Art of novel writing

I have always treated authors with a sense of awe. The best of them are undoubtedly the shadows that guide us to the centre of our lives, give us perspectives and vision. They remain fiercely alive in our minds; inspiring us forever with their worldviews, words and distinct voices. I always get back to different pages, chapters and underlined sentences of my books during darker moments of my life to regain strength and gumption. At a time when everything seems to fall apart, my favourite authors such as Somerset Maugham, JM Coetzee and Ruskin Bond appear like angels — comforting and pampering me — clearing the signs of rain-heavy clouds of my life.

Yet I am sometimes astounded by their conviction; their complete submission to a divine calling. What could possibly be the skills required to be an imaginative novelist? According to Orhan Pamuk, the Turkish author, an imaginative novelist has to be childlike, irresponsible and playful. “Whenever I lose that child in me, I find it difficult to proceed with my novel. It is the biggest weapon of an imaginative novelist,” said Pamuk. Only such state of mind takes you to the centre of things, Pamuk believes. A romantic author also needs to be open to his desires and wants; open to dark recesses of his mind and new experiences. There should be no sense of boundary. An aspiring novelist gradually moves through life like a voyeur, living his half-baked yet intense life, not participating in life yet relishing every moment of it, till the end.

All authors struggle, at some point, with the problem of balance between individual and society, temptation and self-control, reality and fantasy, materialism and pragmatism, attachment and detachment. After all, the secret of those life-transforming tales is the secret of effective storytelling — to provide, slowly, the illusion of immensity; the uncanny sense that something fundamentally different is going to be revealed. In other words, it’s the art of stripping all virtues to redefine them.

Meghna Maiti

Spinning of the Soul

genre: fiction

NOTE: This story is not based on my life. Resemblance to any person living or death is purely co-incidental. 

Meghna Maiti

The days were becoming increasingly long and the nights- stretched to eternity. The seasons were passing by, unnoticed, un-loved. The hours were but deadened awakening of mundane routines. The weather inside the small apartment No. 13 at St. Ellis Road located in a sleepy suburb of Mumbai always remained the same. The untended, unmoored pallor of its furniture, walls was strikingly similar to the mind of its chief inhabitant- Maya. Its grey walls, boxed furniture made of teak-wood, ever-drawn brown curtains cast their illusory eyes on Maya as they weighed on her intensely, perhaps deeply. She looked exhausted to the core- with her swollen- puffy eyes, dark circles, and misshapen eyebrows. Even the sight of her angelic, giggly two-year old daughter- Rishima would not clear her mind or cheer her up.

The clock struck 10 pm. Maya sighed and started preparing food for her daughter. As she got busy mixing vegetables, lentils and rice with adequate ghee (clarified butter) and sugar to make it palatable for the baby, she knew Harit- her husband would not return home tonight. He had not been home from his workplace for almost a fortnight now. 

Harit ran his own business venture related with artist management and supply of paintings and artefacts to the galleries and retail shops. He worked from his business partner’s apartment in Mumbai suburb, around an hour’s drive from his own house.

Harit often disappeared from home for days citing work and deadline pressures. He shirked household responsibilities leaving his wife with no means or support to run the house. Yet he expected everything to function smoothly and effortlessly with no complaint whatsoever.

“Why don’t you come home early and take us out? We never go anywhere,” Maya would sometimes raise an issue. Harit remained as unmoved, calm and composed as ever as he answered, “I am setting up a big business, darling. My work does not allow me to be home early and out. We have to be disciplined, work and prosper for our own good. Everything else is a waste of time.”

Maya would frown and yell at him in exasperation, “You are talking about work and all that. But I am the one who is paying all bills. How long will this go on? We don’t even eat out or go for fun-trips. We don’t party like other couples.”

-“It’s all in the mind, Maya. True to your name, you are all full of illusions. Clear yourself of it. Don’t be so materialistic. Have patience.”

