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sitanshi talati-parikh

sitanshi talati-parikh

Tag Archives: Indian Fiction

The ‘John Grishams’ of Banking

05 Monday Aug 2013

Posted by sitanshi talati-parikh in Art, Literature & Culture, Publication: Verve Magazine

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Books, Indian Fiction, Reviews, Trend, Verve Magazine

Published: Nerve Books-Trend, Verve Magazine, August 2013

While John Grisham turned from criminal lawyer to legal thriller novelist, our local boys are also finding dramatic success in writing. What makes the finance geeks and diplomats turn into vivid storytellers?

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A banker friend looks enviously at my job description and makes a comment about how much fun it all seems to be. There’s some talk about doing something because you love doing it, not because of the money. Ahem. Who needs money, today, right? With inflation, it’s so easy to live on air, water and ink. And then an email pops into my inbox, informing me that the ‘John Grisham of Banking’ is out with a new book. Ravi Subramanian, winner of the Economist-Crossword award for The Incredible Banker is going to be jumping headlong into financial scams, university intrigue and politics, all of which will lead to murder. Subramanian is an alumus of IIM-Bangalore and a banker by profession. Sounds familiar? The often impudently positioned Chetan Bhagat comes to mind. He brought the IIM-havens into our homes, making us feel one with his world particularly through his clever non-language. Bhagat, for those unfamiliar with India’s educator-of-the-masses, is an investment banker hailing from IIM-Ahmedabad. He quit his career to become a full-time bestseller writer. In 2010, Time magazine named him one of the most influential people in the world.

And there’s the case of Shiva taking on the avatar of Lakshmi! The brainchild of an alumnus of IIM-Calcutta, Amish Tripathi’s The Shiva Trilogy has broken records in terms of book sales, becoming the fastest selling book series in the history of Indian publishing, with 1.7 million copies in print and over Rs 40 crores in sales. His books have been known to displace Bhagat’s on bookshelves. It’s surprising there hasn’t been any mass uprising against that. Forbes India has ranked him #85 in the 2012 Celebrity 100 list, while Dharma Productions has optioned the movie rights to his book, The Immortals of Meluha.

Vikas Swarup, from the Indian Foreign Services (IFS), and currently Consul General of India in Osaka-Kobe, Japan, has found an alternative career in writing to go with his day job. For those unfamiliar with Swarup’s name, he’s the mastermind behind Slumdog Millionaire – in its original novel form of Q&A.

They’ve made literature sexy – because of their success stories, but does the fact that they have come from management backgrounds and position their pen against the end goal of a fat bottom-line enable them to write themselves into money? If Tripathi is to be believed, the right kind of marketing can be the key to success, after all, his marketing and finance background have hugely helped him in the process. He approached bookstores to distribute free copies of the first chapter of his debut novel. He created video trailers and screened them at multiplexes for his sequel. For the last in the trilogy, he released a music album – all of these being marketing firsts for books. Bhagat is a player in the field of self-marketing, whether direct or through his opinion pieces and articles.

Finance and marketing geeks work hard and tend to get burnt out. They make a pot load of money and then ship out to a more reasonable version of their current profession. But is it that simple? With the way the banking and finance world runs and the state of the world economy, is it just timely and brilliant that these smart mavericks have found a way to quit a strenuous job and make a mark in the world of the Arts? Can it be a happy marriage? Tripathi’s read up on how to write (Stephen King’s On Writing), he’s made Excel sheets with date plans and character sketches in Word documents. Eventually, he learned to go with the flow. Not to forget his first attempt got rejected 20 times. But then a merger and acquisition deal or a marketing pitch can take months of hard work before falling through. Does that give you the patience and inner strength to deal with rejection and wait for success?

These men would have us believe that it’s possible to write a good story and have the readers flocking to you. Each of them has found a hook – even if they often get critiqued for poor writing and editing. Bhagat is proud of the fact that he has got those who never read to start reading. But they are selling a story – and it’s a good one and largely, ‘in the language of the common man.’ While writers write, and wait for a good peg, these young men have stories to tell – the writing is incidental to the tale. It’s like a business proposition – you think of a good business idea and kick-start it; making it happen is merely execution. So you lose the beauty of language and the metaphors of thought; you don’t get literature, you get entertainment. Popular culture provides your money’s worth, something worth writing home about, and these are the kings of pop culture.

And the applause comes from everywhere. Their books get sold for movie rights: Vikas Swarup’s Q&A, became Slumdog Millionaire catapulting him to more fame than he would have envisioned. Bhagat, already hugely successful in his own right, reached new peaks with movies like 3 Idiots and Kai Po Che being made from his books. We’ll have to see where Dharma’s version of Tripathi’s story takes him.

But more importantly, it seems they may have set the benchmarks higher. A woman today may no longer stand back and say, ‘I wish to have a man who can serenade me with wit – or money.’ Instead, she is more likely to say, ‘I wish to lie with a man spinning tales of sweet fortune.’ Can any ordinary man ever measure up? And while we are at it, can there ever be an Excel spreadsheet that outlines how one can become a successful writer, mathematical formulae et al?

“Books don’t end fantasies – real life does!” Interview with Rupa Gulab

26 Monday Jul 2010

Posted by sitanshi talati-parikh in Art, Literature & Culture, Interviews (All), Interviews: The Arts, Publication: Verve Magazine

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Indian Fiction, Interview, Literature, Rupa Gulab, vervemagazine

Published: Verve Magazine, Features, July 2010

Irrepressible fiction writer Rupa Gulab is back with another tale to tell, the story of 40-something Mantra who quits her job and battles everything that can possibly go wrong at that time in her life, exploring the vicissitudes of midlife crises. Sitanshi Talati Parikh in a freewheeling chat with the author

What’s fun? Writing the book or planning the book?
Planning a book is great fun. You just scribble notes while you’re lazing in bed eating chocolates and feel like you’ve accomplished a big deal! Writing a book, however, is hard work. My characters rarely act according to my plans – they’re stubborn, annoying, and insist on doing their own thing. It’s a huge struggle making them toe the line – very often, I have this overpowering urge to get them brutally murdered. Maybe I should start writing crime novels instead!

As you grow older, do your characters age with you?
That’s not strictly true. My next book after Girl Alone was for a younger target audience (Chip of the Old Blockhead) – a thirteen-year-old coming to terms with the fact that her divorced parents are falling in love with each other again – and experiencing her first crush as well. I don’t necessarily write for my own age group – I like to believe that I write for women of all ages.

Situations are not really funny when they are happening are they? But in retrospect….
Oh, I absolutely agree – everything looks better in retrospect. I always make it a point to look back with laughter. When you continue to be bitter and resentful, you need to consume gallons of antacids – and I hate, hate, hate antacids – they taste like chalk!

Do you think it really helps an average woman to read about another and find solace?
Yes it does help – particularly if you identify with the character’s problems. Why do you think chick lit always sells? Most single women enjoy reading about the trials and tribulations of other single women. You don’t feel so alone then. It’s a great comfort read. A Girl Alone fan once told me that she re-reads my book on those date-less Friday nights.

So it’s the end of fantasy for women?
Books don’t end fantasies – real life does!

Is there a greater social comment about a woman like Mantra, who feels a loss of control over her life?
I wouldn’t say that it’s a social comment. It’s just something that happens to most of us when we hit the big four-oh. That’s when you realise that almost half your life is over and the other half is not remotely attractive or promising at all: wrinkles, failing eyesight, depression and the desperate, irrational feeling that this is your very last chance to achieve what you really, really want; whether it’s your love life, career, whatever.

Mantra is placed in a higher social bracket. But a woman doesn’t become secure without basic financial trouble does she?
Money can’t buy happiness. We all learn that – sometimes the hard way.

