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Found a perfect picture to go along with this poem I first scribbled on my Facebook wall somewhere.
My hair’s not right
My skin breaks out
I am tanned, darkened, spotted and sore
My muscles ache, my lips are torn
My back hurts and my stomach growls
But my shoes are dirty
And they can sing you new songs.
May you, me and everyone
#travel always.
(The chappals belong to me and a wandering pal of mine.)
A day before Women’s day, I got a press release pitching an idea about women tweeting in the Twitter-verse. An idea meant for Women’s Day. And this is how it began.
I write to you on behalf of my client, Twitter and a possible tech feature on Women & Social media for Women’s Day edition.
We have often joked about the quintessential Indian woman and her conversations which are deemed loud, exaggerated and never-ending. One wonders how some of these argumentative ‘bhartiya naris’ are able to succinctly put their thoughts on Twitter in just 140 characters. Not only have they taken to this platform in great gusto, they have risen above the din and become celebrities with large followers. Young girls, suave mothers, aspiring comedians, successful entrepreneurs, fervent feminists of all hue and shades are present on Twitter, eloquently and effectively airing their thoughts, advice, jokes, tips etc…”
The email went on to give names of women on Twitter who have been doing spectacular work by themselves or for their gender, or for society at large. But I didn’t even read those women’s names because of the above paragraph. My head swam with a senselessly violent anger, the kind which I would image someone as destructive as Kali would feel. Where reason takes flight, scared. Where words just. don’t. express. it.
Yes. I get kind of nuts when faced with such obvious chauvinism in something that’s supposed to be about women. Exactly the kind of unreasonable, emotional woman that men make fun of in my gender. For the people who are We in the paragraph above, is not me. I am not a reasonable, powerful man, who has language at his disposal. The one who calls women’s conversations “loud, exaggerated and never-ending”. Or calls women different, or the other gender, or the ones who don’t have a penis. Or makes jokes about them about their loud mouths, their sagging or perky breasts. Their weaknesses and bangles. Their clothes or lack of it. Their faces and lumpy bodies.
Or keeps her happy with a day from 365 days. Makes March the Eighth especially about them. This day is for women, reserved. Let’s celebrate women. Let’s tell them we love them. Let’s hug them, keep them safe, buy them clothes and greeting cards. Who is the we in this conversation? The one who is generous enough to grant the other gender just a day out of 365 such days? When did the word ‘gender’ became ‘women’ and ‘women issues’?
No, the we is not only men. It’s also women who speak the language and give the reasons created keeping men the primary gender. Women who uphold and encourage patriarchy thinking and behaviour. The ones who whisper about other women who wear short clothes, show breast or bum cleavages. The ones who like to get their period things in a black bag while looking away apologetically. The ones who call the women who have sex ‘sluts’. The Women’s Day is for them. Not for me.
I have decided to shun Women’s Day and my gender. I stand today, genderless. Not a woman, definitely not a man. Just a body with breasts and a lot of anger. 365 days a year.
Eight hundred dumper trucks filled to the brim with coal and limestone stand on the Indian side, patiently waiting to cross the border into Bangladesh and dump their load. That’s all they do, day in and day out. Pick up limestone and coal, dug out from the mountains of Meghalaya, head to the border at Dawki, cross into Bangladesh and dump it there. To be exported to China or be made into cement. Who knows? Who cares? The politicians, the landowners, the people of Meghalaya are making money. They are beginning to buy bigger cars and other good things in life.
The mountains of Meghalaya, are old, more ancient and wiser, more mysterious but also kinder than Himalayas. Perhaps that is why they do not protest to being drilled, cut, stripped of their soil and stone. Maybe because it’s all legal: as in each truckload is given a wadload of paper, stamped by the government. Papers, dead trees license the owners to cut and grab and gobble.
‘The people who own the mountains are selling them,’ a guide we meet on the way to Dawki informs us. We stand on a high road, for a chai break with the valley on one side and the lush green curvaceous mountains behind. His voice is one of acceptance. ‘They were the ones who made gold by buying when the government was selling the mountains. Now, they sublet it to the contractors and they sell the land.’
By selling the land, the guide means, mining it away, selling the raw materials that might be lying in the womb of the mountains, that had been created and took hundreds of years to be created. All to be gone, in twenty years of senseless human greed.
(Trucks and trucks some more. All off to Bangladesh with loads)
‘Ten years ago, there was less of this, but it’s been increasing. The government wants it and the people who own the lands want to do it. ’
‘Doesn’t any of you protest against this?’
‘It’s not ours. The landowners are selling their land. Who’s to stop them?’
