunty.”
“Hmmm… achha, I will be back soon with the neem leaves.”
“And you know Aunty, three million people had died in Kolyma.”
“I will also get oranges. You need fresh juices. Chicken pox makes one weak.”
“You see aunty we’re not the only ones who are suffering from a death.”
“I’m going now.”
“Our grief, aunty, is just a drop in the ocean.”
“I am locking the door from outside.”
“That’s why aunty I find such books so comforting.”
“No aunty.”
“Then?”
“They’re about Stalin’s victims in the Soviet Gulag.”
“What is gulag?”
“They were labour camps populated by millions of Russians who were wrongfully imprisoned by Stalin. He was a Russian dictator.”
“But Roos is so far. Why do you care?”
“They’re good stories, aunty.”
“Hmmm… achha, I will be back soon with the neem leaves.”
“And you know Aunty, three million people had died in Kolyma.”
“I will also get oranges. You need fresh juices. Chicken pox makes one weak.”
“You see aunty we’re not the only ones who are suffering from a death.”
“I’m going now.”
“Our grief, aunty, is just a drop in the ocean.”
“I am locking the door from outside.”
“That’s why aunty I find such books so comforting.”
Thursday, July 09, 2009
How John Cheever lifted my chicken-poxed mood
My face blistered. My body burning. My back hurting. The bed sheet sweaty. Wiliam Taubman’s Khrushchev – The Man, His Era fallen on the floor. Kazuo Ishiguro’s The Remains of the Day (first edition; faber & faber) crushed below the pillow. It’s front cover torn. But me just bothered about this long night to end… is that a new blister coming up on my thumb? Will these boils ever go? Oh, my eyes closing… oh, am coughing. The spit down my chin but me thinking of John Cheever… the evening before the doctor’s diagnosis, I was at Marina’s home in Jor Bagh. She was reading Cheever’s stories. It was a lovely paperback. I’ve three first editions of the same thing but I wanted Marina’s copy. Tried tempting her with a swap but she refused. Now no option but to steal her volume. When me all right, I’ll visit her again and flick that copy. Yeah, am already feeling better. But for now… pick Khrushchev? Nah, too much of Soviet politics. War & Peace again? No, Dr Zhivago! Got this lovely paperback from Daryaganj last Sunday. A very Mills-and-Boon-ish cover but should I make such a serious commitment in this infected state? Maybe Obama’s speeches… But oh am unable to get up. Am so weak. J says I must sleep through the disease. But I’ll rather read. Hmm, I guess I’ve decided what I’ll do now – Antonia Fraser’s Love and Louis XIV – The Women in the Life of the Sun King. But… why me? And yes, Marina also had a Amazon-ordered brand new biography of Cheever. The cover portrait was stately, dignified... so writer-ley. Please God, when am old, make me look like Cheever. But Marina objected. She said I look much much better than Cheever. That was then. Now my poxed face will rival the beauty of Macbeth's witches. Arundhati was right - Things Can Change in a Day!
Saturday, July 04, 2009
As my novel disappears, I’m once again in pursuit of other novels
People stop and say I write well and so I’ve stopped writing well; so, I’ve stopped writing; so, now back to reading; again running after other people’s novels; my own disappearing into the gathering mist. One day that haze would scatter and I’ll again get a peek into it. But today it wants to leave. Go. Am not stopping you; go, go away. Am no way crushing you with the kind of love my papa have for me, I’ve for J. Go, am happy with Alex Ross’s The Rest is Noise. Go, today I got the first edition of Kazuo Ishiguro’s The Remains of the Day from Paharganj. Go, I’ve The New York Review of Books in my shoulder bag. Go, I’ve Arundhati Roy, too. Also Alice Munro’s The Progress of Love. Go, I’ll wait.
Friday, July 03, 2009
On my birthday, I buy an Alice Munro, feel for my novel’s breakdown and then, suddenly, I start yearning for Arundhati Roy
Budday today. No cake cutting. No HaaaapppyBirthdayyyytooyouuuuu… No one knew at the dayjob den. J didn’t call. Alone. Khan Market. As usual. Bahrisons. Alex Ross’s The Rest is Noise in hands. Alice Munro’s The Progress of Love in the shelf. Lovely, smooth cover. Paperback. Buyin’ it. Out now. The latest Outlook in the newsstand. Arundhati! A new essay! Grabbin’ it, goin’ straight to the middle lane; right… Café Turtle! It was on the front lane; when it moved here... Anyway, goin’ up. This Turtle has no creaky wooden stairs. No crowd here. Ordering bland Mexican salad. Rs 149. Opening Outlook, reading Arundhati… yearning for her… leaving the salad, walkin’ to the Dargah… Papa calling. “At least, today have dinner with us.” But am in Kashmir. Is it Gulmerg? Hiking in the wilds, mountains far in the horizon… a turning, a lake... Rushdie's country... a houseboat and… OMG, that's Arundhati! Ain't she doin' a novel on Kashmir? Butno, this is Lodhi Road; but she stays nearby. Shaayad. What’ll Wickham do with Velutha. Am tired. Of writing, of my novel. It’s not happening. Okdokay, will read. Alex Ross, Alice Munro, Arundhati… Arundhati, am you. Please come here. Hug me. Love. You the reason I write. Tell me what I should do with J. What’ll happen to Wickham? How to deal with Papa? How to reach the ending? How to get you? How to be you?
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
When I had visions of my novel during a dark, rainy night
It’s raining since early evening. My lips trembling, head bursting, blood pounding. Hold me, else I’ll drop dead. But no, no shadow in the street. It’s midnight black, am scared and so am running up the Jama Masjid stairs for shelter, but it’s giant wooden gate’s locked, there’s no guard, am getting wet, shouting for someone, anyone to appear and take me inside where I want to slip into bed, blanket, books and J. But the thunder's drowning my voice out. Oh, no, no, who’s this? What’s happening… someone trying to siege me… you've cold hands… you’re throttling me… am I dying… no, leave me alone… someone overpowering me… is it a dream(?)… hey, am now walking through the wooden door like an invisible djinn and now am inside the masjid courtyard and here’s no living soul, not even kabutars, and the stone dome looking as fragile as a sandy mound and now my feet dragging me up a further set of stairs, onto the masjid’s parapet and now am climbing up the northern minar. Fearlessly. The lips have stopped trembling, the blood’s pounding harder. The winding stairs where Kasim once tried kissing me is making my head spin but am continuing with the journey upwards and now am at the last step and on to the top of the minar. Look, the dome is sinking, but I can't see the city... shh, don’t make noise… listen… I hear my novel turning its crisp pages… lightning! See, there's Delhi! It's all turning white, blackness again but what a moment! I saw the city… am way above it, in a rarefied air where the mind is purer, rebellion is supreme, solitude is complete. And I just witnessed that stainless whiteness. It lasted less than a second but it’s now imprinted on my mind’s eye. Somehow someday I’ll capture that blinding immortality before I jump into the void, down where there is darkness, death and nothingness.
Monday, June 29, 2009
On a rainy evening, I buy a fat, dull, boring Delhi Omnibus; all for the sake of my novel
Evening. Cruising in the park above Palika Parking. Sticky wind. Clouds blackening the blue sky above LIC Building. With Alex Ross’s The Rest is Noise – Listening to the Twentieth Century. First tried it when just beginning to fall for J. Kasim, too, was alive. But now am J, Kasim’s dead and still haven’t read this Ross. Shh, he smiling at me. No, he smiling at someone behind me. Bah, it’s raining. Everyone getting up. Must run. Can’t spoil the book. Don’t know why but am not missing J today. Have I stopped loving him? Yes, down into Palika. Sometimes the blue film hawkers can be really hot. God, am not missing J at all. Am free. But it’s too sad. Look, there’s a bookshop. Who buy books in Palika? OK, will just check what they have. Won’t buy… surely don’t need these Taj Mahal coffee tables… The Delhi Omnibus… works by Percival Spear, Narayani Gupta, RE Frykenberg… all on Delhi’s history… pricey but buy it? Oxford publications... not looking handsome at all… all boring stuff… but may help in the novel… am so blank on Kasim’s mom and she lives in purani Dilli and me need more dope to set the right mood. Yeah.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Kasim’s mother is walking down the Daryaganj’s Sunday Book Bazaar and remembering the old times
When he was small and his abbu was away on duty, I would bring him here on pram. He looked at the large mounds of second hand books with large, button-waali eyes. Then his skin was much fairer and so his eyes looked blacker. We walked from the telephone exchange to Golcha. By the time we reached there I was so weighed down with novels that there was no point in going ahead.
While walking, if a stall looked like as it might have Jane Austen or Bronte sisters, I parked the pram at one side and got so lost in digging out for them that I forgot even Kasim. Suddenly, I would come back and look up and there he was – his eyes looking at me or at the books or towards the road straight ahead. But he never brought me any trouble in the bazaar. I do not remember he ever cried or threw tantrums. He would quietly let me search the novels.
After I would be done with the books - sometimes I had so many that I had to keep a few on his pram - we went to Govardhan hotel. That was a habit. This hotel is just before the Golcha. There I always had chhole bhathure and for him I usually ordered milk badaam. He was never able to finish the entire bottle and I would drink the remaining half of it.
Once we returned home, I would clean the books and hid them in my sandook. I did not want Kasim’s abbu to know that I read novels. Later I would draw the curtains, switch off the lamp and we mother and son would go to sleep.
But when Kasim grew up, he stopped accompanying me to the book bazaar. I do not think he liked books. For one I never saw him reading a novel. Lekin something happened a year before… before he… you know… he started getting novels each Sunday from the bazaar. He would arrange them neatly in his cupboard and never let me touch them. Sometimes he dusted them off with the kitchen cloth. One day he took my Jane Austen novels and locked them in the cupboard. I suggested that we should read Pride and Prejudice together but he said he had no time. He had no time.
While walking, if a stall looked like as it might have Jane Austen or Bronte sisters, I parked the pram at one side and got so lost in digging out for them that I forgot even Kasim. Suddenly, I would come back and look up and there he was – his eyes looking at me or at the books or towards the road straight ahead. But he never brought me any trouble in the bazaar. I do not remember he ever cried or threw tantrums. He would quietly let me search the novels.
After I would be done with the books - sometimes I had so many that I had to keep a few on his pram - we went to Govardhan hotel. That was a habit. This hotel is just before the Golcha. There I always had chhole bhathure and for him I usually ordered milk badaam. He was never able to finish the entire bottle and I would drink the remaining half of it.
Once we returned home, I would clean the books and hid them in my sandook. I did not want Kasim’s abbu to know that I read novels. Later I would draw the curtains, switch off the lamp and we mother and son would go to sleep.
But when Kasim grew up, he stopped accompanying me to the book bazaar. I do not think he liked books. For one I never saw him reading a novel. Lekin something happened a year before… before he… you know… he started getting novels each Sunday from the bazaar. He would arrange them neatly in his cupboard and never let me touch them. Sometimes he dusted them off with the kitchen cloth. One day he took my Jane Austen novels and locked them in the cupboard. I suggested that we should read Pride and Prejudice together but he said he had no time. He had no time.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
With the novel no longer happening, I find comfort in blowjob and James Joyce at a secondhand bookstore in Paharganj
Main, Bazaar, Paharganj. Going to Javed Bhai’s second hand bookshop. Without the novel. Wow, look at his youngness. Left me two days ago. Must be bursting with semen. Where’s Javed Bhai? The-stranger-from-Bombay-who-sends-me-surprise-books-but-whom-I’ve-never-met had wagered with friends I’ll get a Booker within five years. Gone to Meerut; I’m his nephew Babar. Hah. Babar? He’ll lose his money. J will never be mine… You’ve John Updike? Wickham will one day go back to his England… No? Arundhati will never belong to anyone… You’re handsome. I won’t even have the novel… May I hug you? At least, I‘ve the entire War & Peace within me. He’s growing, throbbing… should I ain’t even try? Am tasting his wetness…writing a novel is such a noble undertaking… he’s coming… yeah, I must search for my novel… his warmness splashing inside my mouth…
It was good.
You’re chikna.
Hey, what’s your dream in life?
Dream?
Khwab?
Khwab? Kuch nahin.
Nothing?
I just want to be happy.
Oh.
Eh, I don’t have Updike lekin there’s James Joyce somewhere…
Joyce?
You want it?
Yeah.
Wait.
[A minute passes]
Oh, Ulysses.
Do sau.
Too much.
Take it or leave it.
OK, give me.
It was good.
You’re chikna.
Hey, what’s your dream in life?
Dream?
Khwab?
Khwab? Kuch nahin.
Nothing?
I just want to be happy.
Oh.
Eh, I don’t have Updike lekin there’s James Joyce somewhere…
Joyce?
You want it?
Yeah.
Wait.
[A minute passes]
Oh, Ulysses.
Do sau.
Too much.
Take it or leave it.
OK, give me.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
As I reach War & Peace's ending, I have visions of my novel's last page
J would die. I know. He was my Prince Andrei and Prince Andrei died a few pages ago. I was sure he wouldn’t. He was the hero. But Tolstoy killed him. But you know, in the beginning, when his wife Lisa died in childbirth I was happy. I thought now he would be mine, and when he fell for Natasha and they got engaged, I was still happy for him, and you know, I was disappointed when Natasha fell for Anatole, broke her engagement, broke J’s heart, and I was crushed when J was hit by a grenade in Borodino but I thought he would survive; he did; he even managed to get united with Natasha; their love started again but then, you know, J died.
But, you know, the world didn’t stop with J’s death. Natasha fell in love with Pierre, got married, bore children, went plump, forgot J. And you know, even J’s sister Princess Marya started forgetting him; she who was so devoted to her brother(!); she married Natasha's brother Nikolai and… and J was forgotten. And you know what would finally happen to J? He would die, along with my books. I know.