But Maya was indeed losing patience these days. She would lose temper, throw tantrums and be rude to people. Her world was becoming narrow and narrower till it could almost be passed through a crevice. While her boss at her workplace- an advertising agency was getting difficult by the day, most friends had started avoiding them for whatever reasons. Her only respite was painting- which she clung on to like a mental patient to a therapist. She often drew portraits of girls from her neighbourhood or colleagues from office. She would paint sceneries, interesting incidents on the road. Unlike her life, her paintings stood out brilliantly- those were large, vibrant, colourful and forceful- etched with love and nostalgia. Though she was merely an amateur painter, the photographs of her art on social networking sites drew huge appreciation from critics and friends.

Of late Maya had been thinking of Harit with a strong sense of bitterness- she would resent the way he was inattentive to her needs, irresponsible to his own family- how he would return home only to spend time with his daughter- chide Maya for coming in late from her office parties- and depend on her for his finances. Even his gestures of kindness and freedom were more out of gratitude than love, she felt.

Such unsettling times called for adventure, even dangerous love, bordering on insanity that could either lead to creation or destruction. And especially a person like Maya needed just that potion of abyss abandonment to find her lost self. After a bad fight with Harit on an evening, she felt her mind whirring with a million bees. She made a random call to a person who had been stalking her for days and returned home the next day from a one-night stand with the stranger- she swore never to meet again.

Thus she built her secret, crazy, meaningless life, in the space between vice and oblivion, beyond the glance of one and all. She started singularly spinning around the world with her multiple selves.

And then, what kept Maya in the marriage? Why wasn’t she leaving him for good? She thought over it umpteen times yet held herself back. Hadn’t that blue-eyed tarot-reader girl whom Maya trusted with all her heart told her that her husband was her karma. She had to be in the relationship to pay off her karmic debt- a Hindu religious concept of basically- action and reaction. Hadn’t her mother who now lived in an ashrama in Kerala told her repeatedly three years ago when she wanted to separate from her husband, “Isn’t it your dharma (moral duty) to stay with your husband? You cannot leave him if you want to be happy.” And what would happen to Rishima?- her closest friend from college had asked. “Your life would be ruined if you leave him. Where would you go? Would you find another person?” her father had warned who also stayed at the ashrama. She stared hard into clouds of darkness as she listened to the ceaseless droning of all voices and wandered about the road ahead.

“Relax! You are an awesome person. You will be fine,”- sweet words of consolation from Maya’s friend and colleague- Nishant- brought her some relief. Her grief and emptiness took their friendship to a more intimate level. On a week day, after work, they caught up at Nishant’s place to share a joint. The slow drags of hash reddened her kohl-smudged eyes and consumed her being.  She loosened up and felt much lighter, like a maze of soap bubbles. Her failed attempts at catching it left a smirk on her face. Then they broke into a peal of laughter, laughed and laughed till the house echoed of their bitter-sweet nothingness; the air grew thick of the pleasure-inducing smoke; till the night turned abnormally silent apart from the heavy breath of the lovers. They got drawn to each other like two moths to a flame and made love till the break of the dawn, listening to the repeating romantic track from the movie- “The Roman Lord”- which means- “The depth of these moments could only be measured by our feelings….”

“What’s up? You look too excited?”- Harit asked Maya after a sudden appearance on a breezy morning. The dazzling sun of the day lit up their faces. “Yes, why not? I was born on this day. I don’t expect you to remember though,” Maya retorted. “Oops, I’m so sorry!” Harit quickly edged forward with an apologetic expression and hugged her “Happy Birthday!” “I totally forgot, its August 13! I promise we would go out for dinner tonight.” Harit kissed her goodbye.

Maya remained cheerful throughout the day, took an off at work, stayed at home and stitched her embroidered top for dinner that Harit had bought from his office trip to London, years ago. Those were the initial years of marriage when Maya was blindly passionate about him. She would wait to slip into his arms, make love the entire day. She had wanted to remain loyal to him forever.

Maya took pains to dress up beautifully for their birthday dinner together- she curled her hair, wore bright-red lipstick, cream eye-shadow, mascara and her pink pearl-set to go with her skirt-blouse.

The wait turned out to be a tad longer as usual- the clock struck one am- Harit had still not returned home. She felt a surge of exasperation and ferocity that almost drove her to frenzy. In a fit of rage, she called up her playboy single man she had a fling with long ago. Maya told him she wanted to meet him in an hour’s time. She stormed out of the house after entrusting Rishima to the care of the nanny. When Maya returned the next morning, Harit had still not come back.

