Saturday, 30 June 2007
The Psyche of Debate
Having spent some 7-8 months on Orkut in general and being a part of several communities, the psyche of debate has begun to interest me.There is a statement. One person agrees to it. The other disagrees. Both give reasons for their agreeing/disagreeing. So far so good. The trouble begins, when one starts the unconscious effort to convert the other to his/her belief. And then a number of things may happen.1. The convincing power of one is so good/his reasons are so valid, the other person becomes a convert. (Rare)2. The two appreciate each other’s views but agree to disagree. (Commoner)3. When one is too eager to convince the other, but fails to do so, one in utter disgust goes down to the level of verbal attack, using foul words at the worst and sarcasm at the best. Consequence - mayhem. (Commonest)One may ask, why enter into a debate then? If no conclusions are reached and if everyone, ultimately starts fighting? Well, I would say a lot of information does come your way for you to analyze during a debate. If u like it, option 1 is open! If u don’t, option 2 is open, too! If we are debating about anything under the sun, some are bound to disagree. I empathize with the tendency to putting one's points across. I sympathize, to an extent, with the tendency to try converting another to one's way of thinking (rather a silly thing, largely). But what I fail to understand is, why should one lose one's temper if one can’t change another's opinion? Why go down to abuse and personal attack? Why lose one's cool?
Wednesday, 20 June 2007
Can Palmistry become Science?
The latest edition of Current Science has an interesting article wherein it was published that the Tamsic, Raajsic and Saatvik foods (Ayurvedic classification) is actually scientific! Saatvic food was found to be high in nutrints while Tamsic food was found to be low in the same - statistically.
A few years ago, Astrology as a branch of science was introduced in the UK - albeit draped under controversies...
So why not Palmistry?
There is the life line and the heart line and the head line (no pun intended!) and so many minor lines and the monts of venus, jupiter and saturn and moon which mean so much to the palmist but not to us.
I wondered for a while if there was any sense in it. I read a few books here and there, but basically paid more attention to what palmists were saying about people I knew. What I found was this - palmistry may not predict one's future with a remarkable accuracy, but there seemingly was a remarkable precision with which a person's general tendency was predicted! I man about their behaviour and character.
For instance, people with bent head lines tended to have a morose dispostion and even suicidal. People with 'islands' in their heart lines tended to have troublesome love lives. People with many lines in their palms tended to be think a lot - etc etc.
What I am wondering is, is it possible to give all these observations a quantitative (and not qualitative) and statistical basis?
For instance, can't there be a measure of the degree of the bent of the head line (yes, with a ruler and a protractor) to correspond with the degree of morosity (negative thoughts to perpetual depression to abso suicidal). Sounds silly?
Or a measure of the number of lines (that is easy - take a magnifying glass and count) with the tendency to think (difficult to quantitize, but am sure a psychiatrist will come up with some measure)?
Or a measure of the area covered by the Mont of Venus and correlate it with the person's wealth? (Imagine Income Tax officers roaming about with inch tapes - lol ;) )
Or a measure of the Mont of Jupiter and the persons's IQ?
Or a measure of the Life line and its correlation with life - though this is a controversial aspect in Palmistry as well.
I do believe all this is doable, you know? It will just take a team effort of palmists, statisticians and pychologists and voila, perhaps we shall be having Palmistry as one branch of Science in no time and the roadside palmists shall give me a percentage of their income (they will earn much in their new career as lectureres, now won't they) as reward. Eh What?
A few years ago, Astrology as a branch of science was introduced in the UK - albeit draped under controversies...
So why not Palmistry?
There is the life line and the heart line and the head line (no pun intended!) and so many minor lines and the monts of venus, jupiter and saturn and moon which mean so much to the palmist but not to us.
I wondered for a while if there was any sense in it. I read a few books here and there, but basically paid more attention to what palmists were saying about people I knew. What I found was this - palmistry may not predict one's future with a remarkable accuracy, but there seemingly was a remarkable precision with which a person's general tendency was predicted! I man about their behaviour and character.
For instance, people with bent head lines tended to have a morose dispostion and even suicidal. People with 'islands' in their heart lines tended to have troublesome love lives. People with many lines in their palms tended to be think a lot - etc etc.
What I am wondering is, is it possible to give all these observations a quantitative (and not qualitative) and statistical basis?
For instance, can't there be a measure of the degree of the bent of the head line (yes, with a ruler and a protractor) to correspond with the degree of morosity (negative thoughts to perpetual depression to abso suicidal). Sounds silly?
Or a measure of the number of lines (that is easy - take a magnifying glass and count) with the tendency to think (difficult to quantitize, but am sure a psychiatrist will come up with some measure)?
Or a measure of the area covered by the Mont of Venus and correlate it with the person's wealth? (Imagine Income Tax officers roaming about with inch tapes - lol ;) )
Or a measure of the Mont of Jupiter and the persons's IQ?
Or a measure of the Life line and its correlation with life - though this is a controversial aspect in Palmistry as well.
I do believe all this is doable, you know? It will just take a team effort of palmists, statisticians and pychologists and voila, perhaps we shall be having Palmistry as one branch of Science in no time and the roadside palmists shall give me a percentage of their income (they will earn much in their new career as lectureres, now won't they) as reward. Eh What?
Monday, 18 June 2007
Names!!!
Scientists ought not to name the species they discover…look what they have done! On second thoughts, let them…how else shall they get their due share of fun, huh?
Naja naja – the poisonous cobra
Aha ha – a stinging wasp
Oops – a tick-like creature – also a beetle, named after Oops the tick, had been named by another scientist– OOPS!
Leonardo davincii – a moth
Dracula – an orchid that supposedly resembles a bat
Pandora – a clam (Pandora opened the box of troubles and a clam is supposed to stay clammed shut, I thought!)
Anticlimax – a fossil snail
Hebejeebie – a plant. The word literally means – ‘troubles that plants cause to taxonomists’
Kamera lens – a unicellular organism
Oedipus complex – a salamander
Gammaracanthuskytodermogammarus loricatobaicalensis – an amphipod
Ia io – Chinese bat
The last 2 names are the long and short of it.
In case you didn't get the meaning, they are the longest and shortest scientific names :D
Naja naja – the poisonous cobra
Aha ha – a stinging wasp
Oops – a tick-like creature – also a beetle, named after Oops the tick, had been named by another scientist– OOPS!
Leonardo davincii – a moth
Dracula – an orchid that supposedly resembles a bat
Pandora – a clam (Pandora opened the box of troubles and a clam is supposed to stay clammed shut, I thought!)
Anticlimax – a fossil snail
Hebejeebie – a plant. The word literally means – ‘troubles that plants cause to taxonomists’
Kamera lens – a unicellular organism
Oedipus complex – a salamander
Gammaracanthuskytodermogammarus loricatobaicalensis – an amphipod
Ia io – Chinese bat
The last 2 names are the long and short of it.
In case you didn't get the meaning, they are the longest and shortest scientific names :D
Friday, 15 June 2007
Christie meets cricket
A friend of mine and me (both of us sworn Christie fans) were having this conversation on orkut while the cricket world cup 2007 was in the air...here are the excerpts for you -
A - I was awating you in the libraray..didn't find you or anyone else. Then realized a world cup match was going on and hence there was no Body in the Library
B - Ah, yes. I was watching the match, too. But left it in between as a Sad Cypress.
A - Why, why?
B - Well, After the Funeral of the Big Four (Sachin, Sourav,Rahul, Dhoni), I had not the courage to wait as The Clocks ticked until the fall of the Curtain And then there were None.
A - You are quite right. Our team is faring as though it's Destination is Unknown; and for the poor audience, watching the match is nothing but Ordeal By Innocence. By the way, for these Aussies, Murder is Easy!
B - Next time India is sent to play another match with them we shall call it Appointment with Death. But what can be the possible reason for our team to be in The Hollow like this? Goodness, it seems to be an Endless Night for the team!
A - If you ask me, BCCI is a Crooked House and after that Bhuvaneshwar airport fiasco, Chappel is our Secret Adversary. I hope Dravid realizes it While the Light lasts. Else I forsee that Death comes as the End for his cricketing career - at least for his captaincy.
B - What can we do yaar, we are but a Dumb Witness to the whole thing. By the way where are the teams putting up?
A - At Bertram's Hotel! Where else!
A - I was awating you in the libraray..didn't find you or anyone else. Then realized a world cup match was going on and hence there was no Body in the Library
B - Ah, yes. I was watching the match, too. But left it in between as a Sad Cypress.
A - Why, why?
B - Well, After the Funeral of the Big Four (Sachin, Sourav,Rahul, Dhoni), I had not the courage to wait as The Clocks ticked until the fall of the Curtain And then there were None.
A - You are quite right. Our team is faring as though it's Destination is Unknown; and for the poor audience, watching the match is nothing but Ordeal By Innocence. By the way, for these Aussies, Murder is Easy!
B - Next time India is sent to play another match with them we shall call it Appointment with Death. But what can be the possible reason for our team to be in The Hollow like this? Goodness, it seems to be an Endless Night for the team!
A - If you ask me, BCCI is a Crooked House and after that Bhuvaneshwar airport fiasco, Chappel is our Secret Adversary. I hope Dravid realizes it While the Light lasts. Else I forsee that Death comes as the End for his cricketing career - at least for his captaincy.
B - What can we do yaar, we are but a Dumb Witness to the whole thing. By the way where are the teams putting up?
A - At Bertram's Hotel! Where else!
The grain of sense in the chaff of superstition
Sense and Superstition
It all began with my accompanying my grand dad on a distant relative’s ‘terahwa’ (The 13th day of the Hindu death rites, when relatives and friends gather to dine together). My senses found this whole concept of partying 13 days after a beloved’s death rather revolting, you understand. Frank, as I am with my grandpa, I turned to him and asked, “Don’t you think some Hindu customs border on indecency? How sick it seems, celebrating someone’s death.”