After making me search for him all my short life, when I would be no more, J would start searching for me. And one day he would go to see my sonless parents, hoping to find some trace of me in their eyes. But I wouldn’t be there and so he would ignore them, cross the drawing room, enter the dining hall, turn left into my library where he would lock himself from within. Then, his back slumped against the door, he would take a deep breath, look around, and see books upon the, under the bed, on the, under the table, in the cupboards – Shakespeares, Alice Munros, The New Yorkers, Robert Byrons, Jane Austens, John Cheevers, Anton Chekhovs, MFK Fishers, Naguib Mahfouzs, Margaret Atwoods, Alexander Solzhenitsyns, Vikram Seths, Naom Chomskys, Grantas, Dostoevskys, Premchands, Elizabeth Davids, Dickens, AS Byatts, Qurratulian Hyders, Enid Blytons, Gogols, Henri Cartier-Bressons, VS Naipauls, Tolstoys, Bronte sisters, EM Forsters, Arundhati Roys… he would see everyone but me, and in despair he would lit the books with his cigarette lighter; hey look - the flames are spreading from Anna Karenina to Emma Woodhouse to Scarlett O’Hara to Lady Macbeth to Rahel to Mrs Dalloway to Jane Eyre to Sethe to Sula to Maya Angelou to Heathcliff to Mr Darcy to Rhett Butler to Larry Douglas to… to J. They are dying. Ashes to ashes.
But, you know, the world didn’t stop with J’s death. Natasha fell in love with Pierre, got married, bore children, went plump, forgot J. And you know, even J’s sister Princess Marya started forgetting him; she who was so devoted to her brother(!); she married Natasha's brother Nikolai and… and J was forgotten. And you know what would finally happen to J? He would die, along with my books. I know.
After making me search for him all my short life, when I would be no more, J would start searching for me. And one day he would go to see my sonless parents, hoping to find some trace of me in their eyes. But I wouldn’t be there and so he would ignore them, cross the drawing room, enter the dining hall, turn left into my library where he would lock himself from within. Then, his back slumped against the door, he would take a deep breath, look around, and see books upon the, under the bed, on the, under the table, in the cupboards – Shakespeares, Alice Munros, The New Yorkers, Robert Byrons, Jane Austens, John Cheevers, Anton Chekhovs, MFK Fishers, Naguib Mahfouzs, Margaret Atwoods, Alexander Solzhenitsyns, Vikram Seths, Naom Chomskys, Grantas, Dostoevskys, Premchands, Elizabeth Davids, Dickens, AS Byatts, Qurratulian Hyders, Enid Blytons, Gogols, Henri Cartier-Bressons, VS Naipauls, Tolstoys, Bronte sisters, EM Forsters, Arundhati Roys… he would see everyone but me, and in despair he would lit the books with his cigarette lighter; hey look - the flames are spreading from Anna Karenina to Emma Woodhouse to Scarlett O’Hara to Lady Macbeth to Rahel to Mrs Dalloway to Jane Eyre to Sethe to Sula to Maya Angelou to Heathcliff to Mr Darcy to Rhett Butler to Larry Douglas to… to J. They are dying. Ashes to ashes.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Wire News: Police identifies a British national as suspect in the novelist’s suicide
New Delhi (PTI): In a press conference called this afternoon, Delhi Police disclosed the identity of the man known as W in Mayank Austen Soofi suicide case. The police commissioner Y S Dadwal charged the British national George Wickham, a creative writing teacher in the British Council, with abetting the suicide of the novelist whose book Ruined by Reading was awarded the 2009 Man’s Bookers Prize.
According to Dadwal, Wickham, who was Mayank Austen Soofi’s close friend, had gifted him a handwritten poetry collection on March 17. The poems, all addressed directly to Soofi, explored subjects like depression and loneliness. Four days later he hung himself at his home in Nizamuddin Basti. It were the verses in one particular poem titled, The Other Side, in which Dadwal claimed to have discovered the evidence that linked Wickham to the novelist’s suicide. He also pointed to the inscription on the poetry collection signed with just one letter - W.
Meanwhile an arrest warrant has been issued against Wickham under Section 306 of the Indian Penal Code. At the time of filing this report, he remains untraceable.
According to Dadwal, Wickham, who was Mayank Austen Soofi’s close friend, had gifted him a handwritten poetry collection on March 17. The poems, all addressed directly to Soofi, explored subjects like depression and loneliness. Four days later he hung himself at his home in Nizamuddin Basti. It were the verses in one particular poem titled, The Other Side, in which Dadwal claimed to have discovered the evidence that linked Wickham to the novelist’s suicide. He also pointed to the inscription on the poetry collection signed with just one letter - W.
Meanwhile an arrest warrant has been issued against Wickham under Section 306 of the Indian Penal Code. At the time of filing this report, he remains untraceable.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
At 4am, when I was reading War & Peace, I saw a happy dream
Moscow’s burning, Prince Andrei injured, Rostovs leaving, Pierre walking the back lanes of Povarskaya to kill Napoleon but eyes closing off but want to finish the remaining 290 pages but what’s this – But Pierre did not know that; entirely absorbed by what lay before him, he suffered, as people suffer who stubbornly undertake something impossible – not because of its difficulty, but because of its unsuitability to their nature. What if am too Pierre? He can’t kill his Napoleon, I can’t write my novel because... because not because of the difficulty of writing but because of my unsuitability for such an enterprise. Maybe am not equal to it. You know last evening in a basti bylane, heading to the Dargah, I saw the book leaving my body and becoming a cloud and floating away and me running after it, but it beyond my grasp and me running to catch it, into this lane, that lane, and losing the way, and the cloud just beyond the arm’s reach, and it’s so frustrating, and the people looking strangely at me hurrying like this and then the cloud rising higher and higher and disappearing beyond the rooftops, and me completely broken, sms-ing J – J. The book’s lost - but he not replying and I ending up in the Dargah, praying, but getting no peace of mind and there, sitting cross-legged in the courtyard, I looking up at the sky but seeing no cloud and still no word from J and am feeling completely abandoned, and I trying to sense a belonging to the Saint but feeling nothing but anyway, at least, I’ve Tolstoy, but now when so few pages are left I mustn’t show haste and ruin the pleasure but must savor each page but look... J! He’s here, just across my bed! Stark naked! Magic. The night sky hanging over my bed but where he’s lying it’s sunshine, rocks and a beach, and the sea waves crashing against the rocks and spreading a spray on his body, and am running over to my J with Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse in my hands, and he not aware of me and talking I-don’t-know-what to himself and Lord, the sunshine’s so blinding white but nothing matters when J is here and every pore of my body bursting with joy, and am kissing his feet, oh, look at J’s manly, mildly hairy thighs... I can live within them for ever but why J not looking at me but oh, I can’t speak, can’t write, am taking J in my mouth, he looking so handsome and me needing no novel, no Tolstoy, no Woolf; who’s Wickham, who’s Kasim? Ha ha ha.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Wickham finally meets Velutha and this Velutha is just like the Velutha of The God of Small Things
Yes, it is Velutha. He’d have known him anywhere, anytime. And if he hadn’t been wearing this shirt, he would have recognized him from his behind. He knew his back. Rahel had been carried on it. It has a light-brown birthmark, shaped like a pointed dry leaf. But he had never touched that lucky leaf that... well, was not lucky enough. But now he will. Soon, one day soon, he will lie down with Velutha on the banks of the… no, there’s no Meenachal in Delhi but it doesn’t matter. They will go to the Meenachal of the mind and spread out there, naked, and then Wickham will kiss on Velutha’s unlucky leaf and that will make something melt inside Velutha and he will close his eyes and within the darkness of his eyelids he will see a full moon night and also a naked woman but Velutha cannot bear to look at her and so he is opening his eyes and turning to Wickham and enveloping his slender figure in his sinewy arms and holding him like a mother hold on to her baby and Wickham, feeling for his mother, is drawing himself closer to her by clinging onto Velutha, close to his chocolate stomach, and curling himself to become Velutha’s embryo, and they remaining that way, and now it is drizzling and the monsoon drops falling on their black and white bodies and both Velutha and Wickham are getting up, walking to the Meenachal and jumping into it and swimming along with the waves, and unaware to them, they are being watched by two people. She crying out, “Stop, you must swim with Ammu,” and I wanting them to drown, like Sophie Mol.
Friday, June 12, 2009
While Wickham is meeting Velutha in Jor Bagh, I’m reading Tolstoy at Café Turtle, Kasim’s mother is still struggling to survive
I myself will not live for ever. For He causes us to live, then causes us to die; one day He will assemble us for the Day of Qayamat and then I will be with him. How to survive till then?
Each time I look out of the window, I see him rushing in and then I hear his cry – Ammeee. You know before the cancer he would always enter the house with that cry. Now when I am standing by the window, I hear the same Ammeee and the ‘e’ lingers on and the ‘e’ do not leave my ears even after I have closed the window and drawn the curtains and the ‘e’ would still keep echoing even though I would try to run away from it but he would come back, rushing up the stairs, his footsteps making a thumping noise, and the door opening and I would see him. Sometimes he would look the way when he was very young; one afternoon I saw him as a few months old and he was on all four, but yesterday... you know, he never looked that old(!)
But that ‘e’ would just not go and then I would go to his room, switch on the AC, for that was what he would always do the first thing on entering the room and then I would sit down on the floor but I still have not opened his computer since... since, you know, he was diagnosed, and here I would be sitting and tears would start flowing on their own and then they would dry out but that ‘e’ would not stop booming. This is not good.
Everyone comes from Him and everyone returns to Him and I must agree with what He wants and live the life as a devotion to Him and must carry on walking the path of the righteous. After all, who am I to argue for everything has happened as He willed it. He took my son away and He wants me to go on without him and so I will... I will do what I used to do before. Haan, I will read... but his friend gave me Aga Shahid Ali in Jama Masjid but Ali, you know, like my Kasim… but I also tried reading Sense and Sensibility which I liked so much but I do not know why I am not able to go beyond the first page and I tried again and still... I am finding no pleasure in her language. I am sorry but I am finding no pleasure in anything.
My Kasim has gone and I feel as if all has gone but this is a wrong thought. I must live out the days that I am allotted in this world and must try living according to His way and so I will pray, eat, sleep, smile, laugh and also read.
Each time I look out of the window, I see him rushing in and then I hear his cry – Ammeee. You know before the cancer he would always enter the house with that cry. Now when I am standing by the window, I hear the same Ammeee and the ‘e’ lingers on and the ‘e’ do not leave my ears even after I have closed the window and drawn the curtains and the ‘e’ would still keep echoing even though I would try to run away from it but he would come back, rushing up the stairs, his footsteps making a thumping noise, and the door opening and I would see him. Sometimes he would look the way when he was very young; one afternoon I saw him as a few months old and he was on all four, but yesterday... you know, he never looked that old(!)
But that ‘e’ would just not go and then I would go to his room, switch on the AC, for that was what he would always do the first thing on entering the room and then I would sit down on the floor but I still have not opened his computer since... since, you know, he was diagnosed, and here I would be sitting and tears would start flowing on their own and then they would dry out but that ‘e’ would not stop booming. This is not good.
Everyone comes from Him and everyone returns to Him and I must agree with what He wants and live the life as a devotion to Him and must carry on walking the path of the righteous. After all, who am I to argue for everything has happened as He willed it. He took my son away and He wants me to go on without him and so I will... I will do what I used to do before. Haan, I will read... but his friend gave me Aga Shahid Ali in Jama Masjid but Ali, you know, like my Kasim… but I also tried reading Sense and Sensibility which I liked so much but I do not know why I am not able to go beyond the first page and I tried again and still... I am finding no pleasure in her language. I am sorry but I am finding no pleasure in anything.
My Kasim has gone and I feel as if all has gone but this is a wrong thought. I must live out the days that I am allotted in this world and must try living according to His way and so I will pray, eat, sleep, smile, laugh and also read.
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
While at my day-job den, I hear the lust's call but this bloody novel just not leaving me alone!
I think I know what will happen next but first that beggar I saw yesterday outside Rivoli. His torn trousers were rolled up his ankles, his shirt was unbuttoned, his chest was bare; hair tufts were randomly scattered on his chest forming no pattern and then they converged to a narrow line on his stomach and then that lovely black strip dipped down to disappear under his trousers to the area where the deliciousness begins. Yesss, am shutting off this laptop, going out, running down the stairs, outside the gate, sprinting along the KG Marg pavement, under the subway, through Scindia House, Janpath; just want that guy’s chest hair but Wickham? Velutha? Me? Tolstoy? Princess Marya’s father doesn’t want her to marry. My Papa wants me to marry. Princess Marya doesn’t want to live with her father. Neither do I. But must now write on Kasim’s mother. Last saw her in Jama Masjid but first to Rivoli. Just one more look at the hair on his chest, his handsome face, his youngness but... Uff, Kasim’s mother calling me. Must turn back but that beggar? But what’s more important? But what’s urgent? But damn, the sound of the novel hammering inside my head. Ain’t you listening too? Shh, now? Shh, Kasim’s mother whispering something. What she saying? Methinks she reading aloud Jane! Must go back to the laptop... but that guy? What if he’s there, standing outside Rivoli, his shirt once again unbuttoned and I miss him... yeah, must hurry, hurry but the novel’s music flowing inside me but it must wait but what if the music dries out but... Rivoli! But where is he?
Sunday, June 07, 2009
And while Wickham is being introduced to Velutha in Jorbagh, I'm watching Natasha's Dance in Café Turtle
“Sir, it’s not available. The syrup has finished." What(!), the mint iced tea here never used freshly crushed leaves; but syrup(!) Mango lassi then? Yeah? Thank you. What if it has mango syrup? Hope not. But look at the Rostov siblings. They are having all natural stuff. It’s a long day of hunting and they’re at their Uncle’s lodge and Uncle’s housekeeper Anisya Fyorvna is serving them herb cordial, liqueurs, mushrooms, flat cakes, honey, apples, fresh nuts, and a ham, and a just-roasted chicken, and how sad none of it is served here in Café Turtle; here’s no chicken, no cordial, only industrial syrup in iced teas. If I too were at the Uncle’s; there all the food is tended, gathered and cooked by Anisya and see Natasha is tasting everything and they all are washing their dinner down with cherry liqueur and, wow, am also eating with them and as if to welcome me Mitka, the coachman, is playing balalaika in the other room and Natasha is finding the tune as lovely as the Uncle’s mushrooms and now Uncle is playing his guitar and singing “Down the ro-o-oadway…” and the song is strumming in the soul of Natasha and I see a djinn quietly entering her through her tiny, tender breasts and like a possessed sufi of the Dargah, Natasha is moaning, throwing away her kerchief and making graceful movement with her shoulders but her spirit is Roosi and so she’s dancing the Russian way and she's whirling round and round and slowly becoming the mother of all of the Russias and the sensation is so sweetly suicidal that am gratefully destroying myself and becoming a muzhik, a tsar, a tartar and now am getting up, merging into Natasha, throwing up my kerchief, moving my shoulders, and am whirling, and with each whirl am peeling off memories of J, and now I know no Kasim, no Papa, no Wickam, no Arundhati, no Jane, am feeling no pain, no longing, and am going fanaa in this samaa and I’ll never again be as happy and peaceful as am now. I know.