Do you ever find the man in your stories insecure, or is it just the woman?
In my first book, Girl Alone, only the female characters were insecure. That’s because they were in their late twenties/early thirties: single, psycho and looking for love. The male characters were, as men that age usually are, rabid commitment-phobes. In The Great Depression of the 40s, all the characters are insecure about different things – including the three male characters. Vir is worried about losing his job – his stress levels are extremely high. While Karan doesn’t dissuade his wife from meeting her ex-boyfriend, he’s not exactly comfortable with it – the wily fox needs to see them interact every now and then to get a feel of the situation. And the college-going Rohan is miserable and mopey when his cool girlfriend insists on a no strings attached relationship. In the real world, everyone is insecure!

It sounds like you pretty much put into words what you are thinking….
I write exactly as I think. And the reason why I mainly do satire is because I can see through most people and situations. I have to confess that I have the most horrible, terrible nicknames for people in my head – but you can’t blame me for it because I got this from my mum. What can I say – I have lousy genes!

What do you turn, to read?
I’m a fairly eclectic reader, but I stick to fiction. Mainly humour, with a little bit of intensity every now and then. I have way too many favourite authors to list, but I must say that P.G. Wodehouse continues to be a hot favourite. He’s a great pick-me-up when I’m down. He dries tears better than Kleenex tissues.

So you’ve knocked out the 30s, 40s and the teens. What’s next?
I have two strong plots in mind – one for young adults and the other for the chick lit brigade, but I have no idea right now which one I’ll go with eventually. I just want to flake out for a bit – the characters in The Great Depression of the 40s have left me emotionally drained. I really should have killed a few of them!

THE GREAT DEPRESSION OF THE 40s
Rupa Gulab
Penguin India

Gulab’s sardonic wit hasn’t dissipated over time, in fact it has become more reined in with it’s well-crafted barbs. While you warm to the characters, and envision their lives in a midlife crisis, it helps you understand relationships and people as they change with time. The insecurities are all the same, the circumstances and decisions to deal with those insecurities vary. Gulab’s self-referencing – with her lead character attempting to write a novel and towards the end of the story reaching the idea of The Great Depression of the 40s – serves the purpose of reminding the readers that they are like one of the characters in some way, either pining for a bygone time, or harping for something out of their reach. If Gulab were to concentrate less on structured witticism, more on the depth of her characters, especially the male ones, the book would be eminently heart-warming, but would lack the punch that makes it inherently her own style. ‘Marriage ruthlessly strips away all pretences of common interests,’ is what Gulab has her protagonist thinking, and goes on to prove how fragile and yet how solid marriages can actually be. After all, as her characters prove, it is what we make of it.

To Read or To Buy?

25 Thursday Feb 2010

Posted by sitanshi talati-parikh in Musings

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Books, Indian Fiction, Literature, Thoughts

Today, I took a turn about the Strand Book Fair at Bajaj Hall, Nariman Point. There was a time, back during my college days, when I would count the days until the book fair and saved up pocket money for my No. 1 indulgence. There were some amazing deals back in the day – books piled upon books, some obscure titles, all at throw-away prices. It was fun rummaging through them and collecting a whole bunch of treasures. Today (and it has been the case recently) seeing that pitiful selection of books lined up on tables spine up, face down, sorted according to a rather unintelligible system, it made me feel sad. I felt a compulsion to buy – just coz I was there, I even picked a couple of titles up, but then put them down again. Ironically, I can indulge myself now, but the temptation is much lower. Either I have lost the maniacal desire to own that a literature student always has, or the fair was just plain boring. I’d rather go with the latter – a sign that kindles are winning over books. A shoe sale will have hordes of women pushing and shoving in an unlady-like fashion to get to that perfect stiletto. Even the plant and bonsai garden sale on Marine Drive garners more attention than the once-popular Strand Book Fair.
And it’s not just that the prices are not really tempting – it’s a bit of a sham. The discounts on the books are what is regularly offered by them in their store and by others for regular buyers. The ones with the mega deals are hardly visible. The hall looks dull and lifeless, like the line of titles not even bothering to vie for attention. Books have NEVER made me feel so dismal as the book fair has today.

 

We were recently was discussing how Danai in Bandra has a certain old
book store charm and character and how big chain stores lack that
feeling. I go to Crossowrds to grab a coffee and maybe a book. I would
go to Danai to find the book that I can’t elsewhere. Also, it is
amazing how those who run a book store have no idea where their books
are. Oxford, case in point, at Churchgate. Their staff is clueless
about the books. A big book store is just that – a shop with books. A
book shop should have real charm and character, where you can chat
with the staff knowledgebly, the owner will participate because
reading and knowledge shouldn’t be commercialised. I guess that’s what
the movie You’ve Got Mail was about. It’s happening here now, and
there’s nothing we can do to stop the art of reading becoming the
front of the salesman.

Imtiaz Ali: Happily Never After

20 Saturday Feb 2010

Posted by sitanshi talati-parikh in Art, Literature & Culture, Interviews (All), Interviews: Cinema, Publication: Verve Magazine

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Aditya Kashyap, Deepika Padukone, Geet, imtiazali, Indian Fiction, indiancinema, jabwemet, kareenakapoor, Love Aaaj Kal, Meera, Saif Ali Khan, Scriptwriting, Shahid Kapoor, vervemagazine

Published: Verve Magazine, Verve Men, February 2010

Photograph: Colston Julian; Illustration: Bappa

Imtiaz01

Director and scriptwriter of popular romantic dramas Jab We Met and Love Aaj Kal, Imtiaz Ali, does not know whether happily-ever-after exists, “since the world is designed for relationship disasters. When people decide to get together, it is not a cerebral decision or a love formula, it’s an instinctive one. The one that got away occupies a person more, and anyone who is accessible becomes ordinary. No relationship can satisfy all the needs of a person. There is a reason why love stories end when they do”. In all his movies, the director believes that if we had the opportunity of seeing what were to happen a few years down the line to his characters, post the kiss-and-make-up; we would not be guaranteed a happy ending. So in a piece of wicked cross-scripting with Sitanshi Talati-Parikh, he plots a volatile fictional love story concocted with the unrelated characters of his two films, to see what would happen if Kareena Kapoor and Saif Ali Khan’s characters, Geet (Jab We Met) and Jai (Love Aaj Kal), actually met!

Imtiaz02The Setting

Ten years after Jab We Met (about eight years after Love Aaj Kal). Geet is married to Aditya Kashyap and they have two children. Jai and Meera are also married. There is a crisis of the “end of excitement”.

The Characters
GEET, the essential free spirit, chafes under the boring normalcy of her life. She finds that Aditya Kashyap has changed – or maybe this is who he is – an industrialist who has a lot on his plate. He can’t take off anytime he chooses; having children has also changed the equation. While they balance each other out, she is haunted by the fact that now she doesn’t have a place to reach; without a destination, there is no journey. She is deeply disillusioned by the fact that she has no train to catch, nowhere to run off to with wild abandon and therefore no major thrill that keeps her going. There is a vacuum inside her, working its way towards a silent depression. Something sparks off a renaissance….

ADITYA doesn’t like the fact that his wife, Geet, talks to everyone with unnatural friendliness. This is a part of who she is, and he can’t change that, but it bothers him. He tries to bring a semblance of order in her life, but she constantly resists it. While she needs this stability to balance her out, she tends to react violently to it. Work keeps him so preoccupied that he finds he has less time and patience to pander to her impulsive needs.

JAI always believed in the concept of a live-in relationship as opposed to marriage. His love for Meera keeps him going, but the inability to walk out at any time, to experiment, to go with the flow, or change direction if he so desires, makes him feel shackled. The pressures of life are building up and he’s just looking for an escape route.

MEERA can’t seem to understand what is bothering Jai. She keeps reminding herself that this marriage is what he wanted – he had come looking for her. The fact that he may not be happy worries her, but she doesn’t know what she can do to fix it. She decides to wait and watch for an opportunity when things can go back to normal.