Grandpa replied in his most placid tone – “Yes, most youngsters like you would say so, about not just this, but most Hindu customs. That’s because you restrict yourself from thinking deeply about anything. Look at that fifteen-year-old child over there that lost her dad. She will miss him all her life, but do you deny that her immediate grief is the severest? Do you deny that the presence of so many relatives and friends, the duty of catering to them, the responsibility of fulfilling all the rites correctly is doing something to mitigate the blow of tragedy a little? Do you deny that it is, in essence, diluting some if her sorrow?”
I was rendered speechless, and realized that but yes! As always, there was sense in what grandpa was saying.
And then began my tryst with trying to find sense in superstition.
I will acknowledge that a large chunk of what I am writing at the moment has been inspired by the many many discussions I’ve had with grandpa on the said topic. He has always believed implicitly in the hidden science, the latent logic behind our customs, our religious rites, our traditions, our festivals and even our superstitions. He has opined several times that these ancient practices were laid down as rules by the sagacious ones of yore – who knew that people would love to follow the right path if they were told a good story behind it or given a hint of good old fear – the best weapon if one knows how to wield it! Of course, I shall not deny it that most of the ancient beliefs have become grotesquely distorted with time and continued misconstruction – deliberately, or other wise.
And hence, the task of finding sense behind superstition is by no means an easy task! Lots of chaff to remove before I find some grain, it seems!
Ever felt irked that grand mom wants you to stay off non-veg and onions during ‘sawan’? Or when mom suddenly pushed you into a seating position as you were taking a swig of water while standing?
Must have seen an aunt or two getting up early to offer water to the Sun God? You’d be interested to know that rays of the rising sun are very healthy for the eyes. And haven’t you heard – “Early to bed, early to rise…” J
Have you tried arguing with great grand mom that you didn’t want to fast on Mondays? It is being postulated that fasting one day a week helps the digestive system to relax and recuperate and work better the other six days!
Or got intensely irked when you were forced out of the kitchen during the periods? All females would agree with me that those five days of the month are a period of intense discomfort, and if you are getting a break from work – even if you are looked down upon as an impure object meanwhile – does it hurt?! ;-)
Silly superstitions, you’d be inclined to say now wouldn’t you?
Okay forget them for the moment and discuss something more enjoyable – Deepawali, the festival of lights for instance, where one is traditionally supposed to light tiny diyas (not bulbs on strings, mind you). You wouldn’t fail to notice that a day after Deepawali, the population of irksome insects goes down drastically and you can yawn easily in bright lights!
Or Holi, a day before which one ignites mounds of ‘garbage’ in the name of Holika Dehen and in the process, manages to clear up the roads in the city and the remains of rabi crops from the agricultural farms in villages.
This journey of mine is still in its first stage – for you see, I have just delved superficially into some beliefs of my family only. Needless to say, I have miles and miles to travel. Hoping to find more views and counterviews on the same.
It all began with my accompanying my grand dad on a distant relative’s ‘terahwa’ (The 13th day of the Hindu death rites, when relatives and friends gather to dine together). My senses found this whole concept of partying 13 days after a beloved’s death rather revolting, you understand. Frank, as I am with my grandpa, I turned to him and asked, “Don’t you think some Hindu customs border on indecency? How sick it seems, celebrating someone’s death.”
Grandpa replied in his most placid tone – “Yes, most youngsters like you would say so, about not just this, but most Hindu customs. That’s because you restrict yourself from thinking deeply about anything. Look at that fifteen-year-old child over there that lost her dad. She will miss him all her life, but do you deny that her immediate grief is the severest? Do you deny that the presence of so many relatives and friends, the duty of catering to them, the responsibility of fulfilling all the rites correctly is doing something to mitigate the blow of tragedy a little? Do you deny that it is, in essence, diluting some if her sorrow?”
I was rendered speechless, and realized that but yes! As always, there was sense in what grandpa was saying.
And then began my tryst with trying to find sense in superstition.
I will acknowledge that a large chunk of what I am writing at the moment has been inspired by the many many discussions I’ve had with grandpa on the said topic. He has always believed implicitly in the hidden science, the latent logic behind our customs, our religious rites, our traditions, our festivals and even our superstitions. He has opined several times that these ancient practices were laid down as rules by the sagacious ones of yore – who knew that people would love to follow the right path if they were told a good story behind it or given a hint of good old fear – the best weapon if one knows how to wield it! Of course, I shall not deny it that most of the ancient beliefs have become grotesquely distorted with time and continued misconstruction – deliberately, or other wise.
And hence, the task of finding sense behind superstition is by no means an easy task! Lots of chaff to remove before I find some grain, it seems!
Ever felt irked that grand mom wants you to stay off non-veg and onions during ‘sawan’? Or when mom suddenly pushed you into a seating position as you were taking a swig of water while standing?
Must have seen an aunt or two getting up early to offer water to the Sun God? You’d be interested to know that rays of the rising sun are very healthy for the eyes. And haven’t you heard – “Early to bed, early to rise…” J
Have you tried arguing with great grand mom that you didn’t want to fast on Mondays? It is being postulated that fasting one day a week helps the digestive system to relax and recuperate and work better the other six days!
Or got intensely irked when you were forced out of the kitchen during the periods? All females would agree with me that those five days of the month are a period of intense discomfort, and if you are getting a break from work – even if you are looked down upon as an impure object meanwhile – does it hurt?! ;-)
Silly superstitions, you’d be inclined to say now wouldn’t you?
Okay forget them for the moment and discuss something more enjoyable – Deepawali, the festival of lights for instance, where one is traditionally supposed to light tiny diyas (not bulbs on strings, mind you). You wouldn’t fail to notice that a day after Deepawali, the population of irksome insects goes down drastically and you can yawn easily in bright lights!
Or Holi, a day before which one ignites mounds of ‘garbage’ in the name of Holika Dehen and in the process, manages to clear up the roads in the city and the remains of rabi crops from the agricultural farms in villages.
This journey of mine is still in its first stage – for you see, I have just delved superficially into some beliefs of my family only. Needless to say, I have miles and miles to travel. Hoping to find more views and counterviews on the same.
My Experiments with Truths of Interior Decor
Wednesday, 13 June 2007
The Art & Science of Writing
RAMBLINGS OF AN AMATEUR AUTHOR
Many people may tell you that writing a book is one tiny piece of cake for a person of your potentialities.
(“Your English is damned fine, fella….why do you waste your time like this….write something….an essay, or a story of some sort….it’ll be easy for someone like you who’s read so much…..” etc etc…)
Take my advice, and do not believe them.
You might ask me (and I wouldn’t blame you for a minute) why at all one should want to write a book. Well – why shouldn’t one? After all, it is as good a way to pass your time or earn your living as any other. Perhaps it is better than most. It offers self-employment – there are no bosses (the point is debatable, publishers have been known to wag the commanding finger at the poor author’s nose several times); you can work from home and is as such comfortable; and of course if you can assess the readers’ market well, you can fill your coffers up to the brim – some authors positively own a mint. And it hardly has any professional hazards.
If you go on to assess, writing a book should be a bed of roses.
It isn’t.
You don’t know the bumps on the road unless you begin to take a ride. On similar lines, you don’t begin to get familiar with the hitches of writing a book unless you begin to write it.
The roses are few and far between, the thorns strewn aplenty.
But what is life without a royal challenge, as the adman’s line goes. I have decided to take up this challenge and have made up my mind to proceed very methodically towards the fulfillment of it.
Actually, to be frank, I have wondered many a time what it would be like to actually write a book. Having read so much and having admired so many authors, one at times wants to know how these gifted men of pen think up things.
Well, they say there is no experience like first hand experience. Why not let’s write a nice little book ourselves and find out for ourselves. (Hell…I’m talking like a nurse!)
As I have made clear in the string of words above, writing a book is a paramount problem, and I am fully prepared to tackle it. If I have decided to catch the bull by its horns, (rather uncomfortable for the bull, by the way) I must make fool proof plans. Plans to fool the bull, pun intended, haw haw haw…sorry. These plans will no doubt take the form of an essay or a treatise on the art and science of Bibliogeny (Book Writing to the uninitiated). However, it will do little to help anybody except the writer herself, and is as such a very selfish piece of work (just like all good pieces of work, I dare say). I am going to convince my publisher (if at all I manage to find one) to print a statutory warning on the front leaf – NOT MEANT AS A GUIDE IN WRITING
All preliminaries taken care of, I may embark on my literary sojourn with a clear conscience.
The first question that I must get an answer to is why should I write a book? No no. What I mean is, why should I write a book?
WHY TO WRITE A BOOK?
There are several reasons for this.
Foremost being that I have just resigned from a decent job. And this because I had a fight with the boss that Patel Chowk was 15.7 kilometers from Mall Road. I had proof that this was so – an auto rickshaw driver’s tariff meter said so. But the opinionated what-not that my boss was, he refused to believe. He kept on insisting that the distance was 16. 1 kilometers and no less. Now, discrepancies like that, in scientific laboratories, are just not tolerated. And I would have tolerated it, had my boss not accompanied his denials with the continuous picking of his nose. Now if there is one thing I never want to know is what the olfactory tunnel of my boss, or for that matter anyone, contains in the nature of wallpaper or plastering so to say. And anyways, it was a matter of principle, not my plain silliness. Pity was, the boss felt different. That afternoon I left the lab, red in the face, racking my brains to come up with the name of a suitable lawyer who would help me launch a case against the big tyrant so that I could prove legally that the distance was 15.7 kilometers and not a picometer more. Better still, I wanted to contest the next Assembly elections so that I could raise my voice against pig-headed bosses in the Parliament.
That was then. I have cooled down considerably now, but I still don’t feel kindly towards the old man and his productive nose. I guess time doesn’t always mellow things.
Anyway, the end-result of the skirmish was that I was left jobless with plenty of time on my hands.
Another important argument in my favour is that I have always had a good knack for vocabulary and grammar. It is not just I who says so. If you want proof, an old gaunt English teacher of my hometown’s best school will give you a rare smile at the mention of my name, nod her head satisfactorily and tell you there aren’t many like me. She used to give the same rare smiles when my essays came up for correction on her table.