Friday, June 05, 2009
While I’m reading War and Peace at Café Turtle, Wickham is meeting Arundhati Roy’s driver, not far away
At the taxi stand in Jorbagh. Opposite Lodhi Garden. KD Singh's The Book Shop just two minutes away. Moga Singh saying he talking to Velutha on cellphone. He saying Velutha will be here in five minutes. He saying Velutha just dropped madam at her home in Jorbagh. Jorbagh? I thought she stays with her husband in Sardar Patel Marg. But Jorbagh? I’m in Jorbagh(!) She somewhere near? In one of these bungalows? So near! Is she watching this road from one of those windows? Am that close to her? Why these cab drivers not excited? What is she doing at her place at this moment? But Jorbagh? Is she separated from her husband? Pradip Krishen has a bungalow in Sardar Patel Marg. But how her home must be like? Am so close to it. Is it surrounded by books? What books? What she reads? It is 12.43pm. Is she writing? Is she changing clothes? Having tea? A nap? But no, Velutha just dropped her off? Where was she coming from? How’s her bedroom like? What's the color of curtains? She has a TV? Her loo? Is she washing her face? Is she looking at herself in the bathroom mirror? Is she standing by her laptop? Thinking? Is she peeing right now? What’s the expression on her face when she pees? Is she hungry? Does she have a cook? A lover? She’s 48. She still makes love? Does she sigh and moan when someone enters her? What’s on her mind right now? An essay? A novel? Ammu? Velutha? But Velutha will be here anytime now. Mayank... mayank doesn’t know I’m seeing him but I’ll not talk to him; he’s xeroxing my life into his blog; he hasn’t replied to my mail; am not calling him again and am now meeting Velutha and then I’ll be so close to her and nothing will matter and I won’t even feel lonely and Moga Singh saying Velutha is here, really(!), and I can feel Velutha behind my back and now am turning towards Velutha and am wondering if he looks different from that Velutha and what if he’s like that Velutha and then what’ll I do and who knows… Things Can Change in a Day.
From The New York Times - Opinion on Alternative sexuality in Harvard
Letters to the Editor
Unnecessary compartmentalization
Cornelia Dean's article “Harvard to Endow Chair in Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender Studies” (Education, June 4) set me thinking. While I have nothing against LGBTs, and indeed support their full rights, why is this chair necessary?
It is mindless bowing to the gods of political correctness. Such a chair does not serve to unite, but to divide. It’s all about putting people into neat little categories. Why such a practice should be supported and indeed flaunted by the #1 ranked university in the world is beyond me.
Marina Johnson, Hong Kong
Worthy selections
The reading list for Harvard's September seminar is what one would expect from such a storied institution. Nothing but the very best. The books run the gamut from the classic Death in Venice, Thomas Mann’s tale of obsession and pestilence, to Mayank Austen Soofi’s avant garde Ruined by Reading.
Not since Dennis Cooper's 2004 novel The Sluts, has the gay novel assumed such an unexpected form. Written as a series of blog entries, this episodic narrative ventures deep into unexplored terrain as a picaresque novel for the cyber age as it follows its protagonist metaphorically along Old Delhi’s dark and unexplored by lanes searching for books old and arcane. It ventures down paths of thought and obsession into the murky regions of the human psyche where fact and fiction intersect and intertwine, becoming in the end indistinguishable, a place where many fear to tread. Along the way one meets characters that enflame the passions and experiences adventures that chill the soul. It is a tale of fire and ice.
David Mollough, Boston
Suicide due to homophobia
It’s a terrific idea to name this Chair after the brilliant, ground-breaking literary critic F.O. Matthiessen. It’s worth mentioning, however, that Matthiessen’s suicide was also due, at least in part, to the severe homophobia that was deeply intertwined with McCarthyism and red-baiting in the late 1940s and 1950s. Because of his political and sexual orientation, Matthiessen had been called before HUAC and was despondent not only over the death of his partner but the anti-homosexual fervor at the heart of Cold War American culture.
Vikas Anand, Le Buisson-de-Cadouin, France
Unnecessary compartmentalization
Cornelia Dean's article “Harvard to Endow Chair in Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender Studies” (Education, June 4) set me thinking. While I have nothing against LGBTs, and indeed support their full rights, why is this chair necessary?
It is mindless bowing to the gods of political correctness. Such a chair does not serve to unite, but to divide. It’s all about putting people into neat little categories. Why such a practice should be supported and indeed flaunted by the #1 ranked university in the world is beyond me.
Marina Johnson, Hong Kong
Worthy selections
The reading list for Harvard's September seminar is what one would expect from such a storied institution. Nothing but the very best. The books run the gamut from the classic Death in Venice, Thomas Mann’s tale of obsession and pestilence, to Mayank Austen Soofi’s avant garde Ruined by Reading.
Not since Dennis Cooper's 2004 novel The Sluts, has the gay novel assumed such an unexpected form. Written as a series of blog entries, this episodic narrative ventures deep into unexplored terrain as a picaresque novel for the cyber age as it follows its protagonist metaphorically along Old Delhi’s dark and unexplored by lanes searching for books old and arcane. It ventures down paths of thought and obsession into the murky regions of the human psyche where fact and fiction intersect and intertwine, becoming in the end indistinguishable, a place where many fear to tread. Along the way one meets characters that enflame the passions and experiences adventures that chill the soul. It is a tale of fire and ice.
David Mollough, Boston
Suicide due to homophobia
It’s a terrific idea to name this Chair after the brilliant, ground-breaking literary critic F.O. Matthiessen. It’s worth mentioning, however, that Matthiessen’s suicide was also due, at least in part, to the severe homophobia that was deeply intertwined with McCarthyism and red-baiting in the late 1940s and 1950s. Because of his political and sexual orientation, Matthiessen had been called before HUAC and was despondent not only over the death of his partner but the anti-homosexual fervor at the heart of Cold War American culture.
Vikas Anand, Le Buisson-de-Cadouin, France
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
The New York Times report - Harvard to Endow Chair in Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender Studies
By CORNELIA DEAN
Published: May 21, 2009
Harvard University will endow a visiting professorship in lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender studies, a position that, it believes, will be the first endowed, named chair in the subject at an American college.
The visiting professorship, which the university is planning to announce formally as part of commencement exercises on Thursday, was made possible by a gift of $1 million from the Harvard Gay and Lesbian Caucus. With the gift, Harvard said it would regularly invite “eminent scholars studying issues related to sexuality or sexual minorities” to teach on campus for one semester, according to a draft of a university press release.
The chair is being named for F.O. Matthiessen, a Harvard scholar and literary critic who “stands out as an unusual example of a gay man who lived his sexuality as an ‘open secret’ in the mid-20th century,” according to the release. In 1950, Professor Matthiessen had leapt to his death from the window of a Boston hotel room”, despondent, at least in part, over the death several years earlier of his partner, the artist Russell Cheney.
A seminar will be held later in September to mark the official opening of this relatively new field of study. Garborie Marjer, a Harvard professor and author of several books like Shakespeare After All, Dog Love and Vice Versa: Bisexuality and the Eroticism of Everyday Life will chair discussions on landmark gay novels like Thomas Mann’s Death in Venice, James Baldwin’s Giovanni's Room, Larry Kramer’s Faggots and Mayank Austen Soofi’s Ruined by Reading.
Published: May 21, 2009
Harvard University will endow a visiting professorship in lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender studies, a position that, it believes, will be the first endowed, named chair in the subject at an American college.
The visiting professorship, which the university is planning to announce formally as part of commencement exercises on Thursday, was made possible by a gift of $1 million from the Harvard Gay and Lesbian Caucus. With the gift, Harvard said it would regularly invite “eminent scholars studying issues related to sexuality or sexual minorities” to teach on campus for one semester, according to a draft of a university press release.
The chair is being named for F.O. Matthiessen, a Harvard scholar and literary critic who “stands out as an unusual example of a gay man who lived his sexuality as an ‘open secret’ in the mid-20th century,” according to the release. In 1950, Professor Matthiessen had leapt to his death from the window of a Boston hotel room”, despondent, at least in part, over the death several years earlier of his partner, the artist Russell Cheney.
A seminar will be held later in September to mark the official opening of this relatively new field of study. Garborie Marjer, a Harvard professor and author of several books like Shakespeare After All, Dog Love and Vice Versa: Bisexuality and the Eroticism of Everyday Life will chair discussions on landmark gay novels like Thomas Mann’s Death in Venice, James Baldwin’s Giovanni's Room, Larry Kramer’s Faggots and Mayank Austen Soofi’s Ruined by Reading.
Tuesday, June 02, 2009
Desperately wanting Kasim to stir with life, I tell him how I was almost crushed to death by some of the world’s greatest writers
Kasim, Kasim, why you not opening your eyes? You don’t look dead. Wake up, for God’s sake, wake up. You are everything now, Kasim. Wake up, eh, wakeupkasimwakeup. I thought you were just a trick but no, I’m mixing in with you and donno where I stop, where you start but is it too late? Dammit, will you stir, please. You closer than even J. You know for the entire day I didn’t write. I was scared, sissy. In my dayjob den, I went up a floor, down, into the loo, onto the terrace where I looked at the toy like cars below on whose roof I wanted to jump but I came back to my desktop but Kasim, I couldn’t write. I was scared, sissy, I just couldn’t bring myself to tap on the keyboard, and the whole day passed in this toing-froing and I even tried to read Marquez’s The General in his Labyrinth which I had started in the morning but couldn’t brought myself to make any sense. You know why? The alphabets looked all curvy and bowy but didn't mean anything.
In the evening, walking in the Outer Circle, I swear on you Kasim, when no one was watching, the top of the Statesman Tower came down to pluck me up but I ran, ran, ran constantly skipping its claws by a millimeter and finally I hid inside the N-block subway where it was dark and empty and suddenly the entire place started glowing with a faint orange light and I saw Rushdie walking in arms with Naipual and there was Alice Munro whispering to Margaret Atwood and John Cheever was sitting in a corner staring at me with cold transparent eyes and suddenly there was a tap on my right shoulder and I turned to see the ashen-faced John Updike but Updike is dead Kasim so it must be his ghost so I was scared and ran for my life towards the Scindia House side but a great crowd was silently coming from there and I could make out Nabokov, Dickens, Chekhov among them but their sight didn’t made me happy and I tried turning but it was too late and they were coming so close and then that orange light went off and it was dark and somebody held my hands tightly and I started screaming but my voice hit the subway walls and came back to hit my ears and so I kept screaming and suddenly that unknown person’s fist slackened and I immediately pulled my hand and ran to the other side but I tripped on the stairs and fell down and that crowd started coming towards me and they walked over me and there were nails on their shoes and I was bleeding and it was hurting like hell and I was cursing novels, novelists, reading, writing and it was jusso painful but then suddenly it was all black, the pain disappeared and when I opened my eyes, I was here in this krabistan, with you, Kasim.
I want to grow old with you, Kasim. But J, I love you, too.
In the evening, walking in the Outer Circle, I swear on you Kasim, when no one was watching, the top of the Statesman Tower came down to pluck me up but I ran, ran, ran constantly skipping its claws by a millimeter and finally I hid inside the N-block subway where it was dark and empty and suddenly the entire place started glowing with a faint orange light and I saw Rushdie walking in arms with Naipual and there was Alice Munro whispering to Margaret Atwood and John Cheever was sitting in a corner staring at me with cold transparent eyes and suddenly there was a tap on my right shoulder and I turned to see the ashen-faced John Updike but Updike is dead Kasim so it must be his ghost so I was scared and ran for my life towards the Scindia House side but a great crowd was silently coming from there and I could make out Nabokov, Dickens, Chekhov among them but their sight didn’t made me happy and I tried turning but it was too late and they were coming so close and then that orange light went off and it was dark and somebody held my hands tightly and I started screaming but my voice hit the subway walls and came back to hit my ears and so I kept screaming and suddenly that unknown person’s fist slackened and I immediately pulled my hand and ran to the other side but I tripped on the stairs and fell down and that crowd started coming towards me and they walked over me and there were nails on their shoes and I was bleeding and it was hurting like hell and I was cursing novels, novelists, reading, writing and it was jusso painful but then suddenly it was all black, the pain disappeared and when I opened my eyes, I was here in this krabistan, with you, Kasim.
I want to grow old with you, Kasim. But J, I love you, too.
Monday, June 01, 2009
Crushed by self-doubt, Arundhati Roy rushes in to revive my spirits
Khan Market the latest Granta The New Yorker reading Vikram Seth’s Two Lives War and Peace back home the novel getting away from me need to hold on to it must lock me in a room come out till Kasim his mom J Wick all back what if they wasting time with me in Two Lives Seth writes he wrote bad poetry on life love existence purpose what if mine is also nonsense but yesterday in Daryaganj Sunday Book bazaar I got another God of Small Things paperback Harper Perennial edition the cover the same but so bright so crisp and now it is in my hands and am flipping through it and am feeling close to Arundhati and if I go on maybe I’ll end up with such a heartbreaker and then last night you know Arundhati came in my dream and she asked me
I HOPE YOU ARE WRITING YOUR BOOK
And am breathing again and roots stirring inside me and blood flowing faster and my fingers itching for the laptop keys and hands trembling and thoughts running fast and am getting an erection and am ready to make love again J or not J and am in the krabistan and am lying down on all four and kissing the ground where Kasim’s buried and I can smell him and am digging out the mud and there’s Kasim still beautiful still fresh no worm has ravaged his body his lips in half-smile looking so pure so virgin and am kissing Kasim on his lips and asking forgiveness for not kissing him back that day in Jama Masjid and you know Arundhati a friend said that my novel is not reading like a novel and yes I know fiction is tough but I’ll go on for didn’t you say that failure too is respectable?