The Situation
Day 1
Geet is driving, with a lot of pent-up rage, to pick up her kids from school. She is manoeuvring the Mumbai traffic, amid construction, while simultaneously on the phone trying to negotiate keeping her maid who suddenly wants to quit. She has woken up early to make aloo parathas for Aditya. Her frustration has been building up for a while but she just doesn’t have the nerve to tell Aditya, “I can’t do this anymore, this is not me!” Suddenly as she is distracted, her car slams into an island, and shudders to a stop. She fumbles, trying to start it while continuing to talk on the phone. The traffic piles up behind her; loud curses can be heard in the background, accompanied by a lot of disgusted gestures.

A car slides into position next to her, a window rolls down and a disgruntled man (Jai) looks at her, saying, “There is a reason why women shouldn’t drive. Why don’t you do something that suits you more…like look after your home, and leave driving to men?” That chauvinistic statement gets Geet completely riled up – the years of dissatisfaction and disillusionment with marriage are simmering under the surface waiting to explode. She gets out of the car to scream at him. Jai has already driven past, the window is up – with the noise of the traffic and his music in the car, he can’t hear her. She can be seen in his rear-view mirror getting smaller and smaller.

She gets back into the car, manages to start it, slams the door and drives after Jai furiously. He enters a tall office building, and the elevator door is about to close behind him, when she wedges a foot into the door. She starts yelling at him, abusing him, trying to get the pent up fury out of her system. She follows him into his office, still yelling about the woes of her life – domesticity, the children, a husband who’s forgotten how to live life. The entire office is looking at them. Suddenly, realising where she is, she flushes a deep red, turns around and leaves. Jai’s visibly shaken; he doesn’t know what hit him. He needs to make a pitch before a very important client, and he can’t perform because he’s so nervous. Stammering and suddenly not his usual confident self, he doesn’t paint a convincing picture. He loses the account…and is completely shattered.

Day 2
Driving to work the next day (at approximately the same time he’d met Geet the day before), Jai, feeling really miserable, suddenly notices her waiting in her car for her children. He immediately swerves to a stop, running over to her to give her a piece of his own mind. His problems are mounting: EMIs, a wife who’s threatening to leave him, the competition…. He ends his tirade with, “Maybe I have a wife who’s a bigger bitch than you are.”

[This is the excitement they are both missing in their lives. An escape from their own problems. Both Geet and Jai are people who would want to breathe more air, do more and say more than their partners.]

The next time they see each other, it’s like they’ve known each other for a long time…. Their vivaciousness and outgoing personalities leave no awkwardness between them. She needs to go back home to Aditya, but Jai suggests an excuse that works well on husbands, she thinks for a moment and gives into the thrill of a new experience, continuing their conversation over another cup of coffee.

Next Week
Jai has an anniversary coming up and Geet needs to shop for Aditya’s birthday. They decide it’s an excuse good enough as any to shop together. Jai confesses that his wife has hated all the gifts he’s bought her in the past, that she’s a very sensitive kind of woman. “She would be happy if she thought that I thought about the gift!” Geet thinks it would be fun to help out, while Jai can help her choose something for her “fuddy-duddy boring industrialist-type of husband”.

And then…
They continue to meet; putting in the effort to look better, in response to the passion and electricity the air. They connect at various levels – they find their childish pursuits a great diversion, which their spouses would not. They gravitate towards each other. Neither wants to commit, but they believe that they have found their soulmate in each other. They are too volatile to actually be able to have a fulfilling, stable relationship together – and they know that. They are both people who are constantly in conflict, it is difficult for them to reach resolve – but they thrive in the conflict.

The Spouses
ADITYA, when he sees the change in Geet, senses that something is not right. He begins to look back at their life and see what’s missing, what is eating away into the Geet he fell in love with. He never confronts her or makes her uncomfortable, but makes an effort to be more attentive. Geet, for her part, can tell that he knows or is aware that something has changed. She finds its oddly disconcerting that he continues to be there for her – often suggesting doing things that she loves, which makes her feel guilty and confused about her feelings. She wants to come out and talk to him about it, but something holds her back – the fear of hurting him. She wishes he would react with anger or violence – not this silent niceness. It makes her feel like a bitch. In the middle of the night, having no one else to talk to, she frequently calls up Jai.

MEERA instinctively knows when Jai is unhappy or is not being faithful, especially with the increasing calls late into the night coming from Geet. Meera’s way of dealing with it is very matter-of-fact. She invites Jai out to his favourite restaurant, dresses up in his favourite outfit; and in the middle of the wine and meal, asks him directly, “Jai, I think you’re seeing somebody…just tell me about it.” Jai looks taken-aback and then decides to come clean. He talks about Geet – a girl whom he has been hanging out with, but insists that there isn’t anything serious between them. “I didn’t tell you because you’d be upset…but I can see I’ve upset you anyway. I’m sorry. But if you say the word, I won’t see her again.” Meera looks at him for a minute and says, “If I ask you not to see her, then I’m making her your lover, so do what you want.”

The End
It appears to be a doomed love story of two people who can’t get rid of each other. Geet and Jai are the kind of people who consume each other – a relationship that scales the heights and plummets to the depths, making it a nervy ride. They make each other more insecure and it leads them to miss the stability provided by their spouses.

Jai meets Geet to tell her that they should stop seeing each other. Geet reacts explosively – talking about how much they are actually made for each other, and how they are not being unfaithful at all. They deliberate breaking up often. Eventually, in the midst of an emotional scene, Geet perks up with a suggestion – if they must end it, then why not with a bang – something that matches their personality? And she reminds him about the trip they had spoken about taking together…

Javed Akhtar: Of Timeless Words

20 Monday Jul 2009

Posted by sitanshi talati-parikh in Art, Literature & Culture, Interviews (All), Interviews: Cinema, Publication: Verve Magazine

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Bollywood, dialogues, IIFA, Indian Fiction, indiancinema, Interview, Javed Akhtar, lyrics, screenplay, Scriptwriting, vervemagazine

Published: Verve Magazine, 75th Black and white issue, Features, July 2009
Photograph by: Sitanshi Talati-Parikh

You cannot be entirely objective towards a person who can be considered one of India’s greatest talents. And yet, Javed Akhtar doesn’t let you down. He is approachable, relaxed and as erudite as you might expect – talking a world of sense from a lifetime of experience, with more than a pinch of humour. Of course, the writer-lyricist-poet admits in a staged whisper, “Shabana [Azmi – his wife] is much more serious than I am.” Candid and rather regretful about his shortcomings – “being not-so-disciplined and rather lazy” – the father of two rising stars of Indian cinema (Farhan and Zoya Akhtar) speaks his mind to Sitanshi Talati-Parikh

Javed01

On being down-to-earth

I have never thought about it. If someone starts thinking about why he is modest, then he isn’t a modest person. If you have certain objectivity, you will know that wherever you are, there are many people who are miles ahead of you!

On what it means to be a star
When I was young, I also admired many people – Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru, a writer called Krishna Chandra, Dilip Kumar. Ultimately, as you grow up, you realise that some people are bestowed with some exceptional talent – they have focussed, worked hard, contributed something towards art, literature and human society – but behind all those achievements there is a human being, a person. I don’t feel that kind of blind admiration anymore. A ‘star’ is actually a very vulnerable person, well aware of his/her own shortcomings and weaknesses and failures.

On nostalgia – about the industry that once was
Life offers you packages. It’s not that things were good and now they are not good. Ultimately the film industry is becoming more streamlined, with people becoming more professional and more focussed than what they once were. The film industry is coming out of the feudal era and entering the industrial mindset. The good films of the 50s, 60s and 70s had a lot of social relevance, depth and literary flavour – and a certain dignity. Think Bimal Roy, Guru Dutt, Yash Chopra or Ramesh Sippy. Today films have more variety, technical finesse and people have become smarter, less pretentious and less melodramatic. But, today cinema lacks the strong edifice. Indian films don’t have the kind of power they once had. Rhetoric is not used the way it was. There is an attempt on understatement and restraint, a great reliance on the audience’s IQ. At the same time, I don’t see the magnum opus quality in their scripts – the saga-like stories are missing today.