Simply knowing English is not enough. It is by no means a rara avis. So many others know the language. A company clerk knows and a press-reporter knows. A call-center guy will know all (and tell all, too, in an extremely strange cross-breed accent) and so would so many others. I believe there are more Indians in India knowing English than there are English in England itself. It definitely does everything a national language should do, without getting the said title. So what I was saying was that simply knowing English was insufficient.
A writer, I believe is set apart by his imaginative thinking. His thinking must be original, coherent and interesting (to most, at least). This thinking power sprouts from an author’s extraordinarily strong observation propinquity and a very fertile imagination. Ask any author, and he will tell you that his viewpoint on normal things is rather paranormal. I mean different from the ordinary.
Now I am a fully qualified thinker. The aforementioned boss would give half his salary to get me certified as a moony-eyed daydreamer who’d rather lie on a couch than work. And I look at things differently, too. If you will notice my photograph on the backside or inside leaf of my publications, you will notice a very noticeable squint.
All the above points established, the vital point comes next. I may tell you that while I love literature and all that, I have actually been a student of the sciences. Now scientific training adds an extra something to your brain. (Arts and Commerce, don’t whet your knives for me. I’m sure you, too, would add, and not subtract.) It makes you look at every thing with logic and reason and you tend to adopt a clearer viewpoint of a problem. As I keep reiterating that book writing is a headache, a nice scientific brain must be called upon to catch the bull’s horns (the poor bull).
WHAT TO WRITE?
This question logically follows next. One must decide what one has to write. Several authors opine that writing should come from the heart, that there is no conscious decision as to what to write, and that on many occasions a book just writes itself.
I beg to disagree. If any one of these authors had a heart like mine, he’d understand. Why, my heart is one of the most treacherous hearts of all mankind. It will never ever stay put on any one thing for a long time. It will always have an amicable difference of opinion with my brain, it will insist that it is right and when it has been proved wrong, will take up another Pandora’s Box with amazing alacrity. The upshot is that my heart can never guide me correctly as to what to write.
On the other hand, wait a minute. My heart has so often lead me straight into trouble that I may take the direction 1800 from what my heart says and be safe.
But that’s neither here nor there. I must make a conscious decision, independent of my heart.
And my book is certainly in no mood to write itself. If it had been, ladies and gentlemen, I wouldn’t be writing this prequel to writing a book.
Hence, we come to my second obstacle.
People write books on anything.
In accordance with the most approved scientific manner, I am listing down these various topics.
Classics
Cookery books
Thrillers
Romance
Travel books
Memoirs
Murder mysteries
Self enhancement
Books to understand yourself
Books to understand the opposite sex
Books to understand the world
These are what are popularly referred to as the various genres of literature.
What I want to put across is that there is so much choice. One may take one’s pick and still manage not to disturb the established ones or tense the newcomers.
Easier said than done.
Taking one’s pick, I mean.
You’ll see what I mean as I work my way down the list.
There is a major problem with Classics. Despite my claims to knowledge in English, I still have not grasped the actual meaning of the term ‘Classics.’ What are they? I have read my fair share of Shakespeare and Iliad and Charles Dickens and Ayn Rand and have drawn the conclusion that the critics have massively appreciated them all. This indicates that the writer did not intend his book to be called a classic. It became one when all the readers appreciated it, and when the critics declared it so, unanimously.
This puts writing a classic rather out of the question. I do not even know any critics. How can I know their likes and dislikes? And any way, two critics seldom agree on any one thing – and you expect me to convince the whole lot of them that I’m the best?! Rather a tall order that!
Next in line were cookery books, I think. Well, if you leave me on an island, all alone like Robinson Crusoe (even he couldn’t manage alone; he was smart enough to rope in Man Friday), may be then I can cook to save my life. Otherwise, there are greater chances of India winning a one-day international cricket series in West Indies. But folks, it will be doing me a great favour if you didn’t go and relate this paragraph to my grandmother. She is rather a sweetheart and still has the ambition that I will someday make somebody a nice wife, manning…er…(wo)manning his kitchen round the clock.
And tell me, anyways, what good have cookery books ever done to anyone? Half the ingredients sound exotic to the ears, as you have been buying them at the grocer’s under one alias and they appear in print under another a.k.a. Once you have managed to decipher what has to go in, seventeen and a half other troubles crop up. They say the onions have to be fried until a perfect golden brown. Have they provided an Asian Paints shade card alongside for reference? No sir, they have not! So in goes the next lot of stuff into onions of a doubtful hue. And so out goes the idea of writing cookery books.
A Thriller. Hmmm….something may, just may come out of it. A thriller sells you know. It is what rakes in the moolah. People rather like to sit on the edge of their seats (defying all rules of Physics – unstable equilibrium and all that - in the process) and flip the pages of a nice bloody, action-packed piece of fiction. The grosser, the gorier and the more gruesome a thriller, the better – and this, ladies and gentlemen is the thumb rule on which thriller writers operate. Knowing this, I can manage my way pretty smoothly. I hope.
I may just think up an ingenious plot to assassinate the Indian Prime Minister. The assassin will have to be a member of a terrorist group (most un-original, but no other option. The common man doesn’t want frequent elections and will not go about bumping off heads of the nation. ). I shall have a female assassin, someone young and personable, who shall get into the PM’s….hell’s bells. How will she get into the PM’s inner circle? You see, this requires some sort of inside information. Now I am sure the state the PM Office is in after all these bomb blasts and terrorist attacks, it will never allow me inside to do the necessary research work, thinking I might be the very same female assassin that I have been thinking out loud about. Oh well…no matter how I die, I’d rather not die a mislabeled ISI agent!
Chuck it. Let me think of a love story.
Nah….the more personal a love story is, the better. You can’t just think of it. What you felt, what you experienced, what you underwent etc, etc make for far more interesting reading than a story plucked out of thin air.
Now that is the snag. That is the one major mourn of my life.
I do not sound serious in the lines above, do I? But fact is, I am. Deadly serious, about a guy who just isn’t interested in me. Now who indeed would like to listen to a young girl who has spent five years of her life running after an idiot who hasn’t turned and looked at her more than five times! Nobody would even call it a love story. It will pass off as a story of idiocy at worst and pathos at best. But believe me, if I ever get down to type out my story, it will go under the heading of a “love story”.
Let me see, I have crossed four of my list-toppers. (See what I mean. Writing a book is a pain.) Travel books are rather a safe bet. I may put up for records’ sake that I have traveled a good deal. Mountains, deserts, forests, beaches and cities – I’ve been there, seen that and done those.
However, I’m sure to face some stiff competition from members of a particular species. This species positively smells out regions worth traveling. No part of the earth is immune from these creatures. Once a member of this clan settles onto one point on the map, he proceeds to give the benefit of observing this scenic beauty to one and all, relying on a gadget popularly called as ‘the third eye’.
The Indian Film Industry directors, I mean. They have an uncanny knack of nosing out locales. Be it the North Pole or the Sahara Desert, Mount Everest top or Dead Sea bottom – you can bet on it that their crew will come, battling all odds. Like Napoleon, the word Impossible becomes I’mpossible for them.
What with half the movies being screened sans entertainment tax, who would bother reading a travel book?
And didn’t poor Hugh Grant run into huge losses running a bookstore in Notting Hills selling travel books? A genius learns from others’ mistakes. Meaning me, in case you didn’t get the hint.
My memoirs. Am I old enough to write them? Well, there isn’t any lower age limit to start writing it. Life ain’t supposed to be long, life oughtta be Big. (Anand, in Hrishida’s ‘Anand’ says so). Mine has been, or at least I think so. My post-graduation course was a lovely time of my life, what with a great gang of friends and a number of trips in the jungle to stuff field ecology into the little grey cells. It could really make for interesting reading, the good times we shared out there in the jungles. You know, the safaris and the treks and the rain and the Antaksharis and the dancing and the jokes and the general camaraderie. What quirks of human nature you get to observe on occasions like this is a psychologist’s envy and your delight. Tell you what, if you really want to get to know someone well, marry him, or take him with you on a jungle trip. (Youngsters do not misconstrue. I do not want mothers of unwed mothers skinning me alive.)
However, here too, is a snag. If I write my post-graduation reminiscences, I will end up dead within two days of the book being published. Er, okay. Not exactly that, but something horribly close to that. Reason being, very simply, that I know too much! You see, in my college days, I had been a sympathetic type of person. I encouraged people to unburden themselves and listened to them. This resulted in my knowing more about the underbelly of the class than anybody else did. Only I knew that A loved B very much but B loved C, who frankly hated D but couldn’t live without E. However, come the second semester and A had begun to admire D and B and C had formed a couple and G had entered the scene. Whoa, did I skip F?
You get the hang of it, don’t you. Thing is, it was all 2-3 years ago. B and D have got married and they wouldn’t want each other to know about the other alphabets of their pasts, would they?
You might suggest that I can doctor the facts a little bit. But that’s the problem with reminiscences. We memoir-writers sort of take an oath to speak all the truth and nothing but the truth. The bare, naked, truth. Well, there goes the sixth item – killed, so that some secrets could live on. (Boy, do I write with a dramatic pen!)
Murder mysteries were next on the line weren’t they? Between you and me, I have proceeded to write no less than two separate plots of murder. In one, I managed to pen 13 chapters, imagine that, before I developed a terrible distaste for my characters. They became the worst characters ever imagined by an author – dull, insipid and very boring. I could not get the plot in place, either. All in all, it is a most wasteful creation, never likely to see the light of day. No wonder they say 13 is unlucky. I valiantly went on to write the second half-formed plot, vowing that this time Chapter 14 would follow 12. This time, disgust set in in the third chapter itself. In fact, it was then that I banged my electronic notebook shut, stopped pulling my hair out and decided to approach my problem scientifically. To cut a long story short, ladies and gentlemen, I decided to write this prequel out.
I think I can safely move on to self-enhancement books. These are nutritious books indeed, having to do with stuff like cheese and chicken soup. (Ref. - WHO MOVED MY CHEESE, CHICKEN SOUP FOR…a lot of souls in trouble) Though they are not cookery books in the least, they end up having as much use(lessness) as their (un)worthy predecessors in the list.
These books take it upon themselves to tell you exactly how you should stir, sit, speak, sneeze, spit, snarl, etc to get exactly what you want.