I HOPE YOU ARE WRITING YOUR BOOK
And am breathing again and roots stirring inside me and blood flowing faster and my fingers itching for the laptop keys and hands trembling and thoughts running fast and am getting an erection and am ready to make love again J or not J and am in the krabistan and am lying down on all four and kissing the ground where Kasim’s buried and I can smell him and am digging out the mud and there’s Kasim still beautiful still fresh no worm has ravaged his body his lips in half-smile looking so pure so virgin and am kissing Kasim on his lips and asking forgiveness for not kissing him back that day in Jama Masjid and you know Arundhati a friend said that my novel is not reading like a novel and yes I know fiction is tough but I’ll go on for didn’t you say that failure too is respectable?
Friday, May 29, 2009
I thought I’ll dump my novel but Tolstoy’s war scenes have given me courage
Will no longer write this novel, will just read and finish this War and Peace, then start something else and you know even if I don’t write a novel life will still go on and there’s always Jane and Arundhati and J and this Tolstoy and talking of him I must say that am growing fond of Prince Andrei and at the moment am with him in Austria and Schongraben is in flames and he is riding out to Tushin’s battery where guns are making a deafening noise and am following him and here’s blood and wounded men groaning on the ground and smoke puffs above and whistling sound around and oh, are they French (?) and me wanting to run away but Prince Andrei riding straight into the battlefield’s heart where horses are whinnying and men lying dead and one cannonball after another flying over us and even J feeling a little shiver running down his spine and am asking him to flee but the very thought that he is afraid is reviving his courage and he murmuring, “We can’t be afraid”, and me repeating after him and together we stepping over the bodies and under the dreadful fire of the enemy, I’m logging onto my laptop, opening the word file and getting on with my novel.
The Stranger from Bombay whom I’ve never met but who sends me surprise books sends me a SMS saying that Wickham maybe right
Me: Just want to say hello.
Stranger: In a party with my wife.
Me: Enjoy. Am looking down at Yamuna.
Stranger: What you are upto?
Me: At Nizamuddin Bridge. Am sick of my novel.
Stranger: ?
Me: It’s not happening.
Stranger: Why you think that?
Me: A friend said that the novel is bad.
Stranger: Perhaps he’s right. Writing is practice. Tolstoy began War and Peace at 35.
Me: Can’t wait that long. Want to write a great novel now.
No message from the Stranger.
Me: Or never.
Stranger: In a party with my wife.
Me: Enjoy. Am looking down at Yamuna.
Stranger: What you are upto?
Me: At Nizamuddin Bridge. Am sick of my novel.
Stranger: ?
Me: It’s not happening.
Stranger: Why you think that?
Me: A friend said that the novel is bad.
Stranger: Perhaps he’s right. Writing is practice. Tolstoy began War and Peace at 35.
Me: Can’t wait that long. Want to write a great novel now.
No message from the Stranger.
Me: Or never.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Wickham says my novel is not a novel
Dear Mayank,
I apologize for not going through the draft of your novel you sent me a few days ago. This evening after returning from Connaught Place I finally opened it on my laptop and was shocked to see the conversations and the time we spent together being transplanted verbatim on what you claim to be your ‘fiction’.
Am I the only one to be singled out for such a treatment? Who is J? Did you warn him? Your father? What about Kasim’s mother? Does she know what you are writing on her son? Perhaps she will never be able to read it for I do not think your so-called novel can ever be published. It reads like a blog. Nothing more.
A novel needs to have a definite composition. When people praise Arundhati Roy’s The God of Small Things, they also talk about the structure of her novel and credit her training as an architect. Your novel, if I may call it that, is instead a meandering flow of banal events that takes the reader to nowhere.
While it is true that some of your posts are interesting, what you are writing is definitely not a novel. Your style is inconstant. At some places, it is nice; at other times, it is just unreadable. Your last post, for instance, was bad. You had me walking in the park and... what? What were you trying to say?
Mayank, since advices come for free, take mine, too. After all, I'm a creative writing teacher at the British Council. Your non-fiction is better than fiction. Focus on that instead.
Best,
George
I apologize for not going through the draft of your novel you sent me a few days ago. This evening after returning from Connaught Place I finally opened it on my laptop and was shocked to see the conversations and the time we spent together being transplanted verbatim on what you claim to be your ‘fiction’.
Am I the only one to be singled out for such a treatment? Who is J? Did you warn him? Your father? What about Kasim’s mother? Does she know what you are writing on her son? Perhaps she will never be able to read it for I do not think your so-called novel can ever be published. It reads like a blog. Nothing more.
A novel needs to have a definite composition. When people praise Arundhati Roy’s The God of Small Things, they also talk about the structure of her novel and credit her training as an architect. Your novel, if I may call it that, is instead a meandering flow of banal events that takes the reader to nowhere.
While it is true that some of your posts are interesting, what you are writing is definitely not a novel. Your style is inconstant. At some places, it is nice; at other times, it is just unreadable. Your last post, for instance, was bad. You had me walking in the park and... what? What were you trying to say?
Mayank, since advices come for free, take mine, too. After all, I'm a creative writing teacher at the British Council. Your non-fiction is better than fiction. Focus on that instead.
Best,
George
Monday, May 25, 2009
Wickham go cruising in Palika Bazaar parking but he's thinking of me all the time
Instead of taking the escalators, Wickam is climbing the stairs, coming out of the Rajiv Chowk station, into CP, A-block, to Palika Bazaar, past the Gate No. 1, up the stairs and into the park above the Bazar's parking. He now scanning the crowd.
Nearby, straight couples, straight families. Towards the Regal side: the boys, queens, uncles. Wickham searching for me in there. But I’m in Jama Masjid, reading Agha Shahid Ali with Kasim’s mother. But far away in that Regal-side crowd: a boy looking like me – dark, thin, greying hair, cream tee-shirt, blue jeans. Wickham’s eyes brightening, he walking towards that boy but no, it’s not me so Wickham's eyes dulling again. He slowing down even as three noisy queens, sitting on the railing, look straight at Wickham as he coming nearer. Their eyes stripping him off his clothes. But he going ahead, paying no attention to the queens who're now watching his back but he's thinking of me.
Now, as me and Kasim's mother talk of Kasim, Wickham is walking round the park, again, again, again, getting sweaty, the tee-shirt sticking to his back though it’s windy and if not rain, there may be a storm this evening.
Now, Wickham tired, hungry. He going down the stairs - his hands into his jeans pockets, Arundhati Roy on his backpocket. He dipping into the subway, surfacing in N-block, walking past Wimpy’s, Woodland Shoes, Cafe Coffee Day, pausing outside the Tekson’s bookstore. There he scanning the window display: Jeffrey Archer’s Paths of Glory, N.R. Narayan Murthy’s A better India, A Better World, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallow, Nandan Nilekani’s Imagining India...
... nothing interesting, nothing. Wickham starting to walk again, circling the Outer Circle, walking back to Rajiv Chowk, taking escalators this time, waiting for the late evening Metro for Central Secretariat.
Now, the train's coming, stopping, doors opening, people coming out, going in, doors closing, train moving. Wickham scanning the crowd. I'm not there.
Nearby, straight couples, straight families. Towards the Regal side: the boys, queens, uncles. Wickham searching for me in there. But I’m in Jama Masjid, reading Agha Shahid Ali with Kasim’s mother. But far away in that Regal-side crowd: a boy looking like me – dark, thin, greying hair, cream tee-shirt, blue jeans. Wickham’s eyes brightening, he walking towards that boy but no, it’s not me so Wickham's eyes dulling again. He slowing down even as three noisy queens, sitting on the railing, look straight at Wickham as he coming nearer. Their eyes stripping him off his clothes. But he going ahead, paying no attention to the queens who're now watching his back but he's thinking of me.
Now, as me and Kasim's mother talk of Kasim, Wickham is walking round the park, again, again, again, getting sweaty, the tee-shirt sticking to his back though it’s windy and if not rain, there may be a storm this evening.
Now, Wickham tired, hungry. He going down the stairs - his hands into his jeans pockets, Arundhati Roy on his backpocket. He dipping into the subway, surfacing in N-block, walking past Wimpy’s, Woodland Shoes, Cafe Coffee Day, pausing outside the Tekson’s bookstore. There he scanning the window display: Jeffrey Archer’s Paths of Glory, N.R. Narayan Murthy’s A better India, A Better World, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallow, Nandan Nilekani’s Imagining India...
... nothing interesting, nothing. Wickham starting to walk again, circling the Outer Circle, walking back to Rajiv Chowk, taking escalators this time, waiting for the late evening Metro for Central Secretariat.
Now, the train's coming, stopping, doors opening, people coming out, going in, doors closing, train moving. Wickham scanning the crowd. I'm not there.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
I meet Kasim’s mother in Jama Masjid and there we sit down with Agha Shahid Ali
Crossing the courtyard. The sun’s down, the sky’s still not dark, the stones still warm. We are shy, not talking, she holding Sense and Sensibility, me Tolstoy but now am unzipping my shoulder bag and taking out Agha Shahid Ali’s The Country Without a Post office and her eyes becoming bigger and she smiling but now again unsmiling and we sitting in the balcony where a woman is sleeping and we turning our back to the faraway Red Fort and looking inwards at the swarm of birds taking a flight up in a curve and resting on the dome and then her eyes my eyes moving beyond, to that minar and am thinking of Kasim and why am I feeling that she too is thinking of him?
I kissed you here You were with my son here We were alone in the narrow passage I have seen that photograph Your curved lips met to speak the first alphabet of my name His arms were around your shoulders I touched your lips with the middle finger of my right hand But I could see you were thinking of not my Kasim For a moment I even forgot J Your eyes were somewhere else I lipped my lips to yours His head was bent towards yours Your tongue was cold Your head was a bit turned away from him I wanted J not you.
“I was not sure that you would get Aga Shahid Ali so I also got Jane Austen.”
“Well, we can read both.”
"But I do not know if you will like reading with me."
"Why you saying that aunty?"
“You see, son, I have not read for a long time... I have never read Ali.”
“I thought you had?”
“I told you I read... Amitava Ghosh had written on him after his... after his death.”
“I see... ”
“He was a Kashmiri?”
“Yes, but he was born here... in Dilli...”
“Look, see your book... the title is nice.”
“The country without a post office... these poems must be on Kashmir...”
“Maybe... you like poems?”
“Don't know... I want to... I've Sylvia Plath, Emily Dickinson but they go over my head.”
“Arre, mere saath bhi kuch aisa hi hain.”
“I also want to read Anna Akhmatova...”
“I have not heard of her...”
“She was a Russian poet. I saw her in Fact and Fiction few months ago but thought can I really understand her so...”
“You should still have bought her...”
“You know many years ago I was reading David Remnick's Leni...”
“David? Who David?”
“Ohheisthenewyorkereditor.”
"New Yorker?"
"Aunty, it's an American magazine for all those who want to write well."
“You know so much...”
“No aunty but anyway there in Lenin’s Tomb there’s a very nice excerpt of Akhmatova’s poem where she is describing a mother’s pain while her son is in KGB custody.”
“Hmm, should we read Ali first or Jane Austen?”
“Ali?”
“The book seems new.”
“Got it a few years ago but never opened it…”
“… the pages are still smelling fresh...”
“… the other day at Bahrisons...”
“Bahrisons?”
“Ohitsabookshopinkhanmarket... anyway, there're no copies of this book in Delhi any longer.”
“It’s precious then.. oh look, Ali has dedicated it to his mother!”
For My Mother – Sufia –
The Bravest of Them –
& of Us –
All
[after a pause of a minute or so]
“He too had cancer...”
“Yes, aunty, he died while sleeping...”
“Like Kasim... son... what should I say, he was my child. I knew him inside out. He was very good and son... you are a writer and one day... one day will you write something on him?”
“I will, aunty.”
“Yes, I want to read something about him.”
“I will aunty.”
“Write, write in such a way that he comes alive.”
“Iwillaunty.”
“Yes, son, please.”
I kissed you here You were with my son here We were alone in the narrow passage I have seen that photograph Your curved lips met to speak the first alphabet of my name His arms were around your shoulders I touched your lips with the middle finger of my right hand But I could see you were thinking of not my Kasim For a moment I even forgot J Your eyes were somewhere else I lipped my lips to yours His head was bent towards yours Your tongue was cold Your head was a bit turned away from him I wanted J not you.
“I was not sure that you would get Aga Shahid Ali so I also got Jane Austen.”
“Well, we can read both.”
"But I do not know if you will like reading with me."
"Why you saying that aunty?"
“You see, son, I have not read for a long time... I have never read Ali.”
“I thought you had?”
“I told you I read... Amitava Ghosh had written on him after his... after his death.”
“I see... ”
“He was a Kashmiri?”
“Yes, but he was born here... in Dilli...”
“Look, see your book... the title is nice.”
“The country without a post office... these poems must be on Kashmir...”
“Maybe... you like poems?”
“Don't know... I want to... I've Sylvia Plath, Emily Dickinson but they go over my head.”
“Arre, mere saath bhi kuch aisa hi hain.”
“I also want to read Anna Akhmatova...”
“I have not heard of her...”
“She was a Russian poet. I saw her in Fact and Fiction few months ago but thought can I really understand her so...”
“You should still have bought her...”
“You know many years ago I was reading David Remnick's Leni...”
“David? Who David?”
“Ohheisthenewyorkereditor.”
"New Yorker?"
"Aunty, it's an American magazine for all those who want to write well."
“You know so much...”
“No aunty but anyway there in Lenin’s Tomb there’s a very nice excerpt of Akhmatova’s poem where she is describing a mother’s pain while her son is in KGB custody.”
“Hmm, should we read Ali first or Jane Austen?”
“Ali?”
“The book seems new.”
“Got it a few years ago but never opened it…”
“… the pages are still smelling fresh...”
“… the other day at Bahrisons...”
“Bahrisons?”
“Ohitsabookshopinkhanmarket... anyway, there're no copies of this book in Delhi any longer.”
“It’s precious then.. oh look, Ali has dedicated it to his mother!”
For My Mother – Sufia –
The Bravest of Them –
& of Us –
All
[after a pause of a minute or so]
“He too had cancer...”
“Yes, aunty, he died while sleeping...”
“Like Kasim... son... what should I say, he was my child. I knew him inside out. He was very good and son... you are a writer and one day... one day will you write something on him?”
“I will, aunty.”
“Yes, I want to read something about him.”
“I will aunty.”
“Write, write in such a way that he comes alive.”
“Iwillaunty.”
“Yes, son, please.”