On bridging the gap between esotericism and entertainment
Why has the industry decided that you can either be sensible or you can be interesting? Is it a choice? Ultimately, good mainstream cinema is extremely sensible and extremely interesting. This is the desired synthesis that I look for. Films like Lagaan, Taare Zameen Par, Dil Chahta Hai, Rang De Basanti all fall in that category.

On the darkest period of Indian cinema
In the 80s (all the way to the mid-90s) somehow something had happened to our society – and the film industry is a part and parcel of our society. The reasons are multiple – somewhere our aesthetics (be it music, architecture, cinema, theatre or politics) experienced a dip in moral values. Think of the times of Sarkailo Khatiya Jada Lage (Raja Babu, 1994), Choli Ke Peeche (Khalnayak, 1993) and Babri Masjid and the Ram Janma Bhoomi dispute. Cinema of any society doesn’t exist in any kind of socio-politico-cultural void. It is connected and even commercial cinema reflects the mindset of society. It is not a coincidence that such kind of cinema was doing well – where good cinema was actually marginalised. Thankfully, by the mid-90s we started reviving and the worst is behind us.

The best grey roles you have ever written are…
Gabbar Singh’s dialogues (Sholay, 1975), Vijay in Trishul (1978), Deewar (1975); or the important minor characters like those in Arjun (1985), and Raja in Mashaal (1984).

On feeling successful
I have had my share of defeats, deprivation and humiliation; at the same time, if I go to the grand total it is in my favour. Life has ultimately dealt me good cards. I don’t know if I am flattering myself, but I genuinely believe I could have achieved more than what I have. And that I should try to do it.

Awards mean…
I am in a strange situation – when I get an award I don’t get the same kind of thrill and excitement that I once did, but when I don’t get it I still get some kind of unhappiness. It is a bad deal – you get it and you don’t feel a thrill – it’s just another confirmation; you don’t get it and you start getting very suspicious – where am I? Why has it not come to me? Is my work not good enough? It is a precarious situation to be in!

On colour evocation
Black makes me think of Black power, black panthers (or the Black Panthers), Martin Luther King, slavery in the US, civil rights.

White leaves me with mixed feelings – it has a calming effect. It is a colour of peace and tranquillity, the word that comes to mind is an Urdu word: suqoon. Ironically, I don’t think of the white race with the colour white, while the colour black evokes thoughts of the black race.

Grey equals ultimate maturity. When you can see grey, you have matured. Black is not as black and white is not as white, if you have sharp eyes.

Poetry: Word Gypsy

26 Thursday Mar 2009

Posted by sitanshi talati-parikh in Art, Literature & Culture, Interviews (All), Interviews: The Arts, Publication: Verve Magazine

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Indian Fiction, Interview, Poetry, vervemagazine

Published: Verve Magazine, Nerve, March 2009

Performer, poet, writer and columnist, Sharanya Manivannan has published a book of poems and is working on a novel. Sitanshi Talati-Parikh gets the writer, who has written a poem exclusively for Verve, to delve into the space and quirkiness of her works

 

Sharanya01

She is small, petite and extremely self-assured. Barely into her 20s, she started writing when she was seven, got involved with ‘readings’ at 15 (while living in Kuala Lumpur) and is now in Chennai – working as a copywriter with an ad agency and writing a column called ‘The Venus Flytrap’ for a local weekly newspaper. Witchcraft, Manivannan’s debut book of poems is an effort at mysticism, picking up themes of betrayal along with “love, loss and longing”. The “spontaneous and organic” writer was awarded a fellowship to work on her second book, a novel, for three weeks in Pondicherry last December. The novel picks up on the threads of love, loss and longing from Witchcraft, and is about a young photographer in her 20s who becomes obsessed with the preservation of transitory moments because her own personal history is in shadow. As she says, “Roots, exile and dislocation are things that affect me deeply both as a human being and a writer.”

Excerpts from a chat with Manivannan:

Relevance of a spoken word artist
Why ‘spoken word’ and not simply ‘readings’? Because spoken word is a legitimate genre of performance – not everybody is able to read, even their own work, with panache. Whereas, poetry publishing is a difficult and drawn-out process, performance allows immediate, often intimate, access to an audience. ?To me, to be a spoken word artist is to channel through the voice the spirit that some call duende. As with all performance, hearing the word aloud can be a transformational experience for both performer and observer.

Quirky and unusual writing
I personally don’t think that my writing is quirky or unusual. But there are two things I hear frequently about my work: that it is ‘brutal’, and that I say things which others chastise themselves for thinking. I’m willing to excavate deeply. And in doing so, I go to places in the mind and the memory that can be painful, dark, unsettling or revealing.

Space for women poets in India
In the English-writing world, the space is not any different from the space for men. I’ve not encountered any setbacks in this regard because of my gender but I have because of my age. However, the vernacular languages are a whole different ball game. For instance, I know that some Tamil poets like Salma and Kuttirevathi have had a tremendous backlash against their work because they approach the subject of the body.

Poetry as a serious genre
There are so many poets in India today – just look at Jeet Thayil’s anthologies, or the Poetry With Prakriti Festival in Chennai. That there aren’t many, is a misconception that could arise from the fact that no matter how seriously we take ourselves, the genre itself is not taken as seriously by the public and by publishers. I also don’t think there is any real gender disparity in terms of numbers, but issues like the ostracising of female poets who write about their bodies in the vernacular certainly exist.

Life and writing
I make sense of my life through my writing. I distill my experiences. Sometimes, being able to have a poem about a situation makes me feel so much better about having been in that situation at all. That’s as simple as it gets. Things like structure and narrative are layers that come later.

Being a poet and a fiction writer
Poems are microcosms and take up much less headspace; fiction is far more expansive, detailed and demanding. All of last year, I focused on poetry. But I’m picking up again the novel I’ve been working on off and on for years…. I can only hope that it’s possible to be good at both.

Years, not age, matter
As an older writer friend once told me, I may be 23 but I have been writing since I was seven – that’s 16 years of experience in the craft itself. As for life experiences per se, age really is just a number. Look at all the musicians who died at 27, after all. I’m 23 but you couldn’t guess it based on what I’ve been through and what I know – my life is really some sort of pulp fiction film.

SURFACING

Afterwards, we will
both wish that it was that
simple.

Your hands. My hair.
A drowning.

But you cannot kiss like that
and go on pretending that life
is not something that just happens,
arresting you in its undertow,
that it can go on,
that you can go back.

 

A kiss like a talisman.
A kiss like memory before birth.
The heart a bridge between
dismembering and
remembering.

 

Lover. Husband of another.
Lust is anarchy. Love, anodyne.
Father. Liar. Lover. Mine.
That afternoon an apocalypse of laws
we broke, our lives left spinning on
their axles. In the car I watched as
the hem of our city began
to unravel, the highway endless,
the embroidery of clear-watered
ponds, bougainvillea, as though
it was a country we left behind.
Bodies of water. Blooming.
Our city. I waited so long to
say that. I waited so long.

 

It was that simple.

 

I didn’t transcend my body.
I came into it.

 

A kiss like a tide I surfaced from
not knowing I had gone under at all.
A kiss like prophecy. A kiss like the
first falling star of a meteor shower.
A kiss like certainty. Like a song
roused from slumber. Like surrender.

 

Come back, lover.
Come back with your
voodoo, the calligraphy
of your tongue. Come
back with the night between
your teeth. Lie down. Let me
take the war out of you.
Come back.
Name what is holy.
Take what is already yours.

 

Kiss me without
choreography. Kiss me
like the first word
of the only language
we never borrowed.
Kiss me like alchemy.
Kiss me like
Original sin.