Now…..hey wait a minute. Why am I going on with the list? If I have gone so ahead (Thirteen chapters, no less, and two separate plots) in my career as a mystery storywriter, it is almost a cinch that I’ll make it to the finish line. Why, it is logical, almost mathematical – I definitely have a higher probability of succeeding in it than in any other form of writing.
I told you, didn’t I, that science helps.
The next question that poses itself is no mean question. It deals with the mysterious fourth dimension of our lives, friends - the time element. It deals with, to be specific, the question when to write.
WHEN TO WRITE A BOOK
No author worth his salt will give the statement that he can write anytime he damn pleases. I tell you, a book often has a will of its own. It will not allow you to write it if it does not have the mood. You will sit before the computer screen and jab away at the keys as much as you please. However, if the time is not right, nothing worthwhile will appear in black over the white sheet. You will read it, take a deep breath of disappointment, stretch your arms, rub your eyes and press the delete key all the way. On other occasions, you’d be tempted to reformat the entire drive.
There will be times worse than the incidents above. You will simply not want to sit before the screen at all. You will create every possible excuse for not doing so. You would virtuously try helping mother in the kitchen, run an errand for father, or listen to grandmother eloquently blackmailing you to agree to get married. In fact, anything except sitting down in front of that dreaded screen. At times like this, a hardware crash can give such a secret guilty pleasure that it can only be savoured and not described.
However, there are good times, too. There is another side to the coin, when the urge to write suddenly inundates you. Your mind becomes a virtual hymenopteran’s abode (I couldn’t make up my mind which among an anthill and a honeycomb was busier-actually didn’t want to get either bitten or stung). Ideas flood in from all directions possible and vie with each other for your attention. Each insists on being jotted down first, threatening to pass away into oblivion if you don’t. You eke your way out of this situation, typing at 1000 words a minute, creating such a cacophony with the keys that banshees want to materialize and provide the vocals in this devil’s orchestra. I think most authors refer to this as a Burst of Creativity.
Naturally, you do not end up writing every single one of your inspirations. Some of them do end up fading away.
But boy, do they fade away gloriously! The point constantly keeps nagging that whatever you had missed was a wonderful idea – a king among ideas. You are tricked by this treacherous feeling into thinking deeply about this idea of ideas, trying to clutch at it mentally. You try gouging your brains out. I have heard our good old human brain harbours memories of our ancestral avatars as fish, frog or reptile. Well, you are more likely to resurrect one of these reminiscences rather than remembering that elusive idea.
You get a funny feeling in your stomach that you are just at the point of grasping that flitting thought. This feeling builds up to a climax in a few seconds – and dies down into a gurgling anti-climax. The remorseless idea relentlessly punishes you for forgetting it in the first place. However, once it has satisfied itself that you have atoned enough for the Eighth Sin of Forgetfulness, it floats back daintily into the folds of the cerebellum and announces its presence with lofty grandiloquence when you are least expecting it. And then comes the biggest anti-climax of it all. The idea was never worth all the trouble at all! Alas, as they say in Shakespearean tragedies – woe is me!
But all this meandering discussion about a flighty idea is taking me away from my intended query. A trained scientific mind does not cater for digression like this.
The errand was to seek the best time to write a book.
Now for me, this time has mostly been the middle of the night. All my literary glands are hyperactive at this hour and secrete the hormone of eloquence into my blood. Now there is no hard and fast rule as such – I may get the ‘urge’ at any other time – but nighttime generally is righttime.
One of the major attributes of this period of inky darkness is its inherent secrecy. Ask any one with a felonious intent, and he will doubtless support me. Though most of them may also tell you that even broad daylight doesn’t bother them any.
Well, in a place like India, Curiosity is a major ingredient of nearly every mind. If you tell an average middle-class Indian that curiosity killed the cat, he is likely to retort that a cat had nine lives. Nearly everybody has a Ph.D. in the art of nosing.
Yeah, so where were we? Right, we were discussing the importance of secrecy in my life as an author. Now, it makes me horribly self-conscious to have someone know I am up to something like writing a book. I remember an occasion when I had scribbled some stuff in my diary. Something related to what I had wanted to do to the truculent maid who had prevented me from my daily diet of purloined pickles. Trouble had come when my father had managed to steal a look. At my diary contents, I mean. He also went on to read the stuff out – and then followed an erudite discussion in my house as to how my childish writing exposed my inner self.
I can still remember the heat and colour as both had risen up my neck to cover my face until I looked positively like a tomato. Who likes his innermost-self bandied about in public, open to comment?
Result has been my abnormal secrecy regarding anything I write. I had even felt uneasy about my school assignments for a long time. Teachers had to literally pull the exercise book from my hands in my junior classes. At times, I wonder if I will have the courage to take my book to the publisher. I might just mail it to him using an alias or something. Oh hell…no point crossing bridges before coming to them.
Anyways, we have conclusively established that most nights and other sundry moments of complete solitary existence are the best for writing.
The next question is one of a very basic nature. It has its roots embedded within the very essence of book writing.
HOW TO WRITE A BOOK?
What a silly query, you’d say. An author who doesn’t know how to write a book ought not to be called an author.
But wait a minute. The question is sensible. It pertains to two main aspects of writing – the language and the plot. Both are the mainstays of any interesting story, and if a writer fails in either, he may as well kiss his career goodbye.
Let’s tackle language first.
I have mentioned before, that one has to have a good command over the language. This indicates that the writer should be capable of writing smoothly and freely, without encountering literary roadblocks. His writing should be an interesting potpourri of words (that are not too difficult and too mundane) with a sprinkling of suitable idioms and proverbs which spice up creation.
Of course, an author enjoys a certain leeway, a freedom in writing off- beat English. He may have characters that speak wrong grammar or prefer using certain proverbs. This serves to make the writing fresh and original. I have even encountered an author who wrote completely in the present tense. Rather disconcerting, but an interesting effort it was.
But an author must beware of the danger of repetition. It must be avoided. What I mean is, an author, almost unknowingly and instinctively, tends to possess a set words and proverbs, which he uses most frequently. Now the language English is so very propitious as to help avoid pitfalls like this. One must consciously avail oneself of this facility.
Vocabulary is not the only constituent of language. The arrangement of words, or in other words, the writing style of an author sets him apart. This style is something that must be original. It is very much the stamp or identifying fingerprint that an author has. As such, an inexperienced author who is bumbling away on his newfound path of self-expression must avoid the danger of unconscious aping. This danger pertains dangerously to me. I have been such an avid reader of Agatha Christie and such a devoted admirer of the character of Mrs. Ariadne Oliver that I instinctively write with the same hint of verbal dysentery, as she tends to speak. I mean the tendency of writing very long and winding sentences with lots of commas and semi colons such that somebody reading it aloud will have to make an untimely pause to take breath. Now the scare of being accused of aping is so strong in my heart that I constantly read and re-read everything I have written with a critical eye, weeding away words and expressions that may land me in trouble.
This point amply established I shall move on to the plot. Plot of a story is like the soul of a living thing. Story without a plot isn’t a story at all. To all intents and purposes, a plot of a story is what comes out of the writer’s heart. There are all sorts of plots. Some based on truth, some imagination, some experienced by the author, some vicariously observed. But whatever be the plot, an author must do his homework properly. Book writing is not an exercise for the really homebound soul. Some scrupulous and painstaking research work is vital so that a plot becomes as accurate as possible. If the plot, for example, is set in a certain city, the author must be familiar with its by-lanes and betel shops so as to bring in the local colour. For instance, I have tried setting my two plots of murder mystery, one in Simla and another in the Kumaouns. I have personally been to neither place. And so the further development of the plots have been adjourned till so and so time when I tour the arena.
Of course, being a student of the sciences as I am, establishing accuracy should not be a very difficult task for me. Though one will have to strike a balance between too much detail and absolute sketchiness.
Moreover, this discussion of details reminds me of another aspect of writing. The length of the story. There is no hard and fast rule to determine this, but an author should keep this in mind that nothing is more tiresome to read than an over-stretched plot. Plots are plots; don’t make elastic bands of them. Else, they will snap out of the reader’s zone of interest.
Another thing or two about the veracity of plots. I believe no matter how imaginary a story may be, its roots are in firm reality. Characters are nearly always real people, some whom we writers know intimately while some may be strangers even.
However, the thoughts that these people have and the speeches that they make are very similar to the author’s own mindset. I have noticed that at least one character, perhaps the main protagonist has an uncanny similarity with the writer himself or his image of himself. Which, incidentally, brings me to what I set about to debate.
How much of himself does an author reveal, deliberately or unconsciously, when he writes?
An author intending to write his autobiography some day, reveals only as much as he intends to. Or none at all. Inexperienced authors, or authors too passionately immersed in their task to notice, or authors who don’t mind this form of self-exhibition proceed to become thoroughly transparent for the intelligent reader.
And that, folks, is the furthest that I am going. If I reveal the magic formula of how to get a plot any more, well…a girl has to make a living after all!
Hey, the problem doesn’t end here. Simply writing a manuscript is not the end of the journey. Another problem crops up – that of giving the finishing touches to what you’ve written.
HOW TO EDIT A BOOK?
A manuscript cannot do without rigorous editing. There are spelling mistakes to be taken care of. There are grammatical errors to be corrected, and so on and so forth.
Several authors, me included…I hope you will pardon me for including myself in the club of Authors, but I will be one, soon….and I have already started feeling like one…so where were we?....yeah….several authors do not write all their chapters in one order. The paragraphs of a storyline may appear in print in one order, and may have been written in another. This, translated into understandable English, means that a quintessential author writes a few lines, reads it, inserts a few lines in between, comes another day, deletes what he had inserted and puts in some different words. In other words, writing is a very, very dynamic process. One thinks of one thing, and then follows that thought with another, and then suddenly realizes that three chapters ago, he had written something exactly opposite to the present thought. Also, there is always the danger of forgetting the names of the characters. If I begin calling the heroine Ramona, and then suddenly refer to her as Mala in the 8th chapter, the reader is bound to get confused.