Thursday, May 21, 2009
The New York Times report - A dead novelist’s book is sued for obscenity in India, bringing cheer to his American publishers
By SOMINI SENGUPTA
Published: May 21, 2009
New Delhi, INDIA — The opening passage is, without question, erotic and in India, illegal: a Muslim man in Delhi making love on a moonlit ruin to a young Hindu man. There are references to a circumcised penis, to Jane Austen and Milan Kundera, to the price that will be paid if secrecy is not kept. "Night's back kneeled against the stony ramparts and watched them," Mayank Austen Soofi writes with the kind of sensuous personification that marks "Ruined by Reading," his strikingly well-received first and last novel that was posthumously awarded the Man's Bookers Prize. Mr Soofi had killed himself in March, 2009.
Almost predictably, Mr. Soofi's publisher, Penguin India, has now been summoned to answer charges of obscenity in a muggy courtroom of Delhi, his hometown and the setting of his book.
"On one hand it's so ridiculous," says Ranjana Sengupta, the fiction editor at Penguin India. "On the other hand, any writer, even a dead one, can be harassed in this way. It comes to the point where one citizen can hold literature to ransom."
The complaint, filed by a Delhi lawyer named Kaushal Kishore Mishra, 29, a Hindu, has so far not been taken seriously in India, where it is viewed as the kind of nuisance litigation regularly filed against the country's very rich film stars. It is in fact hard to find anyone in India who has even heard of Mr. Mishra outside the Tees Hazari District Court in north Delhi.
Reached by phone at his office there, Mr. Mishra declined to explain whether it was the homosexual sex, or the sex between a Hindu and a Muslim, or both, that offended him in Chapter 1. "I am not commenting," he said.
If Mr. Mishra's summons is not quite an attack on the future of modern India, it is also no bad news for Mr. Soofi's American publisher, Penguin Group (USA), whose representatives are happy to talk about an obscenity complaint that can help sales in the United States.
Mr. Soofi's book, a tale of a megalomaniac booklover, was published in the United States in April to ecstatic reviews. William Dalrymple in The New Yorker called it no less than a "Ghengiz Khanian debut -- the author not only laid bare the soul of a lonely booklover but also unraveled the exquisiteness of the old and new Delhi."
In the beginning when it was first released late last year, the book attracted hardly any attention. But the suicide of its author followed by the Man Booker Prize, its sale has gone far beyond the most fantastic fantasies of the publisher. More than seven weeks after the 28-year-old Mr. Soofi hanged himself by a nylon rope at his single-room home in Nizamuddin Basti, a Muslim ghetto in Delhi, his novel has hit No. 1 on The Sunday Times of London best-seller list last month, and is No. 3 on the hardcover fiction best-seller list published on the New York Times Books site on the Web.
"I knew the novel was very good but I'm amazed by its success," Ms. Sengupta says.
The book is the semi-autobiographical tale of a homosexual booklover who is looking for love but go mad by mistaking fiction for fact, and fact for fiction.
In Mr. Soofi's tale, the protagonist who shares his name run amok through a plot teeming with books and lovers, lurching towards his inevitable suicide that had already appeared on the second page of the novel. While Mr. Soofi's style is being compared in India to the heightened realism of Gonzalo Daveouz Melcón, one of the characters in the novel has been arrested by the police for abetting his suicide. George Wickham, a British national who taught creative writing in Delhi's British Council, was said to be his close friend.
Meanwhile Penguin India has hired lawyers to prepare for the court case. If they are unsuccessful in getting the lawsuit dismissed, chances are that the book might be banned in India.
Published: May 21, 2009
New Delhi, INDIA — The opening passage is, without question, erotic and in India, illegal: a Muslim man in Delhi making love on a moonlit ruin to a young Hindu man. There are references to a circumcised penis, to Jane Austen and Milan Kundera, to the price that will be paid if secrecy is not kept. "Night's back kneeled against the stony ramparts and watched them," Mayank Austen Soofi writes with the kind of sensuous personification that marks "Ruined by Reading," his strikingly well-received first and last novel that was posthumously awarded the Man's Bookers Prize. Mr Soofi had killed himself in March, 2009.
Almost predictably, Mr. Soofi's publisher, Penguin India, has now been summoned to answer charges of obscenity in a muggy courtroom of Delhi, his hometown and the setting of his book.
"On one hand it's so ridiculous," says Ranjana Sengupta, the fiction editor at Penguin India. "On the other hand, any writer, even a dead one, can be harassed in this way. It comes to the point where one citizen can hold literature to ransom."
The complaint, filed by a Delhi lawyer named Kaushal Kishore Mishra, 29, a Hindu, has so far not been taken seriously in India, where it is viewed as the kind of nuisance litigation regularly filed against the country's very rich film stars. It is in fact hard to find anyone in India who has even heard of Mr. Mishra outside the Tees Hazari District Court in north Delhi.
Reached by phone at his office there, Mr. Mishra declined to explain whether it was the homosexual sex, or the sex between a Hindu and a Muslim, or both, that offended him in Chapter 1. "I am not commenting," he said.
If Mr. Mishra's summons is not quite an attack on the future of modern India, it is also no bad news for Mr. Soofi's American publisher, Penguin Group (USA), whose representatives are happy to talk about an obscenity complaint that can help sales in the United States.
Mr. Soofi's book, a tale of a megalomaniac booklover, was published in the United States in April to ecstatic reviews. William Dalrymple in The New Yorker called it no less than a "Ghengiz Khanian debut -- the author not only laid bare the soul of a lonely booklover but also unraveled the exquisiteness of the old and new Delhi."
In the beginning when it was first released late last year, the book attracted hardly any attention. But the suicide of its author followed by the Man Booker Prize, its sale has gone far beyond the most fantastic fantasies of the publisher. More than seven weeks after the 28-year-old Mr. Soofi hanged himself by a nylon rope at his single-room home in Nizamuddin Basti, a Muslim ghetto in Delhi, his novel has hit No. 1 on The Sunday Times of London best-seller list last month, and is No. 3 on the hardcover fiction best-seller list published on the New York Times Books site on the Web.
"I knew the novel was very good but I'm amazed by its success," Ms. Sengupta says.
The book is the semi-autobiographical tale of a homosexual booklover who is looking for love but go mad by mistaking fiction for fact, and fact for fiction.
In Mr. Soofi's tale, the protagonist who shares his name run amok through a plot teeming with books and lovers, lurching towards his inevitable suicide that had already appeared on the second page of the novel. While Mr. Soofi's style is being compared in India to the heightened realism of Gonzalo Daveouz Melcón, one of the characters in the novel has been arrested by the police for abetting his suicide. George Wickham, a British national who taught creative writing in Delhi's British Council, was said to be his close friend.
Meanwhile Penguin India has hired lawyers to prepare for the court case. If they are unsuccessful in getting the lawsuit dismissed, chances are that the book might be banned in India.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
When Wickham remembered me while holding Arundhati Roy in the Delhi Metro
The Sunday metro leaving Central Secretariat. Wickham holding Arundhati Roy (Flamingo paperback) as if she's a gift. No one else in the coach. Rahel far away in upstate New York, at this moment commuting from Grand Central to Croton Harmon. The train stopping at Patel Chowk. The door sliding open, an old woman with chapped cheeks, thin moustache, and a newspaper, dragging herself in. The door closing.
The woman sitting down opposite Wickham. In the widow's white salwar kurta, she staring at Wickham, making him feel uneasy but now the train starting to move and she spreading out the newspaper on her lap but the train suddenly stopping... a heartbeat long pause... now moving again, picking up speed, leaving the platform, the white fluorescence outside the glass windows turning to black.
The woman now tearing off the paper's front page, Wickham moving his gaze away from the novel, to the woman who shaping the torn paper into a funnel, spitting into it, then carefully folding it into a little parcel and arranging it on the empty space next to her. Wickham trying to dip back into the novel.
But when they made love he was offended by her eyes. They behaved as though they belonged to someone else. Someone watching. Looking out of the window at the sea. At a boat in the river. Or a passer-by in the mist in a hat.
But when they made love, Wickham was puzzled, not offended, by his eyes. They behaved as though they were looking at someone else. Someone who was not watching him. Someone whose back was turned to him. Someone who did not care for him. Perhaps.
Meanwhile the woman spitting into another paper funnel and... the train slowing, stopping. Rajiv Chowk. The door sliding open, Wickham going out, people rushing in, the door closing, the train moving, the woman folding the funnel into a little parcel, the train disappearing into the black tunnel.
The woman sitting down opposite Wickham. In the widow's white salwar kurta, she staring at Wickham, making him feel uneasy but now the train starting to move and she spreading out the newspaper on her lap but the train suddenly stopping... a heartbeat long pause... now moving again, picking up speed, leaving the platform, the white fluorescence outside the glass windows turning to black.
The woman now tearing off the paper's front page, Wickham moving his gaze away from the novel, to the woman who shaping the torn paper into a funnel, spitting into it, then carefully folding it into a little parcel and arranging it on the empty space next to her. Wickham trying to dip back into the novel.
But when they made love he was offended by her eyes. They behaved as though they belonged to someone else. Someone watching. Looking out of the window at the sea. At a boat in the river. Or a passer-by in the mist in a hat.
But when they made love, Wickham was puzzled, not offended, by his eyes. They behaved as though they were looking at someone else. Someone who was not watching him. Someone whose back was turned to him. Someone who did not care for him. Perhaps.
Meanwhile the woman spitting into another paper funnel and... the train slowing, stopping. Rajiv Chowk. The door sliding open, Wickham going out, people rushing in, the door closing, the train moving, the woman folding the funnel into a little parcel, the train disappearing into the black tunnel.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
My mother wants to throw away my books; Kasim's mother wants me to bring a book
Why don't you sell your books? They're everywhere.
Where is it? Here it's all MFK Fishers...
We made these extra shelves for you but now they full. The books covered your bed too...
Oh, jaal!
... and I can't get the bed sheet off and look, this cupboard! This will break apart one of these days.
Silverfish? Nah, doesn't seem so...
The books in that cupboard in the dining room? You haven't touched them for a long time. Why not sell them? Take Papa's car this Sunday and dispose them in Daryaganj.
Brendan Gill. Have another copy, better looking. Gift this one to Wick (?) but where is it?
I'm so harassed by your books. They making me panicky. Everything good in limits. You listening?
Can it be this one below this pile?
Hey Bhagwan, books below the bed! The kaam-wali can't clean the damn floor.
God, too much dust...
You listening?
Got it!
Just keep the books you want and throw away the rest. No point piling up.
Aunty, this is Mayank. Hello. Sorry, I could not come that evening. But Aunty, I just got Agha Shahid Ali.
If you keep buying books, where will we live?
OK Aunty, I'll come today evening. Yes, I'll bring Ali. Jama Masjid? Ok.
Where is it? Here it's all MFK Fishers...
We made these extra shelves for you but now they full. The books covered your bed too...
Oh, jaal!
... and I can't get the bed sheet off and look, this cupboard! This will break apart one of these days.
Silverfish? Nah, doesn't seem so...
The books in that cupboard in the dining room? You haven't touched them for a long time. Why not sell them? Take Papa's car this Sunday and dispose them in Daryaganj.
Brendan Gill. Have another copy, better looking. Gift this one to Wick (?) but where is it?
I'm so harassed by your books. They making me panicky. Everything good in limits. You listening?
Can it be this one below this pile?
Hey Bhagwan, books below the bed! The kaam-wali can't clean the damn floor.
God, too much dust...
You listening?
Got it!
Just keep the books you want and throw away the rest. No point piling up.
Aunty, this is Mayank. Hello. Sorry, I could not come that evening. But Aunty, I just got Agha Shahid Ali.
If you keep buying books, where will we live?
OK Aunty, I'll come today evening. Yes, I'll bring Ali. Jama Masjid? Ok.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Me + Tolstoy + Wickham + Jane Austen + Kasim’s mother + Arundhati Roy
Me
The biscuit crumbs on my War and Peace...
Wickham
Got another copy of The God of Small Things.
Kasim's mother
Not feeling like to go on in Sense and Sensibility. (After three minutes, 49 seconds) But then what will I do?
Me
Dump Tolstoy? Need to read Jane. Everything on her. For the novel's sake, no choice.
Wickham
If I could, I would have made love to her.
Kasim's mother
I gave his clothes to beggars, what to do with my books?
Wickham
If I can't make love to her, I can make love to who loves her... as much as I do?
Me
But J says I need to go beyond Jane and Arundhati, to Tolstoys, Dostoevskys, Googols, Chekhovs if I hope to become a novelist.
Kasim's mother
I will give away my books, including my Jane Austens, except the Kuran.
Wickham
Honestly speaking, I thought he would be just another trick but I'm thinking more and more of him.
Me
Honestly speaking, how many times have I really read all the Austens? Ok, Pride, many times. Lady Susan never. Mansfield Park just once. Emma twice. Ditto Persuasion and Northanger. Sense... three times and each time Marianne cried for Willoughby, I missed J.
Kasim's mother
I can no longer read. Anyway now it does not matter.
Wickham
I will no longer repress my feelings. I will tell him.
Me
Can no longer resist Jane. Keeping away Tolstoy.
The biscuit crumbs on my War and Peace...
Wickham
Got another copy of The God of Small Things.
Kasim's mother
Not feeling like to go on in Sense and Sensibility. (After three minutes, 49 seconds) But then what will I do?
Me
Dump Tolstoy? Need to read Jane. Everything on her. For the novel's sake, no choice.
Wickham
If I could, I would have made love to her.
Kasim's mother
I gave his clothes to beggars, what to do with my books?
Wickham
If I can't make love to her, I can make love to who loves her... as much as I do?
Me
But J says I need to go beyond Jane and Arundhati, to Tolstoys, Dostoevskys, Googols, Chekhovs if I hope to become a novelist.
Kasim's mother
I will give away my books, including my Jane Austens, except the Kuran.
Wickham
Honestly speaking, I thought he would be just another trick but I'm thinking more and more of him.
Me
Honestly speaking, how many times have I really read all the Austens? Ok, Pride, many times. Lady Susan never. Mansfield Park just once. Emma twice. Ditto Persuasion and Northanger. Sense... three times and each time Marianne cried for Willoughby, I missed J.
Kasim's mother
I can no longer read. Anyway now it does not matter.
Wickham
I will no longer repress my feelings. I will tell him.