Literature: Top Dop Storyteller

26 Thursday Feb 2009

Posted by sitanshi talati-parikh in Art, Literature & Culture, Interviews (All), Interviews: The Arts, Publication: Verve Magazine

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Bollywood, India, Indian Fiction, indiancinema, Interview, Slumdog Millionaire, vervemagazine, Vikas Swarup

Published: Verve Magazine, Features, February 2009

Vikas Swarup, the author of Q&A, on which the movie Slumdog Millionaire is based, speaks to Sitanshi Talati-Parikh about unique plots, winning formulas and how Ram Mohammed Thomas became Jamal Malik

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The 47-year-old Vikas Swarup seems to have the Midas touch. His first book, Q&A, besides winning a fair share of awards itself, has left a wake of accolades for any adaptation based on the story. The audio book won the award for best audio book of the year, the BBC radio play won the Gold Award for Best Drama at the Sony Radio Academy Awards 2008, the movie is sweeping all statuettes and there is now a stage musical in the making. An accidental writer, the Deputy High Commissioner of India to South Africa, based in Pretoria, is quick, matter-of-fact and precise in his answers, like someone accustomed to being interviewed.

‘Not all deaths are equal…the murder of a celebrity instantly becomes headline news. Because the rich and famous rarely get murdered. They lead five-star lives and, unless they overdose on cocaine or meet with a freak accident, generally die a five-star death at a nice grey age, having augmented both lineage and lucre.’ Post 26/11, there is an inescapable irony in these words taken from Vikas Swarup’s latest novel, Six Suspects, published last year. Swarup is bemused at the inadvertent implication of his words.

He wears his achievements well, and bears it with the firm knowledge that a first-time writer like him, without any experience in creative writing or literature, cannot afford to take success for granted. While he considers himself “lucky”, he seems logical and practical – not in the least disconcerted by the overwhelming triumph of the film, Slumdog Millionaire. He merely seems gratified – glad that those who had never read or heard about the book before would now reach for a copy.

Rahman03

Sitting back in London, Swarup – who had never attempted to write before – chose to give it a shot. In 2003, Q&A was written and by 2005 it got published, and has so far been translated into 37 languages. “When I wrote this I knew the storyline was very fresh and the plot was unique. But that it would become such an international success, still confounds me. I thought it was a very Indian story, about the real India without any attempt to exoticise it. The fact that the book has appealed to readers from Barcelona to Sydney has come as a very pleasant surprise to me. You would never imagine a book that you have written, a light-hearted story, despite its social commentary, to mean so much to someone, giving them strength to carry on.”

The story did not find him, in the strictest sense of the word. He found it, by creating the perfect, winning formula – a judicious mix of all things desi, with a generous helping of ideas taken from true incidents and realities. The grim actuality of the street, the eternal rags-to-riches story and most importantly, the true Bollywood-style villain. Especially in Six Suspects, which is now being made into a film, many of the stories resonate with real life. Larry Page, for instance, a simple Texan about to marry an Indian girl based on a photo, was inspired by a report of a man who fell in love with a girl after seeing her photo and thinking she’s Aishwarya Rai. The terrorised young kids of the streets (from Q&A) were an “urban myth” while Swarup was growing up. “My mother would say, ‘Don’t go out alone, they will catch you and maim you.’ I have read reports that these things do happen.”

“These are the two things that I try to combine – a story that keeps the reader hooked and at the same time the book should have a soul. It should make you think as well as touch your heart.” So there are references to real people, like Shah Rukh Khan and Amitabh Bachchan, with the real story revolving around fictional characters. “When I conceived this book, there was only one show in India, Kaun Banega Crorepati, and you can certainly not attribute anything that Prem Kumar does to what Amitabh Bachchan would have done on the game show. In my fictional universe, the game show is promoted by a group of cheats, whose idea is to tempt and titillate you with the top five, but actually ensure that nobody wins it. The game show host has to be a slightly unsavoury character, actually based on Bollywood villains.”

Swarup, who likes to unwind by catching a movie with his artist-wife and two sons, was not really involved in the film adaptation of the book. He played the part of checking the script and suggesting revisions, but nothing beyond. He has accepted certain minor changes in the story and also that of the main character’s name. To explain the history behind Ram Mohammed Thomas’ name would become difficult to translate on screen, so he simply becomes Jamal Malik. Salim, who originally is a good-looking youth and Thomas’ best friend, becomes Malik’s gangster-brother.

Though born and brought up in India, the nature of his work leaves him unable to physically be in the country in which his stories are set. Swarup stays abreast with the news in India through modern communication – TV and the Internet. “That sense of distance and separation, which used to exist earlier, vanished. That makes you feel much more connected to the country.” And that feeling is very important for someone who is a “global nomad”.

Creative success has definitely influenced this family man’s life as a diplomat. “So many more doors open up for you, when people have read your books, which would otherwise remain closed for a deputy high commissioner!” Despite the popularity of his works, Swarup insists that all his books are one-offs. “Many people suggested another Q&A, and I thought to myself, if I have to do that, then it means I have no other stories to tell. The day I have to repeat myself, I won’t write.”

Literature: Experimental Writer

26 Wednesday Sep 2007

Posted by sitanshi talati-parikh in Art, Literature & Culture, Interviews (All), Interviews: The Arts, Publication: Verve Magazine

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Indian Fiction, Interview, Kalpana Swaminathan, Literature, vervemagazine

Published: Verve Magazine, Speaking Volumes, September 2007
Photograph: Ritam Banerjee

A doctor, columnist, novelist and detective fiction writer, Kalpana Swaminathan is often taken aback by the absurd situations that she has been witness to in her multi-hued career. She encapsulates the banality of everyday living in her works as is evidenced by her latest offering, The Gardener’s Song. Sitanshi Talati-Parikh exchanges notes with the diverse wordsmith who delights in dabbling in different genres

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Holding a tête-à-tête with the talented, genteel lady, simply clad in a green sari, I sit at a corner table at Crossword, Bandra. Kalpana Swaminathan juggles at being a doctor, columnist, novelist and detective fiction writer, so our conversation sparks off with her unusual career choices. She brushes off any surprise at a paediatric surgeon taking to writing, with a decisive, “You have to be interested in people.”

Sensing that nothing more is forthcoming, I switch gears to what made her start writing. Looking less than pleased, she counters, “What kind of answers do you expect? I wish I could produce something magical.” As a child shouts behind us, Swaminathan visibly softens and warms to the topic. “I love children and I love to write.” She muses, “Medicine as a profession becomes a way of life. You use perhaps ten per cent of what you learn in practice. The other 90 per cent is not used for ‘doctoring’ – it serves a larger purpose, it changes the way you look at things, it changes the value of life.”

Just like one must have a sense for the written word, Swaminathan believes that one has to learn the child’s language and understand it. She defies the myth that children can’t talk or communicate. “It is actually the adult who has to learn how to communicate and learn to understand what the child is not telling you.” It is not surprising then, that she found her stories for children easy to write – they are all fairy tales, with magical things happening in the world.

Swaminathan found herself publishing short stories at the fantastically early age of 13, but soon after went through a lean period where for years she did not get the chance to write, until after the age of 30. She recalls those years as being “rich, harrowing and exciting,” all in one breath, a time when she was studying medicine and working intensely. “When I started writing again, the initial writing was easy – it simply scaled off me. After that, I began experimenting with different genres.”

Around 1996, after her foray into children’s writing, Swami–nathan began writing columns with her colleague and partner, Ishrat Syed. As I wonder if it is easy to write in tandem with another person, she brushes it off as child’s play, simply, “We had to arrive at a distinctive style.” It was an exploratory journey, from Animal Crackers for a daily newspaper, to columns, where they wrote about different things including art, food, “mad” science, literature and lingua franca. She recalls with pride, that in 2000, when the human genome was being mapped out, they tracked its progress, in a week-by-week review column. As if reading my thoughts, about why they haven’t written a piece of science fiction yet, she mentions that their jointly written book is due to be out soon, which is to be a futuristic view of Mumbai.

