Arundhati Roy Reporting from Maoist Country

I am reading this interesting account of Arundhati Roy's foray into the Maoist controlled hinterlands of the country. I won't comment as the contents are self-evident. Must admire her courage in risking life and limb, in my opinion. Whatever her detractors say, I think she is the voice of the conscience of the nation, the unheard voice of the oppressed. Here's for more power to her pen.

The Magical Two Words for Any Writer – THE END

I was spammed, I was scammed, I was propositioned, offered pleasures, offered treasures, criticised, derided, laughed at, when I was writing it. I carried on regardless, writing I mean. I have numerous critics who doubt my writing abilities, to whom I thumb my nose and say, I am not perfect, but that I can write is no longer in doubt. One even had the audacity to suggest, “Pal, do your job and go home and watch television,” or something such. Well, the boor and the simian that he is, I have proved him wrong. One of my bosses said I am very stubborn. That I am.

Yesterday, I wrote the most magical two words a writer can ever write – THE END.  Two words at the end of a lot of pain, sweat and struggle. Oh, I forgot, self-doubt. Yes, I doubted myself most of the time. Of course as the masthead of this blog says, “A work of art is never finished, it is abandoned,” I don’t have the heart to abandon my work. At least, yet. I wrote those two words after working the whole day yesterday, a Sunday, taking breaks only to eat and visit the loo. By evening the last two chapters were done. Then I went for a long walk, in earlier days I would have made a drink, but I am a teetotaller now, so no drinks. My novel, my second baby, is complete, the first being a still-born. Though, not complete in all respects, but complete nevertheless except for the editing and the fine tuning. The name tentatively is “Mr. Bandookwala, M.B.A., Harvard” and is an extension of a short story I had written some time ago. You can read the short story, a link of which appears in the right hand bot of my blog. What’s it about? It’s about a brilliant Harvard graduate who comes to India to find himself a misfit. He gets mugged and thrown out of the train and is caught in the defining and traumatic moments of the Bombai terror attacks. I wrote hard as if I will never write another novel again. Ever. It is a seminal and distinctive work, which will, naturally, rake up some controversies. But a writer can’t avoid controversies in his life. Can he? Can she? I will put up a synopsis soon. Meanwhile, publisher friends, agent friends, anyone interested?

Some Great Writers in My Family... Justifiably Proud of Them

(Since my website got deleted - hm, guess the service provider goofed up, not me - I have been feeling guilty about the dead link about my family in my Blogger profile. So, I updated it and am directing it to this post. Here it is for discerning readers, the story of my literary provenance. Must warn you, might sound like self-promotion. It is. Nobody talks about your work unless you do. Anyway, what better for a writer than having three great pioneering writers in his own family? So here goes.)

Introduction

My family has had the distinction of having begotten some distinguished writers in Malayalam, a language of South India. The following three major writers in Malayalam are from my family. I am proud of them and their achievements and give below a brief outline of their lives and works.

Rev. George Mathan

Rev. George Mathan, my great-great-great uncle, was an Anglican priest who was born on September 25, 1819. (Historically speaking, he would be a contemporary of great writers like Mark Twain and Charles Dickens.) 

Rev. Mathan, actually, my grandfather's grandfather's brother, was a Syrian Christian Jacobite priest before he was offered the position of the first Indian priest of the Anglican Church. He wrote the first book of Malayalam grammar called "Malayazhmayude Vyakaranam," which was published in 1863. His other books, sort of longish essays, include, "Satyavadakhedam," "Vedasamyukthi," and "Balabhyasam." He was also principal of Cambridge Nicholson Institute (CNI) which was an institution that pioneered English-medium education in Kerala.

Here's what the great Malayalam poet and litterateur Mahakavi Ulloor Parameshwaran Iyer (who is considered Kerala's finest poets along with Kumaran Asan, and Vallathol) had to say about him:

"All in all, George Mathan built a permanent framework for Malayalam literature and thus made all Malayalis indebted to him, this fact is beyond dispute."