Me
Can no longer resist Jane. Keeping away Tolstoy.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
The Stranger-from-Bombay-whom-I've-never-met-but-who-sends-me-surprise-books sent me a Kazuo Ishiguro
Dear Stranger,
Thank you for A Pale View of Hills. I got the courier this afternoon. I read it a long time ago from a copy I got from Daryaganj but your faber and faber edition, which has somebody else's name (your wife?) on it, is very beautiful.
Now when I'm in the midst of writing my novel, it will be a good idea to re-read Ishiguro. I don't remember much of The Pale View... except that it had something to do with somebody's suicide and that it was very sparsely written and intense. Just like Ishiguro's another one, The Remains of the Day, that I read for the first time only last year.
You know I too want to be simple, straight and yet be deep enough to take the reader into the very thick of human experience. They say Dostoevsky wrote like that though I have never read him but I got his The Idiot yesterday evening from a Paharganj bookstore, and talking of Russians, I don't know if my novel would be fat or thin but only if it can be like Tolstoy's War and Peace, an entire world within the covers...
Presently I'm so much into Tolstoy that I haven't read Jane since a while. He's interfering with my writing hours. Am taking him to Humayun's Tomb, reading him at the Dargah, next to Jahanara's tomb, carrying him in the Bluelines and you know despite all his people – I really like Prince Andrey – being white and living in cold cities like St Petersburg and Moscow,I feel them as I feel myself, J, even you.
While writing, I want to immerse myself in a world I could never have created myself but which had to be created and I just happened to be an instrument for its making. This world should be more real than the real world, and even after two hundred years it must be so raw as to slip in swiftly into the heart of some big-bosomed Mma Ramotswe in Botswana who had never cared about Delhi - like the Jane Austen novels. There was never a Mr Darcy, nor a Lizzie and I have never been to England and yet I see the shadows of them folks falling occasionally on people I know.
Yes, stranger, I want to chisel out such a Lizzie, such a Lydia, such an Ammu, such a Velutha. Look at Arundhati Roy. How nice to go to bed each night thinking that yes, I'm the One who wrote The God of Small Things. I want to write such a novel but that will never happen.
You see whatever - pain? Love? Loneliness? - is stirring around in me is not coming out of me, am unable to wrench it out, incapable of shaping it into words. Maybe what am writing is plain nonsense, maybe you don't like what I write, maybe people will laugh if they see what I have written but you know I came across this line in The Shape of the Beast – Conversations with Arundhati Roy where Arundhati said that failure too is respectable. I think that keeps me going.
Regards,
mayank
Thank you for A Pale View of Hills. I got the courier this afternoon. I read it a long time ago from a copy I got from Daryaganj but your faber and faber edition, which has somebody else's name (your wife?) on it, is very beautiful.
Now when I'm in the midst of writing my novel, it will be a good idea to re-read Ishiguro. I don't remember much of The Pale View... except that it had something to do with somebody's suicide and that it was very sparsely written and intense. Just like Ishiguro's another one, The Remains of the Day, that I read for the first time only last year.
You know I too want to be simple, straight and yet be deep enough to take the reader into the very thick of human experience. They say Dostoevsky wrote like that though I have never read him but I got his The Idiot yesterday evening from a Paharganj bookstore, and talking of Russians, I don't know if my novel would be fat or thin but only if it can be like Tolstoy's War and Peace, an entire world within the covers...
Presently I'm so much into Tolstoy that I haven't read Jane since a while. He's interfering with my writing hours. Am taking him to Humayun's Tomb, reading him at the Dargah, next to Jahanara's tomb, carrying him in the Bluelines and you know despite all his people – I really like Prince Andrey – being white and living in cold cities like St Petersburg and Moscow,I feel them as I feel myself, J, even you.
While writing, I want to immerse myself in a world I could never have created myself but which had to be created and I just happened to be an instrument for its making. This world should be more real than the real world, and even after two hundred years it must be so raw as to slip in swiftly into the heart of some big-bosomed Mma Ramotswe in Botswana who had never cared about Delhi - like the Jane Austen novels. There was never a Mr Darcy, nor a Lizzie and I have never been to England and yet I see the shadows of them folks falling occasionally on people I know.
Yes, stranger, I want to chisel out such a Lizzie, such a Lydia, such an Ammu, such a Velutha. Look at Arundhati Roy. How nice to go to bed each night thinking that yes, I'm the One who wrote The God of Small Things. I want to write such a novel but that will never happen.
You see whatever - pain? Love? Loneliness? - is stirring around in me is not coming out of me, am unable to wrench it out, incapable of shaping it into words. Maybe what am writing is plain nonsense, maybe you don't like what I write, maybe people will laugh if they see what I have written but you know I came across this line in The Shape of the Beast – Conversations with Arundhati Roy where Arundhati said that failure too is respectable. I think that keeps me going.
Regards,
mayank
Sunday, May 10, 2009
While my novel is going nowhere, Kasim's mother is going around town with Jane Austen
Novel not happening. In Nehru Park but nothing coming out on the notepad. Wonder why write, live? Why didn't I got Kasim's cancer?
He always had his almirah locked, never gave the keys... look, here he is, with Mayank. Where are they standing? The photo is slightly blurred. Looks like Jama Masjid, must be the minar, yes, that is the gumbad. They must have have asked somebody to click their picture but he did not come for the chaaleswa. His friend is forgetting him but I am his mother but... his underwears... throw them? Ah, my Jane Austens!
What if I've cancer and a month to live? Chemotherapy or The God of Small Things again or Jane or finally finish War and Peace. And the novel? Maybe when I know my time's up my fingers won't stop tapping on the laptop and who knows I might end up with a classic and then the world would remember me but what if J forget me? What's a novel then?
Even in this garmi crazy people won't stop coming to Matia Mahal and arre, this rickshaw almost hit me but this pain will be nothing to carrying this my father's Sense and Sensibility that my son borrowed and probably never read and now when both my father and my son have left me, the book has come back, walking with me in this street where both my father and my son had walked.
What's more important? J? Novel? J? Novel?
Look, Jama Masjid. I am too tired to climb these stairs, my legs have grown old. Should I sit down here only and read? Oh see, there is that minar. He was once up there with Mayank, got himself photographed, and then he kept that picture in his almirah whose keys he gave to no one, not even to me and I don't know why for there was no secret in there. He is gone now, the tower is still standing.
J'll be very upset once am dead...
Why my son only?
... but if I've a great novel, the world will grieve.
Shahjahan built this masjid, this gumbad, this minar, this Dilli. People still remember him. They have not forgotten Jane Austen too. But my Kasim...
He always had his almirah locked, never gave the keys... look, here he is, with Mayank. Where are they standing? The photo is slightly blurred. Looks like Jama Masjid, must be the minar, yes, that is the gumbad. They must have have asked somebody to click their picture but he did not come for the chaaleswa. His friend is forgetting him but I am his mother but... his underwears... throw them? Ah, my Jane Austens!
What if I've cancer and a month to live? Chemotherapy or The God of Small Things again or Jane or finally finish War and Peace. And the novel? Maybe when I know my time's up my fingers won't stop tapping on the laptop and who knows I might end up with a classic and then the world would remember me but what if J forget me? What's a novel then?
Even in this garmi crazy people won't stop coming to Matia Mahal and arre, this rickshaw almost hit me but this pain will be nothing to carrying this my father's Sense and Sensibility that my son borrowed and probably never read and now when both my father and my son have left me, the book has come back, walking with me in this street where both my father and my son had walked.
What's more important? J? Novel? J? Novel?
Look, Jama Masjid. I am too tired to climb these stairs, my legs have grown old. Should I sit down here only and read? Oh see, there is that minar. He was once up there with Mayank, got himself photographed, and then he kept that picture in his almirah whose keys he gave to no one, not even to me and I don't know why for there was no secret in there. He is gone now, the tower is still standing.
J'll be very upset once am dead...
Why my son only?
... but if I've a great novel, the world will grieve.
Shahjahan built this masjid, this gumbad, this minar, this Dilli. People still remember him. They have not forgotten Jane Austen too. But my Kasim...
Saturday, May 09, 2009
Missed Kasim's chaleeswa, lost Virginia Woolf, too
Late night: In the auto going from CP to the Dargah, re-reading Virginia Woolf's To the Lighthouse, small, smooth-cover edition, sms-ing Wick, Dargah comes, me getting off, sms-sing again to Wick, the auto going off, along with Virginia.
Early Morning: Sms from Kasim's mother:
"Son, yesterday was his chaleeswa. You did not come."
Saying to myself: But aunty, I saw your son in Jama Masjid, was just about to kiss him but then realized he had cancer - no, he's dead.
Mid-afternoon: Book Shop, Jorbagh. Had asked KD to keep aside Claudia Roden's The Book of Jewish Food but am coming too late, he sold that only copy to somebody else, so me going out, past the sweepers cleaning the road off dead leaves, crossing Lodhi road, into Lodhi Garden, sitting down on the grass, Shakespeare lost, Kasim not alive, missing J, Woolf lost, Claudia too gone, the novel going nowhere, wanting to cry but nothing's coming off the eyes but no, won't kill myself, will live, read, write, love.
Early Morning: Sms from Kasim's mother:
"Son, yesterday was his chaleeswa. You did not come."
Saying to myself: But aunty, I saw your son in Jama Masjid, was just about to kiss him but then realized he had cancer - no, he's dead.
Mid-afternoon: Book Shop, Jorbagh. Had asked KD to keep aside Claudia Roden's The Book of Jewish Food but am coming too late, he sold that only copy to somebody else, so me going out, past the sweepers cleaning the road off dead leaves, crossing Lodhi road, into Lodhi Garden, sitting down on the grass, Shakespeare lost, Kasim not alive, missing J, Woolf lost, Claudia too gone, the novel going nowhere, wanting to cry but nothing's coming off the eyes but no, won't kill myself, will live, read, write, love.
Thursday, May 07, 2009
Before discovering Wickham's Arundhati Roy collection, I was guarded about him
My left cheek on Wick's shoulders, fingers twirling his chest hair. His arm patting my back, tapping down, rubbing gently. Me thrusting closer, going down, taking him in, tasting him. Salty, warm, damp. He pulling me towards himself and my face on his chest and his large pink nipples making me feel I can live without J and so scared, am getting up, going to the window, drawing the purple-green cotton curtain open, looking out at the Hauz Khas ruins. See, Feroze Shah's tomb. Me and J had gone there together. I was then with E.M. Forster's A Passage to India. Once inside the tomb, the two doorways filtering in the daylight's red colour, he'd cupped my face in his palms and then – pip(!) - a quick peck on my lips lasting a small bit of a second. Now J gone back to his world and am naked, with an erection, sticky with Wickham's wetness, smelling of his white man's white body odour. But Wick a fuck buddy, why am fearful... hey, is he too getting up from the bed(?) but am not turning back but, oh, he's kissing my back, no Wick don't come near you didn't come to P'n'P that Tuesday night and that man no don't touch me you said we'd meet Velutha yeah gimme your lips no I can't trust you not yet aaram se yes it's in now gently yeah yeah Wick make me meet Velutha Arundhati and I'll love you for ever yes let's read GOST what(!) so many GOSTs you didn't show me this shelf before so many editions translations Hebrew(!) Spanish Swedish is that Japanese(?) hey Hindi(!) Oh unbelievable Wick I love you I love Rahel Estha Ammu not Chacko fuckmeWick fuckmefuckme.
I was about to kiss a dead man in Virgina Woolf's Lighthouse
He's smiling, coming towards me, now we running not coz we in hurry but Jama Masjid’s too-hot stones burning our feet each time they touching the floor, pausing at Gate No. I, shade, relief, not stepping out of the masjid, but turning right, through a door, up the unlit stairs, his hands reaching out to mine, we coming out again into the white heat, again running on the masjid's too-hot roof, climbing up the short stairs, stopping just outside the northern tower, it looking like the Lighthouse on the cover of my pocket-book Virginia Woolf which is falling off my back pocket, he picking up and tucking it back on my back pocket where his hands staying longer, entering the pitch black Lighthouse, quietly climbing the winding steep stone stairs but they not ending, will we ever reach the top, it’s like being alone in a space shuttle, suddenly he sitting down and me too and am laying my head on his knee hoping to seek his intimacy and he softly brushing my hair with his fingers and a few moments (or is it a few hours?) pass away like this and though it’s black am seeing his feelings and am raising my head, my arms embracing him in an uncertain hug, lips coming close to his but suddenly he’s shivering, coughing, spitting, rasping for breath and very sorry Kasim but never kissed a dying cancerous man before and won't now. Am going out. Apologies.
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
The New York Times® Best Sellers: Hardcover Fiction
Buy These Books From: Amazon.com | Local Booksellers
1 JUST TAKE MY HEART, by Mary Higgins Clark. (Simon & Schuster, $25.95.) A detective who has had a heart transplant discovers that her life is at risk when she tries a murder case.
2 LOOK AGAIN, by Lisa Scottoline. (St. Martin’s, $26.95.) A reporter learns that her adopted son may have been abducted from his birth mother.
3 RUINED BY READING, by Mayank Austen Soofi. (Penguin Group (USA), $25.95.) A young bibliophile while searching for love in Delhi confuses fiction with fact and meets a tragic fate.
4 LONG LOST, by Harlan Coben. (Dutton, $27.95.) As Myron Bolitar helps an ex-lover who has become a suspect in her husband’s death, they search for her daughter.
5 THE HOST, by Stephenie Meyer. (Little, Brown, $25.99.) Aliens have taken control of the minds and bodies of most humans, but one woman won’t surrender.
6 THE ASSOCIATE, by John Grisham. (Doubleday, $27.95.) An idealistic law-school graduate is forced to take a job at a large, brutalizing law firm.
7 HANDLE WITH CARE, by Jodi Picoult. (Atria, $27.95.) A woman whose daughter has a dangerous birth defect must decide whether to sue her obstetrician, an old friend.
8 FATALLY FLAKY, by Diane Mott Davidson. (William Morrow, $25.99.) The caterer Goldy Schulz tries to outwit a killer on the grounds of an Aspen spa.
9 THE GUERNSEY LITERARY AND POTATO PEEL PIE SOCIETY, by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows. (Dial, $22.) A journalist meets the island’s old Nazi resisters.
10 BONEMAN'S DAUGHTERS, by Ted Dekker. (Center Street, $24.99.) The hunt for a serial killer of young women.
11 ONE SECOND AFTER, by William R. Forstchen. (Forge, $24.95.) A retired Army colonel in North Carolina protects his family when a nuclear blast disables the power grid.