When the experimental writer wanted to have some fun, she began writing detective stories. Her detective Lalli is accompanied by her niece, the writer of the book. Lalli isn’t the action-oriented detective of the racy thrillers, but the analytical thinker of Agatha Christie’s genre. Noticing the Poirot-Hastings ensemble cast of her novel, I ask the inevitable question. Swaminathan is quick to reply, “Of course, I’ve read Agatha Christie – who hasn’t? She’s a marvellous writer, as all the others out there, but I like to think of my work as my work!” Her first detective fiction, The Page 3 Murders, is a spoof on a country house murder, relocated in Mumbai, where, as she puts it, “everyone lives in each other’s pockets.” In here we find the classic English whodunit.

Tired of men and their sidekicks, Swaminathan deliberately chose an elderly woman as her detective. After all, she points out, an Indian woman would be free to do as she pleased only when post-60 and problem free! Sharp, compassionate and efficient, Lalli, a retired police officer, is considered the man in khaki’s Last Resort (LR) on troublesome murder cases.

The Gardener’s Song, Swaminathan’s latest whodunit on the murder of the nosey Mr. Rao in a Mumbai suburb, is ultimately a Mumbai book, traversing Juhu by-lanes all the way to the dilapidated buildings of Princess Street, opening up the lives and eccentricities of suburban Mumbai households and communities. Her writing is experiential: “I used to know Bombay – not what is has become in the last two or three years, but its largeness, its middle-class suburban experience.”

The banality of everyday life comes under the writer’s microscope – taken aback by the absurd situations that she has often been witness to, it is but natural for her to include these elements in her story. In The Gardener’s Song, for instance, Swaminathan describes an incident where a man is in desperate need of a blood transfusion and the only person who matches his blood type appears on the scene, only to be nearly frightened away at the thought of an HIV test. Aghast by the impact of what a rumour like that could have on his social life and marriage prospects, the donor is vouched for by his employer and colleagues as “a good man, from good family” – as if to imply, that that in itself should be sufficient proof that the man is not HIV positive!

The Gardener’s Song is not lacking in social comment, as if attempting social change in the midst and through the medium of a detective story. This touches a sensitive area, as the impassioned writer exclaims, “I do feel very strongly about these things and cannot help voicing them!” She is angered that the Indian Penal Code has a separate section for dowry death, which is basically “soft-optioning it, not calling it murder.” Swaminathan finds that Indian crimes are crimes of despair, hypocrisy, refusal to face the truth: “We can’t say bad things about people, but we can murder them. We are a cruel, violent and dishonest lot, and those who disagree, do so as they are cushioned by illusion.”

Swaminathan takes a cynical view of women in Indian society, the kind of women who sustain an obsolete patriarchy, and the feminists who are tired of being feminists. She firmly believes that every man and woman should do his or her bit. Believing that the most powerful women in Indian culture are elderly women, she holds them responsible for the crimes committed against other women. In fact, this is one of the reasons that she profiled her detective as an elderly woman.

It is clear that this is a writer who understands her audience and her subject, in equal part. Swaminathan brings out nuances of the local language in her writing, nuances that are completely absent from her crisp spoken English. As we have a dialogue about Salman Rushdie’s theory of “chutneyfication” of the English language, she describes how the language conveys the essence of the person, the local idiom and the flavour of the conversation. A large number of writers attempt to bring their part of India in their writing, as the local dialogue is a bridge between writing in the local tongue and writing in English. It is in this manner, that the language comes alive and it is easy to move between time and place, to enter and explore a region and lives in a way that one can’t imagine. In fact, a lot of the conversations in her books are taken verbatim from real life.

Swaminathan isn’t disconcerted about the dearth of detective fiction in the country. Publishing in English, in India, she explains, is only 20 years old; she expects to see a great deal more in the next five years.

Taking a few moments for this thought to sink in, the middle-aged writer, who finds the time to write on a daily basis, whilst actively practising, notes that writing per se has less to do with the craft and more to do with the experience of being a writer. And what is it that she, as a writer looks for in her work? Sitting back, taking a sip of chilled water, Swaminathan smiles and says, “Every writer is looking for two things – the inspiration to write at least one line of truth, and the aspiration to write a book!”

Chick Lit for the Soul

19 Saturday May 2007

Posted by sitanshi talati-parikh in Art, Literature & Culture, Features & Trends, Publication: Verve Magazine

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Chick Lit, India, Indian Fiction, vervemagazine

Published: Verve Magazine, Features, April 2007

Single career women filling reams with the sardonic and witty prose about the angst of their lives, loves and non-loves, create a space for female readers who are tired of romances that talk about the exotically beautiful and the perfectly endowed. Increasingly, women writers are willing to pen the trials of the real woman in a real world where Mr Right may not exist. Chick lit romance is contemporary and true, with a sense of humour that stands the test of modern roles and expectations. It’s another matter that few writers can complete the final chapter without a Mr Right! Sitanshi Talati-Parikh attempts to unravel the attraction of this feel-good genre

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With cosmopolitan women choosing a martini over kesar-pista milk, the face of the contemporary Indian woman is changing and so is the writing to keep up with the new form of Westernised liberalisation.

Discovering an empty niche between perfectly real literature and unrealistically perfect romance, books featuring the lives and loves of young professional women, aka chick lit, comes as a form of salvation to the average woman who wants reality on the rocks, with a twist of humour. Smoothly banishing the heavy-handed depressed monotone of philosophy, and sardonically diminishing the fluffy picture-perfect description of fantasy, international chick lit queens like Helen Fielding (Bridget Jones’s Diary), Candace Bushnell (Sex and the City), Lauren Weisberger (The Devil Wears Prada) and Emma McLaughlin and Nicola Kraus (The Nanny Diaries) have set the standard for chick lit across the globe.

Seeing modern Indian women identify with these books and protagonists, Indian writers, like that of other countries across the world, have adapted this space in the local context. chick lit writer, Kavita Daswani, believes that a woman anywhere in the world is a Bridget Jones in the making, and that her angst is not much different from any working middle-class woman. Daswani points out that today’s woman anywhere in the world is probably looking for a boyfriend/husband, satisfaction in her career, good friends, enjoyment; she has money issues, she gets involved with the wrong men, and she might have conflicts within her family – all those things that any 20 or 30-something professional woman encounters on a day-to-day basis, probably anywhere in the world.

Rajashree, a Mumbai-based writer is pleased with the similarity. “I can identify with her (Bridget Jones). I was so delighted to read the portions about Bridget’s mom – even British mothers bug their daughters about getting married!” And this is how we find amusingly disgruntled, unmarried career women, filling pages with the sardonic and witty angst of their lives, loves and non-loves, create a space for the average woman, who are tired of the romances that frontline exotically beautiful and perfectly endowed women, and are willing to read about the trials of the real woman, in a real world, where Mr Right may not exist.

Women, however, being who they are, find the perfect satisfaction when Mr Right comes around and says ala Bridget Jones, “I love you just the way you are!” Every woman’s writer is selling a fantasy, it may be more real in chick lit, where the romance is contemporary and stark, with a humour that stands the test of modern roles and expectations, but no writer can complete the final chapter without a Mr Right!

This person may be an unexpected springer from the sidelines, overshadowing the ‘perfect’ man, who more often than not turns out to be the bad guy, but Mr Right inevitably appears, satisfying every reader that however unwholesome she may be, she can most certainly hope for the man of her dreams to swing by her street.

This is the actual brand of hope for those Indian women who struggle with the pressure of family expectations, arranged marriages and an optimum work life, and attempt to find a way out of the muddles of society. Swati Kaushal, author of the best-selling Piece of Cake, believes that the Indian marriage scene is not so different from dating abroad. “An arranged Indian marriage as it happens these days in India (where the girl and guy do meet a few times before they say yes),” she says, “today starts to appear as not so-very-different from arranged dates in the Western world (where a girl and guy meet a few times before they decide to go ahead). Everyone wants to have a relationship that succeeds. It’s just a question of how you get it started.”