While writing a mystery story, one has to take in the scrupulous details of clues and hints and innuendoes, etc. It is easy to miss out, or re-write or wrongly-write something here, too. It is also essential to check that what you have fitted in between, dovetails exactly with the lines before and after. In essence, without more ado, I’ve proved this point that EDITING is NECESSARY.
And now, folks, there is one query, the answer to which even a trained Scientific Mind cannot come up with. It is a query, the answer to which many a pathetic, pitiable author has not been able to come up with.
viz.
HOW TO PUBLISH A BOOK?
That’s all folks!
DEEPTI
Many people may tell you that writing a book is one tiny piece of cake for a person of your potentialities.
(“Your English is damned fine, fella….why do you waste your time like this….write something….an essay, or a story of some sort….it’ll be easy for someone like you who’s read so much…..” etc etc…)
Take my advice, and do not believe them.
You might ask me (and I wouldn’t blame you for a minute) why at all one should want to write a book. Well – why shouldn’t one? After all, it is as good a way to pass your time or earn your living as any other. Perhaps it is better than most. It offers self-employment – there are no bosses (the point is debatable, publishers have been known to wag the commanding finger at the poor author’s nose several times); you can work from home and is as such comfortable; and of course if you can assess the readers’ market well, you can fill your coffers up to the brim – some authors positively own a mint. And it hardly has any professional hazards.
If you go on to assess, writing a book should be a bed of roses.
It isn’t.
You don’t know the bumps on the road unless you begin to take a ride. On similar lines, you don’t begin to get familiar with the hitches of writing a book unless you begin to write it.
The roses are few and far between, the thorns strewn aplenty.
But what is life without a royal challenge, as the adman’s line goes. I have decided to take up this challenge and have made up my mind to proceed very methodically towards the fulfillment of it.
Actually, to be frank, I have wondered many a time what it would be like to actually write a book. Having read so much and having admired so many authors, one at times wants to know how these gifted men of pen think up things.
Well, they say there is no experience like first hand experience. Why not let’s write a nice little book ourselves and find out for ourselves. (Hell…I’m talking like a nurse!)
As I have made clear in the string of words above, writing a book is a paramount problem, and I am fully prepared to tackle it. If I have decided to catch the bull by its horns, (rather uncomfortable for the bull, by the way) I must make fool proof plans. Plans to fool the bull, pun intended, haw haw haw…sorry. These plans will no doubt take the form of an essay or a treatise on the art and science of Bibliogeny (Book Writing to the uninitiated). However, it will do little to help anybody except the writer herself, and is as such a very selfish piece of work (just like all good pieces of work, I dare say). I am going to convince my publisher (if at all I manage to find one) to print a statutory warning on the front leaf – NOT MEANT AS A GUIDE IN WRITING
All preliminaries taken care of, I may embark on my literary sojourn with a clear conscience.
The first question that I must get an answer to is why should I write a book? No no. What I mean is, why should I write a book?
WHY TO WRITE A BOOK?
There are several reasons for this.
Foremost being that I have just resigned from a decent job. And this because I had a fight with the boss that Patel Chowk was 15.7 kilometers from Mall Road. I had proof that this was so – an auto rickshaw driver’s tariff meter said so. But the opinionated what-not that my boss was, he refused to believe. He kept on insisting that the distance was 16. 1 kilometers and no less. Now, discrepancies like that, in scientific laboratories, are just not tolerated. And I would have tolerated it, had my boss not accompanied his denials with the continuous picking of his nose. Now if there is one thing I never want to know is what the olfactory tunnel of my boss, or for that matter anyone, contains in the nature of wallpaper or plastering so to say. And anyways, it was a matter of principle, not my plain silliness. Pity was, the boss felt different. That afternoon I left the lab, red in the face, racking my brains to come up with the name of a suitable lawyer who would help me launch a case against the big tyrant so that I could prove legally that the distance was 15.7 kilometers and not a picometer more. Better still, I wanted to contest the next Assembly elections so that I could raise my voice against pig-headed bosses in the Parliament.
That was then. I have cooled down considerably now, but I still don’t feel kindly towards the old man and his productive nose. I guess time doesn’t always mellow things.
Anyway, the end-result of the skirmish was that I was left jobless with plenty of time on my hands.
Another important argument in my favour is that I have always had a good knack for vocabulary and grammar. It is not just I who says so. If you want proof, an old gaunt English teacher of my hometown’s best school will give you a rare smile at the mention of my name, nod her head satisfactorily and tell you there aren’t many like me. She used to give the same rare smiles when my essays came up for correction on her table.
Simply knowing English is not enough. It is by no means a rara avis. So many others know the language. A company clerk knows and a press-reporter knows. A call-center guy will know all (and tell all, too, in an extremely strange cross-breed accent) and so would so many others. I believe there are more Indians in India knowing English than there are English in England itself. It definitely does everything a national language should do, without getting the said title. So what I was saying was that simply knowing English was insufficient.
A writer, I believe is set apart by his imaginative thinking. His thinking must be original, coherent and interesting (to most, at least). This thinking power sprouts from an author’s extraordinarily strong observation propinquity and a very fertile imagination. Ask any author, and he will tell you that his viewpoint on normal things is rather paranormal. I mean different from the ordinary.
Now I am a fully qualified thinker. The aforementioned boss would give half his salary to get me certified as a moony-eyed daydreamer who’d rather lie on a couch than work. And I look at things differently, too. If you will notice my photograph on the backside or inside leaf of my publications, you will notice a very noticeable squint.
All the above points established, the vital point comes next. I may tell you that while I love literature and all that, I have actually been a student of the sciences. Now scientific training adds an extra something to your brain. (Arts and Commerce, don’t whet your knives for me. I’m sure you, too, would add, and not subtract.) It makes you look at every thing with logic and reason and you tend to adopt a clearer viewpoint of a problem. As I keep reiterating that book writing is a headache, a nice scientific brain must be called upon to catch the bull’s horns (the poor bull).
WHAT TO WRITE?
This question logically follows next. One must decide what one has to write. Several authors opine that writing should come from the heart, that there is no conscious decision as to what to write, and that on many occasions a book just writes itself.
I beg to disagree. If any one of these authors had a heart like mine, he’d understand. Why, my heart is one of the most treacherous hearts of all mankind. It will never ever stay put on any one thing for a long time. It will always have an amicable difference of opinion with my brain, it will insist that it is right and when it has been proved wrong, will take up another Pandora’s Box with amazing alacrity. The upshot is that my heart can never guide me correctly as to what to write.
On the other hand, wait a minute. My heart has so often lead me straight into trouble that I may take the direction 1800 from what my heart says and be safe.
But that’s neither here nor there. I must make a conscious decision, independent of my heart.
And my book is certainly in no mood to write itself. If it had been, ladies and gentlemen, I wouldn’t be writing this prequel to writing a book.
Hence, we come to my second obstacle.
People write books on anything.
In accordance with the most approved scientific manner, I am listing down these various topics.
Classics
Cookery books
Thrillers
Romance
Travel books
Memoirs
Murder mysteries
Self enhancement
Books to understand yourself
Books to understand the opposite sex
Books to understand the world
These are what are popularly referred to as the various genres of literature.
What I want to put across is that there is so much choice. One may take one’s pick and still manage not to disturb the established ones or tense the newcomers.
Easier said than done.
Taking one’s pick, I mean.
You’ll see what I mean as I work my way down the list.
There is a major problem with Classics. Despite my claims to knowledge in English, I still have not grasped the actual meaning of the term ‘Classics.’ What are they? I have read my fair share of Shakespeare and Iliad and Charles Dickens and Ayn Rand and have drawn the conclusion that the critics have massively appreciated them all. This indicates that the writer did not intend his book to be called a classic. It became one when all the readers appreciated it, and when the critics declared it so, unanimously.
This puts writing a classic rather out of the question. I do not even know any critics. How can I know their likes and dislikes? And any way, two critics seldom agree on any one thing – and you expect me to convince the whole lot of them that I’m the best?! Rather a tall order that!
Next in line were cookery books, I think. Well, if you leave me on an island, all alone like Robinson Crusoe (even he couldn’t manage alone; he was smart enough to rope in Man Friday), may be then I can cook to save my life. Otherwise, there are greater chances of India winning a one-day international cricket series in West Indies. But folks, it will be doing me a great favour if you didn’t go and relate this paragraph to my grandmother. She is rather a sweetheart and still has the ambition that I will someday make somebody a nice wife, manning…er…(wo)manning his kitchen round the clock.
And tell me, anyways, what good have cookery books ever done to anyone? Half the ingredients sound exotic to the ears, as you have been buying them at the grocer’s under one alias and they appear in print under another a.k.a. Once you have managed to decipher what has to go in, seventeen and a half other troubles crop up. They say the onions have to be fried until a perfect golden brown. Have they provided an Asian Paints shade card alongside for reference? No sir, they have not! So in goes the next lot of stuff into onions of a doubtful hue. And so out goes the idea of writing cookery books.
A Thriller. Hmmm….something may, just may come out of it. A thriller sells you know. It is what rakes in the moolah. People rather like to sit on the edge of their seats (defying all rules of Physics – unstable equilibrium and all that - in the process) and flip the pages of a nice bloody, action-packed piece of fiction. The grosser, the gorier and the more gruesome a thriller, the better – and this, ladies and gentlemen is the thumb rule on which thriller writers operate. Knowing this, I can manage my way pretty smoothly. I hope.
I may just think up an ingenious plot to assassinate the Indian Prime Minister. The assassin will have to be a member of a terrorist group (most un-original, but no other option. The common man doesn’t want frequent elections and will not go about bumping off heads of the nation. ). I shall have a female assassin, someone young and personable, who shall get into the PM’s….hell’s bells. How will she get into the PM’s inner circle? You see, this requires some sort of inside information. Now I am sure the state the PM Office is in after all these bomb blasts and terrorist attacks, it will never allow me inside to do the necessary research work, thinking I might be the very same female assassin that I have been thinking out loud about. Oh well…no matter how I die, I’d rather not die a mislabeled ISI agent!
Chuck it. Let me think of a love story.
Nah….the more personal a love story is, the better. You can’t just think of it. What you felt, what you experienced, what you underwent etc, etc make for far more interesting reading than a story plucked out of thin air.