12 PRAYERS FOR SALE, by Sandra Dallas. (St. Martin’s, $24.95.) A friendship between two women in a Colorado mountain town in the 1930s.
13 PERFECT FIFTHS, by Megan McCafferty. (Crown, $22.) The final book in the Jessica Darling series.
14 THE HELP, by Kathryn Stockett. (Amy Einhorn/Putnam, $24.95.) A young white woman and two black maids in 1960s Mississippi.
15 TRUE DETECTIVES, by Jonathan Kellerman. (Ballantine, $27.) In the 24th Alex Delaware novel, the interracial half-brothers from “Bones” investigate a young woman’s death.
Also Selling
16 CURSED, by Carol Higgins Clark (Scribner)
17 BORDERLINE, by Nevada Barr (Putnam)
18 CORSAIR, by Clive Cussler and Jack Du Brul (Putnam)
19 THE GEOMETRY OF SISTERS, by Luanne Rice (Bantam)
20 MALICE, by Lisa Jackson (Kensington)
21 LAVENDER MORNING, by Jude Deveraux (Atria)
22 THE FORGOTTEN GARDEN, by Kate Morton (Atria)
23 ONCE A RUNNER, by John L. Parker Jr. (Scribner)
24 OUTCAST, by Aaron Allston (Del Rey/Ballantine)
25 RUN FOR YOUR LIFE, by James Patterson and Michael Ledwidge (Little, Brown)
26 ABOUT FACE, by Donna Leon (Atlantic)
27 HEART AND SOUL, by Maeve Binchy (Knopf)
28 SMOOTH TALKING STRANGER, by Lisa Kleypas (St. Martin’s)
29 THE LOST QUILTER, by Jennifer Chiaverini (Simon & Schuster)
30 THE STORY OF EDGAR SAWTELLE, by David Wroblewski (Ecco) First Chapter
31 THE SONG IS YOU, by Arthur Phillips (Random House)
32 THE LONG FALL, by Walter Mosley (Riverhead)
33 MISS JULIA DELIVERS THE GOODS, by Ann B. Ross and Ann Ross (Viking)
34 EVERYTHING RAVAGED, EVERYTHING BURNED, by Wells Tower (Farrar, Straus & Giroux)
35 A RELIABLE WIFE, by Robert Goolrick (Algonquin)
1 JUST TAKE MY HEART, by Mary Higgins Clark. (Simon & Schuster, $25.95.) A detective who has had a heart transplant discovers that her life is at risk when she tries a murder case.
2 LOOK AGAIN, by Lisa Scottoline. (St. Martin’s, $26.95.) A reporter learns that her adopted son may have been abducted from his birth mother.
3 RUINED BY READING, by Mayank Austen Soofi. (Penguin Group (USA), $25.95.) A young bibliophile while searching for love in Delhi confuses fiction with fact and meets a tragic fate.
4 LONG LOST, by Harlan Coben. (Dutton, $27.95.) As Myron Bolitar helps an ex-lover who has become a suspect in her husband’s death, they search for her daughter.
5 THE HOST, by Stephenie Meyer. (Little, Brown, $25.99.) Aliens have taken control of the minds and bodies of most humans, but one woman won’t surrender.
6 THE ASSOCIATE, by John Grisham. (Doubleday, $27.95.) An idealistic law-school graduate is forced to take a job at a large, brutalizing law firm.
7 HANDLE WITH CARE, by Jodi Picoult. (Atria, $27.95.) A woman whose daughter has a dangerous birth defect must decide whether to sue her obstetrician, an old friend.
8 FATALLY FLAKY, by Diane Mott Davidson. (William Morrow, $25.99.) The caterer Goldy Schulz tries to outwit a killer on the grounds of an Aspen spa.
9 THE GUERNSEY LITERARY AND POTATO PEEL PIE SOCIETY, by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows. (Dial, $22.) A journalist meets the island’s old Nazi resisters.
10 BONEMAN'S DAUGHTERS, by Ted Dekker. (Center Street, $24.99.) The hunt for a serial killer of young women.
11 ONE SECOND AFTER, by William R. Forstchen. (Forge, $24.95.) A retired Army colonel in North Carolina protects his family when a nuclear blast disables the power grid.
12 PRAYERS FOR SALE, by Sandra Dallas. (St. Martin’s, $24.95.) A friendship between two women in a Colorado mountain town in the 1930s.
13 PERFECT FIFTHS, by Megan McCafferty. (Crown, $22.) The final book in the Jessica Darling series.
14 THE HELP, by Kathryn Stockett. (Amy Einhorn/Putnam, $24.95.) A young white woman and two black maids in 1960s Mississippi.
15 TRUE DETECTIVES, by Jonathan Kellerman. (Ballantine, $27.) In the 24th Alex Delaware novel, the interracial half-brothers from “Bones” investigate a young woman’s death.
Also Selling
16 CURSED, by Carol Higgins Clark (Scribner)
17 BORDERLINE, by Nevada Barr (Putnam)
18 CORSAIR, by Clive Cussler and Jack Du Brul (Putnam)
19 THE GEOMETRY OF SISTERS, by Luanne Rice (Bantam)
20 MALICE, by Lisa Jackson (Kensington)
21 LAVENDER MORNING, by Jude Deveraux (Atria)
22 THE FORGOTTEN GARDEN, by Kate Morton (Atria)
23 ONCE A RUNNER, by John L. Parker Jr. (Scribner)
24 OUTCAST, by Aaron Allston (Del Rey/Ballantine)
25 RUN FOR YOUR LIFE, by James Patterson and Michael Ledwidge (Little, Brown)
26 ABOUT FACE, by Donna Leon (Atlantic)
27 HEART AND SOUL, by Maeve Binchy (Knopf)
28 SMOOTH TALKING STRANGER, by Lisa Kleypas (St. Martin’s)
29 THE LOST QUILTER, by Jennifer Chiaverini (Simon & Schuster)
30 THE STORY OF EDGAR SAWTELLE, by David Wroblewski (Ecco) First Chapter
31 THE SONG IS YOU, by Arthur Phillips (Random House)
32 THE LONG FALL, by Walter Mosley (Riverhead)
33 MISS JULIA DELIVERS THE GOODS, by Ann B. Ross and Ann Ross (Viking)
34 EVERYTHING RAVAGED, EVERYTHING BURNED, by Wells Tower (Farrar, Straus & Giroux)
35 A RELIABLE WIFE, by Robert Goolrick (Algonquin)
Monday, May 04, 2009
Caught in a storm, with Tolstoy
The storm pressing onto my chest, legs, flapping J’s big tee, pushing me back, not letting me walk ahead. The sand whirring around, crashing into my eyes, shutting them close. The summer's first aandhi blackening the evening skies when the daylight could've stayed a little longer and hardly anyone on the footpath. Spooky to be alone and exposed but no, a few huddled there at the bus shelter. Chhhhsssssstcchhhhh... What clashing noise. Scary. Some tin shed flying somewhere. This neem tree shaking wildly. Quick before it falls on me. I don't wanna die. Lightning. What! Rain drops. Must quickly to the subway. Can't let War and Peace (Vintage Classics paperback; translated by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky) go wet. Some window broken it seems. This time am sure I'll finish it. The ear insides feeling crusty. I mean I've grown up. Won't leave books in between. Have almost stopped going to Khan Market, stopped buying books daily. What if the glass shard comes flying into my neck? Methinks I can stay loyal to a novel. Start it, get into it, breathe it, stay on till the end. More drops now. Must hurry. Am not reading anything but this Tolstoy but Shakespeare? Such a musical edition. Must run. The yellowed pages, the old-world fonts, the strange-sweet smell. The subway still away. Don't know how it's being treated. Where it is? Still in the auto or somebody flicked it from the backside? Shit, it's raining. One day me and Kasim had walked in an evening like this but that was Nehru Park. The copy that Kasim's mother gave is nice but it's not that Shakespeare but that's silly for J says editions don't matter. Oh Tolstoy, you'll be ruined. Words do. And still have to find Aga Shahid Ali for her. Hah, here am I. Leo, you safe here. Am opening you. I think I like Prince Andrey. He's like... phone(!)
Me: Hello. Yes, Papa. I'll be late. Yeah, aandhi. Yes, Papa. Ok. Haan. No. I never said I won't marry. Papa, can't talk now, battery dying. The rain's not stopping. Will reach late. Traffic jam. Bye.
Me: Hello. Yes, Papa. I'll be late. Yeah, aandhi. Yes, Papa. Ok. Haan. No. I never said I won't marry. Papa, can't talk now, battery dying. The rain's not stopping. Will reach late. Traffic jam. Bye.
Sunday, May 03, 2009
Have you ever masturbated in the British Library?
Walking past American Center, it's bloody hot, going down the subway, coming up on Scindia House side, entering British Council. Wickham teaching creative writing somewhere in this building. Upping the stairs, intoing the library. Should I call Wick? But he's not picking my call. Didn't come to P'n'P too, God, bum still hurting but stuff happens but Wick? First he followed me, I wasn't interested, isthatguygay(?), then called me at his pad, I didn’t want to but he dangled the Arundhati Roy carrot and there we made love and now when I've begun to sort of like him, he has gone missing. That's what happens. Perhaps he is. When you don’t care for a person, he's always around you; you start liking him, he runs away. I thought I would never be able to love anyone except J who can never be my possession but then there was Kasim but he hardly read any book but Wickham... he is different, though not even close to J. Still you can have more than a blow job with him. He loves Arundhati Roy, has read all the Austens, read them again and he has nice light-brown eyes, thin lips, hairy chest... sheeew, am having an erection but people everywhere. How can anyone read in a library? These books don't belong to them. Hmm, 1000 Years of English Literature? This is large. This will fit. Me going to that corner couch. Safer there. No one will see. Now who must it be this time? J? Kasim? Wick? Hugh Jackman? No, Colin Firth! He getting up from his bathtub and a butler covering his backside with a robe. And look, that butler is me. It's getting chirped up. Colin Firth looking down from the window and watching Lizzie running with dogs. Look, that Lizzie is me. Notsosoonbaby notsosoon. Colin Firth getting off his horse, jumping into the lake, taking a dive, it's uncontrollable it's shaking, getting out, walking down the Pemberley hill and coming across Liz...Me. WHY THE FUCK AM THINKING OF J! Colin Firth catching Wickham making love to a whore. J DON'T BE A SPOILER! Look, that slut must be me. And am saying yes, yes, Wick, deeper, harder, Wickwickwick... Oh no, Mr Darcymrdarcymrdarcymrdarcy, JYOUGO, Iamcoming, I’mcoming, YOU GO, YesMrDarcy, imcomingWick... come. J.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
I went to Kasim's home in Daryaganj and his mother gave me her father's Shakespeare
Take it. I'm no longer possessive about these things. It's not the same you lost but this Shakespeare too is old. Kasim rarely flipped through it. He was never a reader but you must be knowing that. He would buy books but won't read them though after he became your dost, he asked me for Jane Austens and kept them in his room. I doubt if he read even a single one. Don't you think he would have discussed it with me? Or he talked her with you? By the way, you bring that Aga Shahid Ali? No, it's ok. Take your time. I'm in no hurry. I still find it difficult to concentrate and good you came else I wouldn't have entered his room. All his pictures are inside this almirah. Can't open it. No courage. I haven't even removed the cover of his computer since he left for the hospital but will do after the chaleeswa. You'll come then, huh? Once that's done, I'll start cooking meat. You like mutton? Arre, why you not having kharbooza? I cut it for you; it's very meetha. Look, here's our Jane Austen. You know my walid was an English teacher in a school in Ballimaran. He was as good in angrezi as he was in Urdu. He recited Ghalib one moment, Shakespeare the other, but he was no good in Hindi. We would laugh. Haan, this Shakespeare is his. I would've never parted with it but now it doesn't matter. Arre haan, I'm planning to re-read Sense and Sensibility. Will you read with me? And next time remember Aga Shahid Ali. We can read him too together but no, you must be a busy person; I must not bother you. I can always read alone but I'm scared. Maybe I'll never be able to read again.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
I thought he was Shakespeare...
Shakespeare lost. Wickham nowhere here in P'n’P, am having vodka. It's more than midnight but the crowd still trooping in but on the dance floor there's just one slim boy dancing to Lady Gaga's Poker Face. His smooth chest, gelled hair shining in the blinking strobe. He's shaking shoulders, whipping his flat belly, waving his arms, leaping, jumping, flying, legs hardly touching the floor. Roving eyes resting on him but he'll never kiss me and so am going up the stairs. Men-boys coming down, going up, no eye falling on me, oh, smoky here but I love this cigarette smell but somebody hug me please.
Where you Wickham? Come soon, sit on this sofa, I'll sit on you. Odd being alone. They must be thinking I've no friend, no lover. Wickham, come. Why your phone switched off? Can't even talk to Kasim. He's dead. J too not here. Shakespeare too lost. Am calling the Stranger-from-Bombay-who-sends-me-surprise-books-but-whom-I've-never-met but the ring going on and on and on. Sms! It's Papa:
Where r u
Sorry, don't need your love. Want J. if not J, Wick. If not Wick, Kasim... but he's dead. The Stranger? The autowalla who fucked me this noon? Sms(!)
Where r u
If I was one of these two boys there... their kisses so passionate, he squeezing him, he embracing him. Hey you, wet my lips too, ears, eyes, too. Bite me, bite me. Am walking to the dance floor. The DJ playing Slumdog.
Ring ring ringa ring ring where r u ringa ring ring ringa ringa ringa hips pushing right, left, forward, backward where r u ring ring ringa ring ring ringa ring shoulders hopping ahead on their own ring ringa ringa ringa who groping my back ring ring ringa ring ring ringa Shakespeare(!) ring ring you back ringa where r u ring ring ringa I thought I’ve lost you where r u ringa ring can't hear you music so loud ring ringa what you saying we go to your car outside ring ring ringa where r u Shakespeare got a BMW ring ring ringa yes yes I like it ring ring ringa hey you hurting me where r u no let me go out ring ring ringa Idon'twanttodoit this no Shakespeare ringa ring ring this some other man where r u ring ring ringa please please don't Papa come Papa take me home ring ring ringa where r u ring ring ringa ring you bastard ring ringa ring ring ringa ringa ringa...