All said and done, arranged marriages (however similar they may be to the Western dating culture) haven’t left the lives of Indian women. It seems difficult to imagine Indian chick lit bearing substance without the angst of arranged marriages in tryst with the love lives of protagonists. Rajashree agrees, believing that arranged marriages are to Indian chick lit, what dating is to Western chick lit – full of comic possibilities.

Though Swati Kaushal’s Piece of Cake upholds the same themes, where the protagonist’s mother is constantly trying to get her married to the ‘right’ man, Kaushal, herself, feels a deeper sense of worth in the novels: “I think of the bulk of my generation of middle class Indian women as torn between tradition and modernity, between what we learned from our mothers and what we learn from the Internet. Our angst derives from wanting to achieve more, to do more, to be more and quite unlike Bridget Jones, whose ambitions and preoccupations were steeped in the middle class cynicism of a mature, western economy.” Piece of Cake succeeds in bringing this out as Minal (the protagonist) comes through the pages as a character that avoids succumbing to the infinitesimal terrors of not having a mind of her own.

In Beyond Indigo, the heroine, Nina, struggles with the formula of marriage: “My mother and father made it work. Although it wasn’t the best marriage in the world they were still together and in their own way, they loved each other. Raj was a good man and that was the most important thing. He was practical, stable, kind, and he loved me and would never do anything to hurt me.” Eventually Nina has to choose between stability and risk, arranged marriage and love, tradition and loving a foreigner.

In its essence, all these novels are encouraging a coming of age of the Indian woman – whereby she cuts through the bonds of social obligation and stands up for herself. This is breaking free from the shackles of a patriarchal society, where women of a previous generation encourage the next to continue subservience to the male factor. Thus, encouragement from the written word comes at a time when women face the most insecurities and frustrations associated with an independent career-oriented life.

These novels are not feminist in the fighting sense of the word, in fact, they believe in the male significance in the woman’s life – but without sacrificing the woman’s worth and self-respect. Daswani’s Everything Happens for a Reason where a Delhi girl, Priya, is married to a California boy, and is made subservient at their wonderful California home, seems like a trite story, but the character of Priya manages to break through with a sense of subdued independence. It ends up more as an all’s-well-that-ends-well sort of story, rather than sensitive storytelling. Daswani herself agrees that the theme of arranged marriages and in-laws might have been over-touted and over done in Indian chick lit. She believes it is now time to tackle the challenge of finding unusual ways of telling those stories, or perhaps having those particular cornerstones being less important to the overall plot: “Just because an author is Indian doesn’t mean she can only tell Indian-themed stories.”

Rajashree’s Trust Me brings the theme of the big bad men, with a difference – she chooses the Indian film industry as a backdrop to the theme, drawing upon her own professional knowledge of Bollywood. In the end, one comes to realise that despite the backdrop of California, London or Bollywood – the situations and themes are not very different, and men and women are the same everywhere. It is now up to the writers to create scenarios, characters and personalities that stand out, if chick lit is to be considered seriously.

Preethi Nair’s Beyond Indigo creates such a powerful character. Nair’s storytelling is gripping and her characters tear through the pages to reach out with the power of literature and the critical depth of real story-telling. Nair’s work, like Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni (Queen of Dreams) crosses the chasm between chick lit and women’s literature. Where chick lit often remains fluffy and feel good in its writing style, women’s literature (not the chick lit sub-genre of women’s lit) is more serious and developed. As Nair, who doesn’t have much time for chick lit, puts it, “You just don’t think, ‘I’m going to write a novel now’ – you have to have something to say!” While Nair and Divakaruni’s books contain the basic elements of chick lit, it may be as tricky classifying them as chick lit, as may be Austen’s Pride and Prejudice.

Prof Dr Shefali Balsari Shah, Head of the English Department, St. Xavier’s College, Mumbai, has had entertaining discussions with her students about chick lit as a form of popular culture. Considered a part of the romance genre studies or the feminist approach to popular culture, she warns against using simplistic criteria to slot a women’s novel as chick lit. She however believes that chick lit is running out of steam and into repetitive and self-plagiarising mode. Where the wit and humour works, she wonders if the writing will be able to sustain itself.

Many of the chick lit writers are not traditionally writers by profession – they often come from varied backgrounds, and inspired by a story or incidents from their personal life, write successful chick lit novels. Since chick lit is about professional women in their mid 20s or 30s, who are juggling a career, a love life and social obligations, it is not surprising that the writers are using experiential techniques in the novelistic form.

Swati Kaushal, herself has an MBA from IIM Kolkata, and has worked with MNC’s like Nestle and Nokia for several years. Her familiarisation with the corporate culture formed her research and helped her portray Minal’s professional career accurately in Piece of Cake. Rupa Gulab, writer of the popular Girl Alone, also draws from her own experiences of living in a hostel. Similarly, Rajashree, a film writer and director, chose to try her hand at novels, placing her protagonist within the milieu of the Indian film industry.

Beyond Indigo was practically an autobiographical novel for Preethi Nair, who had experienced similar social and parental pressures to be in the ‘perfect’ job and find the ‘perfect’ man. She, like her protagonist, Nina, managed to break free from these obligations and managed to find success in what she really wanted to do – take the path less travelled.

The fact that these novels draw from personal experiences of women who are out there in the field, are writing about events that are current and relevant, make these novels all the more enjoyable and identifiable. Easy reads, simplistic themes and bright witty characters, make them the novel of choice for the average woman. The fact that they are popular is obvious from the number of books that populate bookstores and flashy covers and catchy titles that ape the genre that has found rapid popularity in the West.

Whether the quality of writing keeps up with the speed with which these novels are churned out, is questionable, where good storytelling and openhearted confession need to be seamlessly integrated. Instead, light and enjoyable becomes trashy and annoying, themes are becoming formulaic. Nisha Minha, a UK-based writer, whose books are most widely available in bookstores, is one such example. Lacking depth and character development, these novels are neither clever nor enjoyable for a discerning reader and are merely a notch higher than Mills and Boon, with a lot more regressive soap-opera-type sex and drama thrown in for good measure.

Daswani, a California-based writer, discovers interesting shades in chick lit by Indian diaspora. She explains that the most obvious difference is that authors of the Indian diaspora weave in their own cultural sensibilities, perceptions and observations into their work, telling their stories from a unique Indo-American/Indo-British/Indo-European point of view. She believes that “this clashing of cultures, even in its most subtle incarnations, can make for some very vivid storytelling”.

Chick lit, by Indian writers of the diaspora is less easily available in India, compared to chick lit by non-Indian writers! Most bookstores in Mumbai do not stock most of these writers – they are either out of stock and not reprinted or simply not available. It is also true that there are more writers of the diaspora attempting Indian chick lit, rather than local Indian writers. That could be due to the greater influence of Western culture and the growing influence of chick lit abroad, than locally. Interestingly, chick lit has its own domain and space in bookstores abroad. However, it is heartening to note that writers like Daswani and Nair are very popular amongst readers at circulating libraries like Shemaroo. As the latter puts it, the readers like something that they can read, enjoy and forget!

Kaushal, ruminating on the influence of chick lit, suggests that Indian society is changing, quite rapidly, as its economy is growing. She is cautious about the growth of chick lit: “I’m not sure there is enough writing out there to catalyse the change, one can only hope that eventually the influence of progressive books becomes more wide reaching than that of regressive serials.” Daswani on the other hand is more positive, opining that the role of chick lit is also inspirational, where many of these books serve to illuminate and enlighten, showing readers a life beyond what they know.
Whether the life that is displayed in these novels is beyond reality, or a fantasy that is clothed in reality, the books do serve to lighten the mood and temperament of professional women. Identification with the real-life heroines brings empathy through the pages, the wit and humour serves to remind us to take life not so seriously, the coming of age redefines our sense of self-worth, and more importantly the storybook endings play their part in negating cynicism and shining a beacon of hope.