Now that is the snag. That is the one major mourn of my life.
I do not sound serious in the lines above, do I? But fact is, I am. Deadly serious, about a guy who just isn’t interested in me. Now who indeed would like to listen to a young girl who has spent five years of her life running after an idiot who hasn’t turned and looked at her more than five times! Nobody would even call it a love story. It will pass off as a story of idiocy at worst and pathos at best. But believe me, if I ever get down to type out my story, it will go under the heading of a “love story”.
Let me see, I have crossed four of my list-toppers. (See what I mean. Writing a book is a pain.) Travel books are rather a safe bet. I may put up for records’ sake that I have traveled a good deal. Mountains, deserts, forests, beaches and cities – I’ve been there, seen that and done those.
However, I’m sure to face some stiff competition from members of a particular species. This species positively smells out regions worth traveling. No part of the earth is immune from these creatures. Once a member of this clan settles onto one point on the map, he proceeds to give the benefit of observing this scenic beauty to one and all, relying on a gadget popularly called as ‘the third eye’.
The Indian Film Industry directors, I mean. They have an uncanny knack of nosing out locales. Be it the North Pole or the Sahara Desert, Mount Everest top or Dead Sea bottom – you can bet on it that their crew will come, battling all odds. Like Napoleon, the word Impossible becomes I’mpossible for them.
What with half the movies being screened sans entertainment tax, who would bother reading a travel book?
And didn’t poor Hugh Grant run into huge losses running a bookstore in Notting Hills selling travel books? A genius learns from others’ mistakes. Meaning me, in case you didn’t get the hint.
My memoirs. Am I old enough to write them? Well, there isn’t any lower age limit to start writing it. Life ain’t supposed to be long, life oughtta be Big. (Anand, in Hrishida’s ‘Anand’ says so). Mine has been, or at least I think so. My post-graduation course was a lovely time of my life, what with a great gang of friends and a number of trips in the jungle to stuff field ecology into the little grey cells. It could really make for interesting reading, the good times we shared out there in the jungles. You know, the safaris and the treks and the rain and the Antaksharis and the dancing and the jokes and the general camaraderie. What quirks of human nature you get to observe on occasions like this is a psychologist’s envy and your delight. Tell you what, if you really want to get to know someone well, marry him, or take him with you on a jungle trip. (Youngsters do not misconstrue. I do not want mothers of unwed mothers skinning me alive.)
However, here too, is a snag. If I write my post-graduation reminiscences, I will end up dead within two days of the book being published. Er, okay. Not exactly that, but something horribly close to that. Reason being, very simply, that I know too much! You see, in my college days, I had been a sympathetic type of person. I encouraged people to unburden themselves and listened to them. This resulted in my knowing more about the underbelly of the class than anybody else did. Only I knew that A loved B very much but B loved C, who frankly hated D but couldn’t live without E. However, come the second semester and A had begun to admire D and B and C had formed a couple and G had entered the scene. Whoa, did I skip F?
You get the hang of it, don’t you. Thing is, it was all 2-3 years ago. B and D have got married and they wouldn’t want each other to know about the other alphabets of their pasts, would they?
You might suggest that I can doctor the facts a little bit. But that’s the problem with reminiscences. We memoir-writers sort of take an oath to speak all the truth and nothing but the truth. The bare, naked, truth. Well, there goes the sixth item – killed, so that some secrets could live on. (Boy, do I write with a dramatic pen!)
Murder mysteries were next on the line weren’t they? Between you and me, I have proceeded to write no less than two separate plots of murder. In one, I managed to pen 13 chapters, imagine that, before I developed a terrible distaste for my characters. They became the worst characters ever imagined by an author – dull, insipid and very boring. I could not get the plot in place, either. All in all, it is a most wasteful creation, never likely to see the light of day. No wonder they say 13 is unlucky. I valiantly went on to write the second half-formed plot, vowing that this time Chapter 14 would follow 12. This time, disgust set in in the third chapter itself. In fact, it was then that I banged my electronic notebook shut, stopped pulling my hair out and decided to approach my problem scientifically. To cut a long story short, ladies and gentlemen, I decided to write this prequel out.
I think I can safely move on to self-enhancement books. These are nutritious books indeed, having to do with stuff like cheese and chicken soup. (Ref. - WHO MOVED MY CHEESE, CHICKEN SOUP FOR…a lot of souls in trouble) Though they are not cookery books in the least, they end up having as much use(lessness) as their (un)worthy predecessors in the list.
These books take it upon themselves to tell you exactly how you should stir, sit, speak, sneeze, spit, snarl, etc to get exactly what you want.
Now…..hey wait a minute. Why am I going on with the list? If I have gone so ahead (Thirteen chapters, no less, and two separate plots) in my career as a mystery storywriter, it is almost a cinch that I’ll make it to the finish line. Why, it is logical, almost mathematical – I definitely have a higher probability of succeeding in it than in any other form of writing.
I told you, didn’t I, that science helps.
The next question that poses itself is no mean question. It deals with the mysterious fourth dimension of our lives, friends - the time element. It deals with, to be specific, the question when to write.
WHEN TO WRITE A BOOK
No author worth his salt will give the statement that he can write anytime he damn pleases. I tell you, a book often has a will of its own. It will not allow you to write it if it does not have the mood. You will sit before the computer screen and jab away at the keys as much as you please. However, if the time is not right, nothing worthwhile will appear in black over the white sheet. You will read it, take a deep breath of disappointment, stretch your arms, rub your eyes and press the delete key all the way. On other occasions, you’d be tempted to reformat the entire drive.
There will be times worse than the incidents above. You will simply not want to sit before the screen at all. You will create every possible excuse for not doing so. You would virtuously try helping mother in the kitchen, run an errand for father, or listen to grandmother eloquently blackmailing you to agree to get married. In fact, anything except sitting down in front of that dreaded screen. At times like this, a hardware crash can give such a secret guilty pleasure that it can only be savoured and not described.
However, there are good times, too. There is another side to the coin, when the urge to write suddenly inundates you. Your mind becomes a virtual hymenopteran’s abode (I couldn’t make up my mind which among an anthill and a honeycomb was busier-actually didn’t want to get either bitten or stung). Ideas flood in from all directions possible and vie with each other for your attention. Each insists on being jotted down first, threatening to pass away into oblivion if you don’t. You eke your way out of this situation, typing at 1000 words a minute, creating such a cacophony with the keys that banshees want to materialize and provide the vocals in this devil’s orchestra. I think most authors refer to this as a Burst of Creativity.
Naturally, you do not end up writing every single one of your inspirations. Some of them do end up fading away.
But boy, do they fade away gloriously! The point constantly keeps nagging that whatever you had missed was a wonderful idea – a king among ideas. You are tricked by this treacherous feeling into thinking deeply about this idea of ideas, trying to clutch at it mentally. You try gouging your brains out. I have heard our good old human brain harbours memories of our ancestral avatars as fish, frog or reptile. Well, you are more likely to resurrect one of these reminiscences rather than remembering that elusive idea.
You get a funny feeling in your stomach that you are just at the point of grasping that flitting thought. This feeling builds up to a climax in a few seconds – and dies down into a gurgling anti-climax. The remorseless idea relentlessly punishes you for forgetting it in the first place. However, once it has satisfied itself that you have atoned enough for the Eighth Sin of Forgetfulness, it floats back daintily into the folds of the cerebellum and announces its presence with lofty grandiloquence when you are least expecting it. And then comes the biggest anti-climax of it all. The idea was never worth all the trouble at all! Alas, as they say in Shakespearean tragedies – woe is me!
But all this meandering discussion about a flighty idea is taking me away from my intended query. A trained scientific mind does not cater for digression like this.
The errand was to seek the best time to write a book.
Now for me, this time has mostly been the middle of the night. All my literary glands are hyperactive at this hour and secrete the hormone of eloquence into my blood. Now there is no hard and fast rule as such – I may get the ‘urge’ at any other time – but nighttime generally is righttime.
One of the major attributes of this period of inky darkness is its inherent secrecy. Ask any one with a felonious intent, and he will doubtless support me. Though most of them may also tell you that even broad daylight doesn’t bother them any.
Well, in a place like India, Curiosity is a major ingredient of nearly every mind. If you tell an average middle-class Indian that curiosity killed the cat, he is likely to retort that a cat had nine lives. Nearly everybody has a Ph.D. in the art of nosing.
Yeah, so where were we? Right, we were discussing the importance of secrecy in my life as an author. Now, it makes me horribly self-conscious to have someone know I am up to something like writing a book. I remember an occasion when I had scribbled some stuff in my diary. Something related to what I had wanted to do to the truculent maid who had prevented me from my daily diet of purloined pickles. Trouble had come when my father had managed to steal a look. At my diary contents, I mean. He also went on to read the stuff out – and then followed an erudite discussion in my house as to how my childish writing exposed my inner self.
I can still remember the heat and colour as both had risen up my neck to cover my face until I looked positively like a tomato. Who likes his innermost-self bandied about in public, open to comment?
Result has been my abnormal secrecy regarding anything I write. I had even felt uneasy about my school assignments for a long time. Teachers had to literally pull the exercise book from my hands in my junior classes. At times, I wonder if I will have the courage to take my book to the publisher. I might just mail it to him using an alias or something. Oh hell…no point crossing bridges before coming to them.
Anyways, we have conclusively established that most nights and other sundry moments of complete solitary existence are the best for writing.
The next question is one of a very basic nature. It has its roots embedded within the very essence of book writing.
HOW TO WRITE A BOOK?
What a silly query, you’d say. An author who doesn’t know how to write a book ought not to be called an author.
But wait a minute. The question is sensible. It pertains to two main aspects of writing – the language and the plot. Both are the mainstays of any interesting story, and if a writer fails in either, he may as well kiss his career goodbye.
Let’s tackle language first.
I have mentioned before, that one has to have a good command over the language. This indicates that the writer should be capable of writing smoothly and freely, without encountering literary roadblocks. His writing should be an interesting potpourri of words (that are not too difficult and too mundane) with a sprinkling of suitable idioms and proverbs which spice up creation.