Where you Wickham? Come soon, sit on this sofa, I'll sit on you. Odd being alone. They must be thinking I've no friend, no lover. Wickham, come. Why your phone switched off? Can't even talk to Kasim. He's dead. J too not here. Shakespeare too lost. Am calling the Stranger-from-Bombay-who-sends-me-surprise-books-but-whom-I've-never-met but the ring going on and on and on. Sms! It's Papa:
Where r u
Sorry, don't need your love. Want J. if not J, Wick. If not Wick, Kasim... but he's dead. The Stranger? The autowalla who fucked me this noon? Sms(!)
Where r u
If I was one of these two boys there... their kisses so passionate, he squeezing him, he embracing him. Hey you, wet my lips too, ears, eyes, too. Bite me, bite me. Am walking to the dance floor. The DJ playing Slumdog.
Ring ring ringa ring ring where r u ringa ring ring ringa ringa ringa hips pushing right, left, forward, backward where r u ring ring ringa ring ring ringa ring shoulders hopping ahead on their own ring ringa ringa ringa who groping my back ring ring ringa ring ring ringa Shakespeare(!) ring ring you back ringa where r u ring ring ringa I thought I’ve lost you where r u ringa ring can't hear you music so loud ring ringa what you saying we go to your car outside ring ring ringa where r u Shakespeare got a BMW ring ring ringa yes yes I like it ring ring ringa hey you hurting me where r u no let me go out ring ring ringa Idon'twanttodoit this no Shakespeare ringa ring ring this some other man where r u ring ring ringa please please don't Papa come Papa take me home ring ring ringa where r u ring ring ringa ring you bastard ring ringa ring ring ringa ringa ringa...
Monday, April 27, 2009
Before making out in an auto, I remember a carefree evening in India Gate; later I lose my precious Willie
In CP. Looking for an auto. P'n'P tonight? Ae bhayya(!) Nizamuddin, haan, Nizamuddin Basti. But can’t dance, no one will come to me, will have to fake smiles pretending to enjoy my own company. Nahin bhayya, by meter. And there they charge 500 bucks. Wickham won’t pay for me. Better buy something from the Bahrisons. But no, no books. Can’t get wiser by adding more to the collection. Have to also search for Aga Shahid Ali for Kasim's mother. Don't know where it's buried. One Shakespeare enough for a lifetime. Bhayya, carefully! And this Will so rare. Stamped with 'For Her Majesty’s Forces'. No date anywhere but obviously a wartime edition. Which war? The first or the second? But J cares for the written word, not the edition. 'Made and printed in Great Britain'. Don't want to flip through it. The paper’s so delicate. A little rough and it will tear off. J can recite the entire Hamlet from memory. But this Complete Will's so lovely. Got it from Daryaganj. Lemme kiss it. India Gate traffic light.
Never came with J here but screamed Shakespeare insults, next to the pond, to Kasim. Your virginity breeds mites, much like a cheese... ha ha ha, gosh, the autowalla is... what arms. Bhayya, where you from... Kasim too was laughing... Banaras? A sudden jerk, me yanking forward, the hand brushing bhayya's back, he looking at the rearview mirror. At me.
Your bum is the greatest thing about you. We both laughing. Me standing up. Kasim lying down, palms cupped beneath his head, making me forget J. For a while.
The auto now turning right, up the Raisina Hill... this is not the way to the Basti... am no longer thinking of J, never thought of Kasim this much when he was alive, now we turning left of Vijay Chowk, going straight, stopping at North Avenue.
In front of the Cathedral Church of Redemption. No one here. Bhayya switches off the engine, get out, coming into my seat while my lips shaking like two blushing pilgrims, the heart hopping forward... Shakespeare, you go to the back... his hands moving up my thighs, mine closing down on his back, and the sun’s getting fucking hot, the brain vapourising. Papa, J, Kasim, Shakespeare, all vanishing into the air. No sensation left but of his and the entire world flying into this CNG auto, fitting into this backseat... stopit, a DTC(!) Gone. Am relaxing again, opening up, he's rough, rude... but now J, gentle, loving, coming back, and am reaching the Basti, getting off, bhayya driving off. Feeling dirty, will take a showe... hey, my Shakespeare(!), the auto's gone.
Never came with J here but screamed Shakespeare insults, next to the pond, to Kasim. Your virginity breeds mites, much like a cheese... ha ha ha, gosh, the autowalla is... what arms. Bhayya, where you from... Kasim too was laughing... Banaras? A sudden jerk, me yanking forward, the hand brushing bhayya's back, he looking at the rearview mirror. At me.
Your bum is the greatest thing about you. We both laughing. Me standing up. Kasim lying down, palms cupped beneath his head, making me forget J. For a while.
The auto now turning right, up the Raisina Hill... this is not the way to the Basti... am no longer thinking of J, never thought of Kasim this much when he was alive, now we turning left of Vijay Chowk, going straight, stopping at North Avenue.
In front of the Cathedral Church of Redemption. No one here. Bhayya switches off the engine, get out, coming into my seat while my lips shaking like two blushing pilgrims, the heart hopping forward... Shakespeare, you go to the back... his hands moving up my thighs, mine closing down on his back, and the sun’s getting fucking hot, the brain vapourising. Papa, J, Kasim, Shakespeare, all vanishing into the air. No sensation left but of his and the entire world flying into this CNG auto, fitting into this backseat... stopit, a DTC(!) Gone. Am relaxing again, opening up, he's rough, rude... but now J, gentle, loving, coming back, and am reaching the Basti, getting off, bhayya driving off. Feeling dirty, will take a showe... hey, my Shakespeare(!), the auto's gone.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Books of The Times - 'Ruined by Reading', by Mayank Austen Soofi
The Definitive Delhi Novel
Reviewed by MICHIKO KAKUTANI
321 pages. Penguin group (USA). $23.
Published: April 25, 2009
"Ruined by Reading," Mayank Austen Soofi's affecting first novel that was posthumously awarded Man's Bookers Prize last week (Mr Soofi killed himself in March, 2009) begins as a sort of diary entries of a lonely book lover. What novels to buy today? Where to find a lover? What to do in the evening? Can I read the entire Proust? Should I really buy a Khaled Hosseni? Will I again masturbate this morning?
While such oddly unfocused questions may sound banal and crude, they provide the narrative beginning of a novel that turns out to be as strange as it is powerful, a novel that is Baldwinian in its ambitious tackling of sexuality and loneliness and big-city life, but self-absorbed to the point of narcissism.
A newspaper reporter who grew up in Delhi, India, Mr. Soofi creates a hysterical story of an enduring romantic passion and a love of books that juxtapose into each other in chapters as short as a blog post. Set in Delhi against a backdrop of traditional religious and sexual taboos, his story depicts the catastrophic confluence of events – it remains unclear till the end that they were real or just the fevered imaginations of the protagonist who is an aspiring novelist - that bring about three suicides: by consuming arsenic, by being devoured in a fire and by jumping from an ancient tower.
Although Mr. Soofi's graphic sex scenes combine with an I-Me-Myself obsession to create the impression of a coming-out-declaration-disguised-as-a-fiction (his work has already been compared in India to that of Gonzalo Daveouz Melcón), the most moving, revelatory and introspective moments in "Ruined by Reading" do not occur on the double bed or around the family dining table; they are to be found in a Muslim shrine, a Mughal emperor's tomb, in a metro train. As one of his characters wonders: "Am I losing faith? Last night even the Dargah was a dud. I mean I did my number - reciting the fatiha, kissing the pillar, swallowing the rose petal - but nothing stirred inside the heart."
Writing from the point of view of a young man who is the namesake of the author, Mr. Soofi does a marvelous job of conjuring the inner world of a serious booklover, his sense of hardbounds and first editions, the joy of re-readings, the pleasure of buying even if not reading those books, the frustration of not finding the desired translation and a single-minded pursuit which wouldn't care to consider the moral argument of stealing somebody else's precious volume.
Parallel to this pursuit of reading, especially the works of Jane Austen and the novel of Arundhati Roy, runs a quest to find true love. Mr. Soofi's central character, other than rummaging forgotten books in Delhi's various independently-owned bookstores, is almost frantically hunting for a lover, and if not lover, a sex-mate in the city's various ghettos, tombs, mosques, discos, cafés, parks, buses, markets and ruins and thereby, almost unconsciously, making this the most definitive modern-day Delhi novel.
Through this young lonely man's egoistical world, we are introduced to his family, friends and lovers. There's his father, called just Papa, a worried man who is unable to comprehend why his son is refusing to be married when "everyone has the desire for reproduction". There's his part-time lover, Geroge Wickham, a fellow Arundhati Roy reader and an English teacher in British Council, who has come all the way from England only to meet a terrible fate. There's his friend, Kasim - who appears in the novel only after his untimely death - and Kasim's grief-stricken mother, a follower of Jane Austen. Both mother and son together speed up the growing madness of our hero. And then there's the sensible J, the ice-cool Mr. Darcy of this fast-paced, crazy novel.
Mr. Soofi gives us a richly pictorial feel of this book-ridden world where the living are as much unreal, or real, as the characters of say, a Pride and Prejudice or The God of Small Things. In fact, a few literary figures of such famous novels merge into the actual people of Mr. Soofi's novel and occasionally it becomes difficult to separate the two.
"Ruined by Reading" also raises questions about the craft of novel-writing. How much of it can be soaked from the surrounding world? How much fact has to be peddled into a fiction and how to make the latter look real and yet not compromise with its novelistic dimesions? And is it ethical to discreetly borrow snippets from the lives of real people and transplant them into what is passed off as a work of art?
If Mr. Soofi is assured in his narrative pace, the high melodramatic quotient becomes a little overbearing and threatens to bring down the haunting magic of his remarkable tale. Towards the climax, the plot loses its remaining coherency and rushes to a racy, breathless, exhilarating motion blur where fact becomes fiction (or is it otherwise?) and the reader is left hanging in wonder as the novel ends abruptly in a violent splash. Too bad we would never get to read a second novel by Mr. Soofi.
A version of this article appeared in print on April 24, 2009, on page C27 of the New York edition.
Reviewed by MICHIKO KAKUTANI
321 pages. Penguin group (USA). $23.
Published: April 25, 2009
"Ruined by Reading," Mayank Austen Soofi's affecting first novel that was posthumously awarded Man's Bookers Prize last week (Mr Soofi killed himself in March, 2009) begins as a sort of diary entries of a lonely book lover. What novels to buy today? Where to find a lover? What to do in the evening? Can I read the entire Proust? Should I really buy a Khaled Hosseni? Will I again masturbate this morning?
While such oddly unfocused questions may sound banal and crude, they provide the narrative beginning of a novel that turns out to be as strange as it is powerful, a novel that is Baldwinian in its ambitious tackling of sexuality and loneliness and big-city life, but self-absorbed to the point of narcissism.
A newspaper reporter who grew up in Delhi, India, Mr. Soofi creates a hysterical story of an enduring romantic passion and a love of books that juxtapose into each other in chapters as short as a blog post. Set in Delhi against a backdrop of traditional religious and sexual taboos, his story depicts the catastrophic confluence of events – it remains unclear till the end that they were real or just the fevered imaginations of the protagonist who is an aspiring novelist - that bring about three suicides: by consuming arsenic, by being devoured in a fire and by jumping from an ancient tower.
Although Mr. Soofi's graphic sex scenes combine with an I-Me-Myself obsession to create the impression of a coming-out-declaration-disguised-as-a-fiction (his work has already been compared in India to that of Gonzalo Daveouz Melcón), the most moving, revelatory and introspective moments in "Ruined by Reading" do not occur on the double bed or around the family dining table; they are to be found in a Muslim shrine, a Mughal emperor's tomb, in a metro train. As one of his characters wonders: "Am I losing faith? Last night even the Dargah was a dud. I mean I did my number - reciting the fatiha, kissing the pillar, swallowing the rose petal - but nothing stirred inside the heart."
Writing from the point of view of a young man who is the namesake of the author, Mr. Soofi does a marvelous job of conjuring the inner world of a serious booklover, his sense of hardbounds and first editions, the joy of re-readings, the pleasure of buying even if not reading those books, the frustration of not finding the desired translation and a single-minded pursuit which wouldn't care to consider the moral argument of stealing somebody else's precious volume.
Parallel to this pursuit of reading, especially the works of Jane Austen and the novel of Arundhati Roy, runs a quest to find true love. Mr. Soofi's central character, other than rummaging forgotten books in Delhi's various independently-owned bookstores, is almost frantically hunting for a lover, and if not lover, a sex-mate in the city's various ghettos, tombs, mosques, discos, cafés, parks, buses, markets and ruins and thereby, almost unconsciously, making this the most definitive modern-day Delhi novel.
Through this young lonely man's egoistical world, we are introduced to his family, friends and lovers. There's his father, called just Papa, a worried man who is unable to comprehend why his son is refusing to be married when "everyone has the desire for reproduction". There's his part-time lover, Geroge Wickham, a fellow Arundhati Roy reader and an English teacher in British Council, who has come all the way from England only to meet a terrible fate. There's his friend, Kasim - who appears in the novel only after his untimely death - and Kasim's grief-stricken mother, a follower of Jane Austen. Both mother and son together speed up the growing madness of our hero. And then there's the sensible J, the ice-cool Mr. Darcy of this fast-paced, crazy novel.
Mr. Soofi gives us a richly pictorial feel of this book-ridden world where the living are as much unreal, or real, as the characters of say, a Pride and Prejudice or The God of Small Things. In fact, a few literary figures of such famous novels merge into the actual people of Mr. Soofi's novel and occasionally it becomes difficult to separate the two.
"Ruined by Reading" also raises questions about the craft of novel-writing. How much of it can be soaked from the surrounding world? How much fact has to be peddled into a fiction and how to make the latter look real and yet not compromise with its novelistic dimesions? And is it ethical to discreetly borrow snippets from the lives of real people and transplant them into what is passed off as a work of art?
If Mr. Soofi is assured in his narrative pace, the high melodramatic quotient becomes a little overbearing and threatens to bring down the haunting magic of his remarkable tale. Towards the climax, the plot loses its remaining coherency and rushes to a racy, breathless, exhilarating motion blur where fact becomes fiction (or is it otherwise?) and the reader is left hanging in wonder as the novel ends abruptly in a violent splash. Too bad we would never get to read a second novel by Mr. Soofi.
A version of this article appeared in print on April 24, 2009, on page C27 of the New York edition.
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