The intermittent episodes of infidelity and the shutting down of all other voices eventually gave Maya the strength to see the truth. Perhaps this was not the best way but this was undoubtedly a unique path to freedom and independence. She finally decided to separate from her husband and liberate herself from the fallacy of action and the path of righteousness. She learnt that karma was after all in the mind and in the end what mattered was how truly and freely she lived her life- how true she was to her innermost desires. And she felt happier than ever.

ENDS

Here comes ganpati

If you are exhausted by the give and take and hurly-burly of Mumbai city life, take a walk around the numerous alleys and chowks to get a glimpse of the pot-bellied, friendly hindu god- lord ganpati; sense the soothing fragrance of jasmine and marigolds. And I can vouch for the feeling of happiness and optimism his company would bring to you. He is the eliminator of obstacles, the patron of arts and sciences and the deva of intellect and wisdom. 

Ganpati is a hard-core foodie which he devours with his elephant trunk. He offers you delicious ‘modaks’- those Indian homemade sweets made of rice flour, coconut and jaggery, which is undeniably good for your soul. During his ten-day visit in Mumbai, you see the city changing its hues and shades, by drawing colourfully-clothed people out in the streets, around the pandals- the incessant beating of drums- smokes of incense sticks filling the fading afternoon light- the twinkling festival lights garlanding the roads- the arrival and departure of emotions, lost times and romance.

Also, religious skits are performed around legendary tales of politics, history and mythology as people stand and applaud.

However, despite all the hoopla surrounding the popular god, it is sad that the biggest festival of Mumbai is increasingly turning into a crass commercial venture. Most of us would have noticed the ganpati pandals these days are more about the advertisements on the banners. Every year, the celebration seems to become grander as political parties and neighbourhood associations try hard to outdo the next guy, remaining true to the spirit of the city. The dons commission huge pandals and expensive lightings, to gain the loyalty of the masses while the small-time goons use ganpati festival for extortion from hawkers, small-time shopkeepers. Many people believe that the festival should be less about religion, social unity and devotion and more about commercialisation, politics and business. And, I am sure if we don’t change our attitude and engage with the lovely god in a more intimate and warm manner, he will surely leave without his blessings.

ENDS

Meghna Maiti

Audacity of hope

The ruthless sacking of employees across the media sector reveals the signs of ominous, black clouds engulfing freedom and courage of millions of journalists. Take for instance, the overnight slashing of around 650 employees and four eminent editors across esteemed publications and websites owned by a rich business baron. This treatment was meted out to people who served the companies loyally for years, worked like dogs and didn’t complain even when the group’s fortune dived and there were no increments or promotions.

The reason- management says- cost cutting- cut the excess flab- free market economy- hire and fire policy. To top it all- there is also a need to increase the profit margin- it has to soar and soar like a vulture till it swoops down and sucks blood out of common human beings. It doesn’t matter whether the bunch of journalists are left philandering in a market crippled by economic woes and plunging rupee, with no fresh recruitment or opportunities whatsoever. Instead of showing empathy to the rest of the lot in the organisation, the editors are now strictly instructed to threaten them with more job losses until they become completely docile and submissive. And with hardly any union presence, they are left with no choice but connive at everything and carry on with their daily drudgery.

Moreover, journalists don’t want to protest lest their next job prospects are hurt by it. The entire industry is slowly devoured by a big shark.  It is crippled by vested political and economic interests of media owners and leading journalists. And we dare not write about these issues.

Perhaps, we can avoid this state of beings by establishing more independent and autonomous private bodies for alternative journalism run by strong editors.  These organisation should become a sort of platform and legal ground for fair diversity and competition among the private outlets. There should be more equitable distribution of wealth, more concern for the well-being of journalists working for their passions. It should be less about cut-throat competition, ego-wars. People outside should have the right to know what they want without any interference from commercial interests. The organisations should be more liberal and progressive in their outlook. We also need to form unions to voice our opinions without fear.

Meghna Maiti