Rev. George Mathan died on March 4, 1870 and a hospital, George Mathan Memorial Hospital, Mallapally, Kerala, is named after him. A memorial lecture at Bishop Moor's College is also dedicated to his memory.

Mahakavi Puthencavu Mathan Tharakan

Mahakavi (a title meaning “great poet”) Puthencavu Mathan Tharakan, my great-uncle and Rev. George Mathan's great nephew was born on September 5, 1903. He was a contemporary of my grandfather P.C.Mathew, a.k.a. Puliyelil Estate Writer, with whom he was in close contact.

He was a poet, a singer, a film lyricist (Gnanambikam, the second Malayalam film ever made), a novelist and principal of the Catholicate College in Pathinamthitta, Kerala. Among his novels is "Madhubalika" set in the Calcutta of British colonial era. Among his many poems, the most eminent is the epic poem "Vishwa Deepam," and "Magdala Mariam" or "Mary Magdalene" which is noteworthy for its epic proportion and intense erudition. It is "Vishwa Deepam" based on the life of Christ that earned him the title of "Mahakavi."

He was a good singer and a reciter of his poems and one of the lasting memories I have is of listening to his strong reciting voice. He was a member of the Sahitya Akademi of Kerala and won many awards for his writing.

Prof. K. M. Tharakan

Prof. K. M. Tharakan, my uncle, was born on October 6, 1930 and was a writer, critic and novelist. He was son of Puthencavu Mathan Tharakan. From 1979 to 1988 he was editor of the Malayala Manorama, Kerala's, and indeed India's largest circulated weekly magazine. Though we worked simultaneously in Malayala Manorama for some period of time, it's my great regret that I couldn't meet him and speak with him when he was alive.

Among his books are: Utharadhunikathayum Mattum, Paschatya Sahitya Tatwashastram, Malayala Novel Sahitya Charitram, Anashwaranaya Uroob, Magdalamariam Oru Muktigadha, Anugraheethanaya Bashir, Adhunika Novel Darshanam, Adhunika Sahitya Darshanam, The Poetic Act, and A Brief Survey of Malayalam Literature.

His novels are: Avalanu Barya, Ninakai Mathram, Ormakaluday Ratri, Atmavil Sugandham, Ennil Aliyunna Dukham.

He died in 2003.

What? Me Scammed?

Bit nervous about this. Apprehensive, too. But I have to write it as it will be of use to you if you are in a similar situation, which as the internet expands is very likely. If it can happen to a net-savvy (or, so I presume), techno-geek, such as me (har, har!) then it can happen to you also.

It came as an innocuous offer. I didn't initiate it, they did, from whatever source, I don't know. The salary was a fantastic GBP 4,200 a month, with allowances adding up to GBP 2200 a month. The job was of an au pair teacher for a child aged 4 only for four hours a day five days of the week in Scotland. Heaven. I was tempted; naturally I would even die for that kind of pay. I did the usual research. The address actually exists, the email was genuine. (I know that emails can be re-directed, but that didn't hit me in the money-minded brain [yes, I have been accused of this, people. But a man with a child in college lives a tenuous existence teetering on the edge of bankruptcy; you know, fees, private tuitions, and all. If you are one, you will know.].) By now I was panting and salivating like a hound dog on the trail of the prey. Was this the big break? Was this my nest egg? Of course, being a bit gullible I believed the emails. I should say I was totally taken in. I was dreaming of the glens of Scotland, the, sort of, impressions I would make of being from India - an ancient civilization. The courtesies I would display to impress. I had willingly suspended disbelief and discretion. I was being led by the hand into, I don't know what. I was walking on air for a few hours.