Literature: The World Cannot Become Uniform (Vikram Chandra)

26 Thursday Oct 2006

Posted by sitanshi talati-parikh in Art, Literature & Culture, Interviews (All), Interviews: The Arts, Publication: Verve Magazine

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Indian Fiction, Interview, Literature, Sacred Games, vervemagazine, Vikram Chandra

Published: Verve Magazine, Features, September-October 2006
Photograph: Gaurav Bhat

Straddling two continents, wordsmith, Vikram Chandra is deeply inspired by Indian mythology and epics. In Mumbai for the release of his latest offering, Sacred Games, the award-winning US-based author speaks about modernity and ‘Indianness’ in a tête-à-tête with SITANSHI TALATI-PARIKH

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Muted conversations, tinkling of wine glasses, dusk setting in saw the world-wide book launch of eminent writer, Vikram Chandra’s much awaited third literary offering, Sacred Games, in Mumbai at the Hilton Towers’ Rooftop. Early the next day, at the suburban Taj Lands End, Mumbai, a conversation enfolded with the award-winning novelist who surfaces in the world of words (earlier works are Red Earth and Pouring Rain and Love and Longing in Bombay) after a long sabbatical. I had to ask – why so many years before another novel – seven in the making. He replies with alacrity, “I’m just slow, very slow. It does take some perseverance and a large degree of obsession!” This trait is remarkable in the little man with precise and fluent thoughts and a great deal of patience. As the dialogue swirls around lengths and time, Chandra states that writers have their own best lengths. “I did short stories as an experiment,” he says, “to see if they would work, but even those got really long! For me, long length is natural.”

It becomes very clear that the California-based Chandra is, as one can tell from his writing, deeply inspired by Indian mythology, the epics and other magical tales. “What forms us when we are young and growing up, stays with us,” is his strong belief.

Born and brought up in India, but having left for the States out of sheer frustration at not being able to find a good course in creative writing (when he followed poet, Nissim Ezekiel, around), Chandra did his undergraduate degree magna cum laude in English. He looks back and wonders: “Before going abroad, you live in your own parochial world and somehow think that you are universal; that you are like the person on the other side of the world. Once there, within the first couple of days, you realise that you are talking in different languages, even though everyone is supposedly speaking English!

Since then, he has been studying, working and living in America, with frequent visits to the city close to his heart, Mumbai. As a professor of creative writing at the University of California, Berkeley, he finds the cross-cultural mingling stimulating and educational for both sides. He marvels at the rapid changes in India too, “The modern urban Indian is a very different creature from the modern urban New Yorker. In a world that’s rapidly globalising and seemingly getting smaller, we are also fragmenting more and more and the polarities are growing more intense.”

What is his concept of ‘Indian’, then? What we think of as ‘Indian’ is actually the result of many, many changes all through the ages, Chandra explains. He points out that to talk of an unchanging Indianness and the nostalgia for an unchanging past and subsequent stability is itself a falsehood. Brooding about the changing nature of society, Chandra insists that “the world cannot become uniform, even if it is a smaller place”. He predicts an increase of the parochial and the local or an urban niche. “The seemingly contradictory thing,” he says, “is that even as we become more modern, we become more tribal.”

Chandra often and wistfully recalls the days when he and his friend, Anuradha Tandon started the adda in Goa Portuguesa, a restaurant in Mumbai, as a meeting ground for young thinkers and artists. He notes with some amusement that while the Mumbaiites would be dedicatedly taking part in discussions that went on into the wee hours of the morning, their American counterparts in DC, would rush off home by 9 p.m., since the next day was a working day. With barely concealed enthusiasm, he states, “It really was amazing and a lot of fun! That kind of cross-pollination and conversation is really helpful for all kinds of people – really good things came out of that.”

With the turmoil prevalent in the world around, Chandra believes that in some ways it’s a really good time to be a writer because there is so much turbulence and change. The material that is offered to you, that you come by – although it is often painful – is really rich. “In some sense, every book that I have written is a response to what is going on around me,” he says.

Coming from a family that is prolific in the arts, it is no surprise that he is also greatly influenced by the people around him. While his mother, Kamna Chandra, a playwright for All India Radio at the time, was concerned about how all her children would make a living by choosing a vocation in the arts, the entire family came together as a great support system for each other. The atmosphere in the house was always filled with literary discussions and varied artistic interests – what with sisters, Tanuja Chandra (film director) and Anupama Chopra (journalist-writer), to add to the talent pool.

One would imagine that with so many writers in one household, there would often be a difference of opinion. Chandra, on the other hand, looks unfazed and finds it productive. “It’s all in good faith. It doesn’t get to the point where you start resenting somebody else’s opinion. It’s great to be around people who understand the life of being somebody like that. You are, in a sense, strange and different.” Talking about his wife, Melanie Abrams, who is also a writer, Chandra recalls meeting her at an art festival in Los Angeles and staying in touch via email. He says, “We sometimes completely baffle each other. The universe we see is different from that of the other person.”

Chandra, himself, is a man of many talents. His proficiency with computers was discovered when he was working his way through film school in New York. A self-proclaimed computer geek, he loves to dabble in a bit of programming to relax!

After his ambiguous experience of being one of the writers for Vidhu Vinod Chopra’s Mission Kashmir, Chandra is pretty emphatic about not returning to script-writing anytime soon. “As a novelist, you have such complete control over what you do but film-making, from the ground up, is a collaborative art. It’s thrilling at times, because you pass around ideas and then directors step in and the actors make something of what you did. At other times, you want to do something and you can’t! So, then you feel really angry and frustrated.”

Funnily enough, Chandra recalls with a sheepish look, “I actually went to film school because I was scared of being a writer!” After his BA, he was lost and didn’t know how to earn his livelihood. For a year he drifted around taking up odd jobs from that of a night baker to a security guard and furniture mover in Los Angeles. Then he decided to go to film school, figuring that at least that way he would have a chance at a creative job. Ironically, it was film school that led him right back to writing books!

As the discussion revolves around the topics he chooses for his books, Chandra matter-of-factly states, “One writes something close to what one reads and gives pleasure. The Victorians, for instance. I love the diffusion of characters…!” He believes that Indians would necessarily write about the Indian experience, since that is where they are coming from. However, he warns, “One does have to be careful about getting stuck in an ethnic ghetto…for instance, the temptation to write yet another story about cultural confusion.”

For the choice of the detective genre for his latest book, Chandra believes it is a neglected and curiously pleasing form, which weaves across cultures. The detective incarnates the scientific method and the form fits with logic and reason against the chaotic. “In the end,” he says with a smile, “you love it because it comforts us and restores order.”

Has the million dollar-signing contract restored any order for Chandra? Quick to allay the thought that he is discontent, he states a little ruefully, “People presume that with that kind of number, you are set for life. After paying taxes, what you are left with isn’t enough to even buy a house! At the end of it, you are still faced with the task of making a living and feeding your dog. It’s not as if you are transported into some kind of heaven!”

A kind of heaven for Chandra, it appears, is his time distributed between his two homes. He does miss Mumbai and writes about it through the characters in his new book as well. “That is also not to say that the city is not trying and exhausting and wears on you like nothing,” he chuckles. He finds the travel and distance to be a much-needed perspective. “Getting away is a sort of purposeful dislocation – and each time I return, I can feel the city experientially again, renewed.”

While stating that there is so much territory left to explore, Chandra does show a semblance of weariness as he states that he has no plans for another book as yet. A holiday is on the official charts for him – a much required and enforced one.

Quietly contemplative, he concludes, “I realise now how lucky it is to be able to do work in the world that you actually enjoy. It’s not a privilege that everyone gets.”

|  Filling the gaps between words.  |

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