Of course, an author enjoys a certain leeway, a freedom in writing off- beat English. He may have characters that speak wrong grammar or prefer using certain proverbs. This serves to make the writing fresh and original. I have even encountered an author who wrote completely in the present tense. Rather disconcerting, but an interesting effort it was.
But an author must beware of the danger of repetition. It must be avoided. What I mean is, an author, almost unknowingly and instinctively, tends to possess a set words and proverbs, which he uses most frequently. Now the language English is so very propitious as to help avoid pitfalls like this. One must consciously avail oneself of this facility.
Vocabulary is not the only constituent of language. The arrangement of words, or in other words, the writing style of an author sets him apart. This style is something that must be original. It is very much the stamp or identifying fingerprint that an author has. As such, an inexperienced author who is bumbling away on his newfound path of self-expression must avoid the danger of unconscious aping. This danger pertains dangerously to me. I have been such an avid reader of Agatha Christie and such a devoted admirer of the character of Mrs. Ariadne Oliver that I instinctively write with the same hint of verbal dysentery, as she tends to speak. I mean the tendency of writing very long and winding sentences with lots of commas and semi colons such that somebody reading it aloud will have to make an untimely pause to take breath. Now the scare of being accused of aping is so strong in my heart that I constantly read and re-read everything I have written with a critical eye, weeding away words and expressions that may land me in trouble.
This point amply established I shall move on to the plot. Plot of a story is like the soul of a living thing. Story without a plot isn’t a story at all. To all intents and purposes, a plot of a story is what comes out of the writer’s heart. There are all sorts of plots. Some based on truth, some imagination, some experienced by the author, some vicariously observed. But whatever be the plot, an author must do his homework properly. Book writing is not an exercise for the really homebound soul. Some scrupulous and painstaking research work is vital so that a plot becomes as accurate as possible. If the plot, for example, is set in a certain city, the author must be familiar with its by-lanes and betel shops so as to bring in the local colour. For instance, I have tried setting my two plots of murder mystery, one in Simla and another in the Kumaouns. I have personally been to neither place. And so the further development of the plots have been adjourned till so and so time when I tour the arena.
Of course, being a student of the sciences as I am, establishing accuracy should not be a very difficult task for me. Though one will have to strike a balance between too much detail and absolute sketchiness.
Moreover, this discussion of details reminds me of another aspect of writing. The length of the story. There is no hard and fast rule to determine this, but an author should keep this in mind that nothing is more tiresome to read than an over-stretched plot. Plots are plots; don’t make elastic bands of them. Else, they will snap out of the reader’s zone of interest.
Another thing or two about the veracity of plots. I believe no matter how imaginary a story may be, its roots are in firm reality. Characters are nearly always real people, some whom we writers know intimately while some may be strangers even.
However, the thoughts that these people have and the speeches that they make are very similar to the author’s own mindset. I have noticed that at least one character, perhaps the main protagonist has an uncanny similarity with the writer himself or his image of himself. Which, incidentally, brings me to what I set about to debate.
How much of himself does an author reveal, deliberately or unconsciously, when he writes?
An author intending to write his autobiography some day, reveals only as much as he intends to. Or none at all. Inexperienced authors, or authors too passionately immersed in their task to notice, or authors who don’t mind this form of self-exhibition proceed to become thoroughly transparent for the intelligent reader.
And that, folks, is the furthest that I am going. If I reveal the magic formula of how to get a plot any more, well…a girl has to make a living after all!
Hey, the problem doesn’t end here. Simply writing a manuscript is not the end of the journey. Another problem crops up – that of giving the finishing touches to what you’ve written.
HOW TO EDIT A BOOK?
A manuscript cannot do without rigorous editing. There are spelling mistakes to be taken care of. There are grammatical errors to be corrected, and so on and so forth.
Several authors, me included…I hope you will pardon me for including myself in the club of Authors, but I will be one, soon….and I have already started feeling like one…so where were we?....yeah….several authors do not write all their chapters in one order. The paragraphs of a storyline may appear in print in one order, and may have been written in another. This, translated into understandable English, means that a quintessential author writes a few lines, reads it, inserts a few lines in between, comes another day, deletes what he had inserted and puts in some different words. In other words, writing is a very, very dynamic process. One thinks of one thing, and then follows that thought with another, and then suddenly realizes that three chapters ago, he had written something exactly opposite to the present thought. Also, there is always the danger of forgetting the names of the characters. If I begin calling the heroine Ramona, and then suddenly refer to her as Mala in the 8th chapter, the reader is bound to get confused.
While writing a mystery story, one has to take in the scrupulous details of clues and hints and innuendoes, etc. It is easy to miss out, or re-write or wrongly-write something here, too. It is also essential to check that what you have fitted in between, dovetails exactly with the lines before and after. In essence, without more ado, I’ve proved this point that EDITING is NECESSARY.
And now, folks, there is one query, the answer to which even a trained Scientific Mind cannot come up with. It is a query, the answer to which many a pathetic, pitiable author has not been able to come up with.
viz.
HOW TO PUBLISH A BOOK?
That’s all folks!
DEEPTI
Raand Saand Seedhi Sanyasi - Inse bache, to sebe Kasi...Dedicated to the oldest city on earth - BANARAS
As I packed my bags for a trip to Banaras, my grandmother informed me – Banaras is a city famous for many things - for its Pundits and its Prostitutes, for its Sweetmeats and its Bulls, for its River Ganga and its narrow cobbled lanes, for its Conmen and its Kashi Vishwanatha.
What a description! What poetry in it! I realized that just as a rose can be sensed by its fragrance even before you see it, Banaras could be experienced before you laid eyes on it!
I made up my mind to sample each USP of the city mentioned … Ah, well. Not exactly each… Certainly not the prostitutes and the conmen, and as little of the undomesticated bulls as possible.
A few facts about this holy city of India, before I embark on my personal experiences. The city, which is supposed to be located on Lord Siva’s Trishul -
The city, wherein Lord Hanuman appeared before Saint Tulsi who was busy penning the Ramayana -
The city, in which if a person dies or is cremated, reaches the very gates of heaven –
is Banaras, a.k.a., Varanasi.
Coming from the east, as I did, you get your first view of Banaras as your train crosses River Ganga. Kashi, or the holy suburb of Banaras located right on the banks of the river, appears like the distorted figure one, as though being practiced by a child, on one side. The other bank is all sand – fine, white, bare and beautiful. I observed several people throwing in coins into the Ganga as the train thundered over it. River Ganga in Banaras is akin to a wishing well, it seems. Espying several boats and streamers floating on the waters, I promised myself a treat of a boat ride then and there.
The railway station where I alighted is dirty, unpretentious and obscure on the inside, and impressive architecturally when you turn to look at it on your way out. As I began my haggling game with a determined cab driver regarding fare, (which ended in that chap winning), a little of my romantic feelings were beginning to evaporate. For one thing, traffic is awful in the city – undisciplined, foul talking and extraordinarily noisy. The garbage laden roads full of ditches leave much to be desired, and the buildings that you see on either side are ordinary, middle-class and undistinguished.
After an avid gaze that took in all this, I relaxed back on my cab seat with a disappointed sigh. So much for poetical descriptions!
I was supposed to be putting up in an ashram belonging to a sacred trust of which my grandfather is the member. My cab soon left the wider roads, to enter one of those narrow cobbled lanes I had heard of. I was instantly impressed! These lanes are not broader than, say, six or seven feet across. Not only that, men, women, vegetable vendors, flower sellers, bikes, cabs, cars, bulls, stray dogs, goats – all are duly represented - right on these streets. And yet, call it the miracle of the city or whatever, you hardly find any traffic jams! Everything and everyone moves smoothly, without hitches. I paid off my cabbie, and decided to make the remainder of the journey on foot.
The first discovery I made was that if Pune holds the world record for maximum restaurants, Banaras ought to hold it for maximum temples. Every second or third gate seemed to contain a deity, longhaired and bearded pundits and at least twenty devotees. The buildings were old, brightly painted or whitewashed and congested. Vendors selling flowers, incense and sweets to offer to the divine entities speckled entrances to all temples. I dexterously avoided stepping on to fresh dung deposited by a bull placidly munching some cabbage leaves from a greengrocer’s, and probably had the best vision of my life in the next instant – Ganga, visible from a clearing between two buildings – shining in the mid-morning sun.
I have heard that people get possessed – now I experienced how it feels. My feet turned towards Ganga at their own will. I descended the fifty or so lofty stone steps and walked right over to the water. A boatman broke my trance, “Madam, you want a ride? I take you to the Kashi Vishwanath and back here for seventy rupees.” I say boatman, but ‘boat boy’ would have been more apt. The one addressing me looked barely more than twelve, and I decided to accept his offer.
His boat was small and rickety, and I did not know swimming. Hearing this, the child, whose name I had learned to be Manoj, assured me glibly. “Madam, on this boat you are my responsibility.”
Well, the journey began. The river is cold, clear and deep, though not very wide during the winter season. On one side, the sandy banks appear clearly in the sun, while a dizzying succession of similar looking Ghats passes you on the other. If you squint a little towards the horizon ahead, you can make out the bridge your train crossed while taking you to Banaras. Each Ghat has its legend. Tulsi Ghat is where Saint Tulsi wrote his Ramayana. Narad Ghat is where if a couple takes a dip together, it will fight for twelve days. Dashashwamedha Ghat is where statues of Durga are immersed into Ganga. Harishchandra Ghat is where Hindus are cremated. Rana Mahal Ghat is where ghosts abound in the night. All you have to visualize is a high, red-walled, linear fort along the river, which has been labeled legibly by these various names after regular intervals. On every Ghat, people are busy taking the holy dip, washing away their sins. Cries of ‘Har Har Gangey’ rent the air every now and then. Scantily clad urchins enjoy diving into the river for sport.
Not only the banks, the river itself is alive, too. Hundreds of pintail ducks migrate here every winter. These birds are voracious eaters and ear-splitting screechers. All you need is an unending supply of snacks and a boatman with strong lungs, and these birds follow your boat diligently, scooping up the food that you throw out on the waters and shrieking for more.