Hm. And then…

Read on. Then, being the wary and careful sort, I googled everything. And this is what I found. I couldn't believe it. Gullible me, sucker me. How depressing it sounded. I found the same words were repeated verbatim, the same mistakes in the scam warning as in the communications I had received. But look at the ingenuity, the unscrupulousness, the willingness to cheat deliberately, to emotionally blackmail people. It's the age of scams and scamsters, caution is advised.

Blue Hills

For Those Who Want to Start a Tech Company

IAccelerator is on a mission to establish world-class technology companies in India, even start ups. IIM-A is spearheading this movement and they have three programs in the last two years in which they have funded 16 such start up companies. The people behind the program claims to read every applications and enter into a dialogue with the potential entrepreneur. For more details go here.

Mortal Thoughts in a Night of Pain

Now this is a constant. If I am sick and if I am awake, yes, I will admit it, I think I am going to die. Have you had this feeling? Thoughts of human frailty come flashing past, instantaneously unaffected by my affliction, the world outside looks serenely unconcerned. I stared outside my window last night. I was sick. The street lights were so beautiful as they fell on the granite embankment of the stream that runs through Artiste Village. My stomach was hurting bad and my world was going to end soon. Something was clawing at my inside, suffusing my body with throbbing pain. I crawl out of bed and go to the floor below. I lie down on a mat there, but still the pain wouldn't go away. I drink a lot of water, better for a few seconds, again the pain starts. I guess old age is approaching ever so slowly. But my parents were both healthy till their mid-eighties. Why am I suffering? Then they were robust people, had good food and not junk as I do. They don't sit in front of a computer for hours and lose themselves into a make-believe world. They didn't commute for four hours every day. They don't claim to be "writer, poet, and blogger." But decisions once made have to be stuck to, even if it means a bit of embarrassment and pain, at times like these. I feel helpless. I pray.

Then the pain goes away. I sleep a tired sleep. No, I am not going to die, at least, not today.

The Road Outside My House Is Dug Up. Grrr.

I have often railed about roads being dug up, drainage holes being kept open (a man, on his morning walk could succumb to gravity and end up in the water he just flushed), and sundry other things. So, imagine my chagrin when I got home last night. The entire area outside my house was dug up. Yes, and the drainage hole was open too. Revenge is sweet, the municipal guys seemed to be saying. I guess, poor soul that I am, I brought it upon myself.

As such things go; I am sure the dug space will remain thusly for many more weeks. Somani Marg is still an ugly mess. At least, three roads on my way to work and back are really in dire straits. I think there should be a commission with a commissioner for dug up road in Bombai. He (Or, she, remember gender equality and all that, the reservation bill having been resoundingly passed in parliament with a voice vote, confirming the vocal power of the fairer sex.) should go ahead seeing that every road is re-surfaced after it is unceremoniously dug up. I would like the commissioner to be a commissionatrix (or, whatever, because only a woman can do this job), so that she can out-shout and out-charm the road diggers, a pestilent lot that they are.

Meanwhile I am extra-careful not to find my behind inside a drainage hole in the next few weeks. So wish me luck.

The Kamala Show: In Conversation with Nandan Nilekani

Here's In conversation with Nandan Nilekani Part - 1 by Kamla Bhatt, who is doing a commendable job of recording interviews with celebrities in her podcasts call The Kamala Show.

Worth a dekko (or, is it a sunno?) to see what the chairman of National ID Card project is up to.

Denied My Daily Shot of the Black Stuff

I am at Café Coffee Day. I order a coffee and it doesn't arrive for half an hour. Remember: half hour. It's Monday, I wonder if it's me, or is it the service. They are usually good. But it's Monday, remember.

The foreigners chattering away in Iberian language are having their orange drink with a slice of lime on the rim. Looks appetizing. The canoodling lovers have theirs, plus eats, too, and are holding hands and doing what society would allow them in a public eatery. The long queue outside for sharing taxis to Nariman Point have disassembled and assembled thrice. Still no coffee. I need my daily shot before starting work and I don't like it when I don't get one. What should I do? Get up and walk? I do.