A fifty-minute boat ride took me to my destination. My newfound friend, the boatman Manoj, guided me deftly through the confusing, convoluted four-foot wide lanes to the gates of Kashi Vishwanath. Here he handed me over to a Pundit of his acquaintance, who took me into his custody with a bewildering rapidity. Before I knew what was happening, my cell phone and fountain pen were whisked away from me and placed safely into a locker. As I was pocketing the key to this locker, I was pushed towards a lady police officer, who smiled at me reassuringly and ensured I was not carrying anything objectionable on my person. Meanwhile, the Punditji had bought everything that one is supposed to offer to Lord Siva on the day of Mahasivaratri. He shushed me authoritatively, as I tried to ask how much it had cost him. By this time, I was well into the premises of the temple. Wet marbled floors, pesky monkeys, enthusiastic devotees intent on pushing ahead and a heedlessly fast-moving guide – I do not know how I managed not to fall flat on my face. Perhaps another miracle! I have to confess, though, in this terrible hubbub, the spiritual aspect of the temple visit failed to touch me.
After I had paid off my kind guide, reclaimed my possessions and began breathing normally again, it was time to return.
The next day began with a visit to B.H.U. – The Banaras Hindu University – arguably the best university in North India. Established by Mahamana Madan Mohan Malviya, there is not a single branch of education that has not been represented by a department here. The lanes, the buildings – they are all so confusing, it is almost a labyrinth, but for the thoughtful maps provided at nooks and corners. I had completed one complete tour of the university premises, when it was time to board my train back home. I paid one last visit to my temporary residence, catching as many glimpses of the Ganga as I could en route. The return journey was the same – tummy-rumbling ditches, foul-smelling roadsides and cacophonous traffic. But I did not feel my previous disappointment. Banaras is a city, more to be felt, and less to be seen, heard, tasted or smelt. I smiled as this thought occurred to me, and am still smiling as I am typing it out. :-)
What a description! What poetry in it! I realized that just as a rose can be sensed by its fragrance even before you see it, Banaras could be experienced before you laid eyes on it!
I made up my mind to sample each USP of the city mentioned … Ah, well. Not exactly each… Certainly not the prostitutes and the conmen, and as little of the undomesticated bulls as possible.
A few facts about this holy city of India, before I embark on my personal experiences. The city, which is supposed to be located on Lord Siva’s Trishul -
The city, wherein Lord Hanuman appeared before Saint Tulsi who was busy penning the Ramayana -
The city, in which if a person dies or is cremated, reaches the very gates of heaven –
is Banaras, a.k.a., Varanasi.
Coming from the east, as I did, you get your first view of Banaras as your train crosses River Ganga. Kashi, or the holy suburb of Banaras located right on the banks of the river, appears like the distorted figure one, as though being practiced by a child, on one side. The other bank is all sand – fine, white, bare and beautiful. I observed several people throwing in coins into the Ganga as the train thundered over it. River Ganga in Banaras is akin to a wishing well, it seems. Espying several boats and streamers floating on the waters, I promised myself a treat of a boat ride then and there.
The railway station where I alighted is dirty, unpretentious and obscure on the inside, and impressive architecturally when you turn to look at it on your way out. As I began my haggling game with a determined cab driver regarding fare, (which ended in that chap winning), a little of my romantic feelings were beginning to evaporate. For one thing, traffic is awful in the city – undisciplined, foul talking and extraordinarily noisy. The garbage laden roads full of ditches leave much to be desired, and the buildings that you see on either side are ordinary, middle-class and undistinguished.
After an avid gaze that took in all this, I relaxed back on my cab seat with a disappointed sigh. So much for poetical descriptions!
I was supposed to be putting up in an ashram belonging to a sacred trust of which my grandfather is the member. My cab soon left the wider roads, to enter one of those narrow cobbled lanes I had heard of. I was instantly impressed! These lanes are not broader than, say, six or seven feet across. Not only that, men, women, vegetable vendors, flower sellers, bikes, cabs, cars, bulls, stray dogs, goats – all are duly represented - right on these streets. And yet, call it the miracle of the city or whatever, you hardly find any traffic jams! Everything and everyone moves smoothly, without hitches. I paid off my cabbie, and decided to make the remainder of the journey on foot.
The first discovery I made was that if Pune holds the world record for maximum restaurants, Banaras ought to hold it for maximum temples. Every second or third gate seemed to contain a deity, longhaired and bearded pundits and at least twenty devotees. The buildings were old, brightly painted or whitewashed and congested. Vendors selling flowers, incense and sweets to offer to the divine entities speckled entrances to all temples. I dexterously avoided stepping on to fresh dung deposited by a bull placidly munching some cabbage leaves from a greengrocer’s, and probably had the best vision of my life in the next instant – Ganga, visible from a clearing between two buildings – shining in the mid-morning sun.
I have heard that people get possessed – now I experienced how it feels. My feet turned towards Ganga at their own will. I descended the fifty or so lofty stone steps and walked right over to the water. A boatman broke my trance, “Madam, you want a ride? I take you to the Kashi Vishwanath and back here for seventy rupees.” I say boatman, but ‘boat boy’ would have been more apt. The one addressing me looked barely more than twelve, and I decided to accept his offer.
His boat was small and rickety, and I did not know swimming. Hearing this, the child, whose name I had learned to be Manoj, assured me glibly. “Madam, on this boat you are my responsibility.”
Well, the journey began. The river is cold, clear and deep, though not very wide during the winter season. On one side, the sandy banks appear clearly in the sun, while a dizzying succession of similar looking Ghats passes you on the other. If you squint a little towards the horizon ahead, you can make out the bridge your train crossed while taking you to Banaras. Each Ghat has its legend. Tulsi Ghat is where Saint Tulsi wrote his Ramayana. Narad Ghat is where if a couple takes a dip together, it will fight for twelve days. Dashashwamedha Ghat is where statues of Durga are immersed into Ganga. Harishchandra Ghat is where Hindus are cremated. Rana Mahal Ghat is where ghosts abound in the night. All you have to visualize is a high, red-walled, linear fort along the river, which has been labeled legibly by these various names after regular intervals. On every Ghat, people are busy taking the holy dip, washing away their sins. Cries of ‘Har Har Gangey’ rent the air every now and then. Scantily clad urchins enjoy diving into the river for sport.
Not only the banks, the river itself is alive, too. Hundreds of pintail ducks migrate here every winter. These birds are voracious eaters and ear-splitting screechers. All you need is an unending supply of snacks and a boatman with strong lungs, and these birds follow your boat diligently, scooping up the food that you throw out on the waters and shrieking for more.
A fifty-minute boat ride took me to my destination. My newfound friend, the boatman Manoj, guided me deftly through the confusing, convoluted four-foot wide lanes to the gates of Kashi Vishwanath. Here he handed me over to a Pundit of his acquaintance, who took me into his custody with a bewildering rapidity. Before I knew what was happening, my cell phone and fountain pen were whisked away from me and placed safely into a locker. As I was pocketing the key to this locker, I was pushed towards a lady police officer, who smiled at me reassuringly and ensured I was not carrying anything objectionable on my person. Meanwhile, the Punditji had bought everything that one is supposed to offer to Lord Siva on the day of Mahasivaratri. He shushed me authoritatively, as I tried to ask how much it had cost him. By this time, I was well into the premises of the temple. Wet marbled floors, pesky monkeys, enthusiastic devotees intent on pushing ahead and a heedlessly fast-moving guide – I do not know how I managed not to fall flat on my face. Perhaps another miracle! I have to confess, though, in this terrible hubbub, the spiritual aspect of the temple visit failed to touch me.
After I had paid off my kind guide, reclaimed my possessions and began breathing normally again, it was time to return.
The next day began with a visit to B.H.U. – The Banaras Hindu University – arguably the best university in North India. Established by Mahamana Madan Mohan Malviya, there is not a single branch of education that has not been represented by a department here. The lanes, the buildings – they are all so confusing, it is almost a labyrinth, but for the thoughtful maps provided at nooks and corners. I had completed one complete tour of the university premises, when it was time to board my train back home. I paid one last visit to my temporary residence, catching as many glimpses of the Ganga as I could en route. The return journey was the same – tummy-rumbling ditches, foul-smelling roadsides and cacophonous traffic. But I did not feel my previous disappointment. Banaras is a city, more to be felt, and less to be seen, heard, tasted or smelt. I smiled as this thought occurred to me, and am still smiling as I am typing it out. :-)
Mirza Asadulla Khan 'Ghalib'
Have you ever gone gaga about Ghalib? No? Then what are you waiting for!
http://www.smriti.com/urdu/ghalib/ check out this link for preliminaries.
Ghalib ne poochha -
http://www.smriti.com/urdu/ghalib/ check out this link for preliminaries.
Ghalib ne poochha -
Ghalib-e-khasta ke bagair, kaun se kaam band hain
Roi.ye zaar zaar kya, kijiye haai-haai kyu?
Unhone ye bhi farmaya -
Roi.ye zaar zaar kya, kijiye haai-haai kyu?
Unhone ye bhi farmaya -
Duboya mujhko hone ne
Na main hota, to kya hota?
Unke na hone se kya hota?
Na main hota, to kya hota?
Unke na hone se kya hota?
Rekhtey* ke tumhi ustaad nahi ho 'Ghalib'
Kehtey hain agle zamaaney me koi 'Meer' bhi tha!
Ab aap poochhoge -
Kehtey hain agle zamaaney me koi 'Meer' bhi tha!
Ab aap poochhoge -
Poochhtey hain woh ki 'Ghalib' kaun hai
Koi batlao ki hum batlayen kya?
To hum arz karenge -
Koi batlao ki hum batlayen kya?
To hum arz karenge -
Ye masaai.le-tasavvuff,** ye tera baya'Ghalib'
Tujhe hum wali*** samjhtey jo na baadahkhwaar**** hota!
(*Urdu) (**Philosophy of life) (***Saint)(****Drunk)
Tujhe hum wali*** samjhtey jo na baadahkhwaar**** hota!
(*Urdu) (**Philosophy of life) (***Saint)(****Drunk)
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