After that, a few men from Maharashtra, whose guide we have been speaking to, mutter about politicians and rich people and their greedy hearts. Their tea is finished. They try to throw the plastic cup across into the valley, but we point to a dustbin. The mountains, standing infront, look at it all, at us with our meaningless conversations as tourists who are equally disruptive on their ecology, at the trucks that roll heavy over them filled with stolen chunks of them and remain silent, patient. How can someone own the mountains? But then, how can we own anything of the land? But we do, don’t we?
At the border, at Dawki, the roads are mere trails of mud covered with long lines of trucks filled to the brim, waiting to cross the border and an equally long line coming from Bangladesh emptied of their load. We walk through the slush, dust clinging to everything. There are no tourists here, only silent eyes of men, labourers, or truck drivers. On our side, a long series of huts, with chairs and tables and typewriters and printers. To make the stealing official. To give it a seal, the seal of India’s government. To show, to cry out, to the mountains perhaps, that it’s all legal. That they’re all good men. We are hesitant, even afraid, not sure how far we can walk. after all, the tourist stays in similar spaces, with other tourists. This is not that space. This is business, this is industry, this is supposed to stay hidden in dusts.
The border ends in a valley. A gate at one side, welcoming people to Bangladesh. We stand at ‘our’ side. The policeman in the hut, looks up.
‘What you want?’
‘We want to see.’
‘Ok,’ he says, to our surprise asking the BSF fellow with a gleaming, polished gun to show us the ‘border’. The BSF jawan is helpful, from UP, and waiting for just such an opportunity to jabber. He tells us how people across the border wait, day in day out, young men to cross the border.
‘Illegal immigrants?’ I ask.
‘No, no. They want to get booze. You see Bangladesh is a Muslim country and drinking is not allowed. Poor fellows want to drink. Sometimes they beg us to look the other way so that they can cross the border, get a fix and return. But I do wish that there was a fence between the borders. Right now, all there is are marked stones. It makes manning these fields rather impossible. But who’s to say. The upper echelon bosses want it this way.’
Cows graze in the flatland between the two countries, moving seamlessly from one side to another. No passports required for them, unlike us. A family from Bangladesh with a suitcase approaches the Indian side. Tourists, we are informed. ‘You can also go to the other side. It’s visa on arrival for both the countries,’ says the BSF guard. We, the city people, crib about how the government is mining the mountains away and no one seems to care.
(The border at Dawki)
(Our helpful BSF jawan)
‘The government is too greedy. they can make cement here, in Meghalaya, give work to more people, but they dig and sell the motherland away in peanuts. From Bangladesh it goes to China, the raw material, the earth. Why don’t they make cement here? She’s our mother, but no one cares about the mother now,’ he says wisely. ‘They don’t understand that we will lose the vantage point, the height of the mountains. Then they will attack and enslave us all. You see, madam, in a generation, we will be desperate to enter their country like the Bangladeshis want to enter ours now.’ We nod, and see and click pictures refusing to shrug off the tourist in us. He poses for us, still proud of his country. Not the people, but the country—his mother. He’s been trained to be proud.
Back in Shillong, my heart is still somewhat heavy. Even the lovely cottage I stay in, doesn’t cut it. I chat with the owner of the cottage, a lady who lives in Shillong and Bangalore.
‘Is there any activism in Meghalaya at all? Is anyone protesting this mining away of hills like in Karnataka?’
‘No one, dear,’ she says, kindly. ‘They don’t seem to see beyond the riches. What you saw was legal. The Jaintia hills have illegal mining of the forests and mountains by terrorists and we have no idea how much, since there’s no tracking, no paperwork.’
Me, with my privileged outlook, do not understand why. Why do those with trees and mountains and fresh air want to sell it off? Not hoard it, make love to it, cherish it. A college-dropout from Manipur, who meets me in the airplane back home, gives me the answer.
‘We want development,’ he says.
‘What kind of development? Jobs? What else?’
‘Jobs, yes. But development. More.’
He cannot express it but when he talks about Bangalore, a city of malls, traffic, people, energy, colour, human bustling, his eyes shine. For him, from Manipur, from Imphal, from the quiet mountains, the city life is the lure. He craves for that, just like me. I have lived in cities all my life and I love it. Can I live in Dawki? I don’t think I can. But I do dream of mountains and greenery and forests and trees. And a part of me wonders if we, the human race, with our greedy cravings, are going terribly wrong, somewhere.
So here’s a poem to perhaps express what my sentences could not. Perhaps not.
Dirty are the fingernails
Filthy
Not with the earth
But with jaded greed
Dead and dried
Of all emotion
Of everything
But the desire to own.
Shovelling, cutting, whirring away
They claw the mountain side
Screaming in their destruction
Unbinding that which binds
Destroying that which gives life
For something that cannot be eaten,
Cannot be shat out
Cannot sustain life
For the coin, for the note
For the greedy eye.
I do hope this blog, somehow, somewhere, shows me or someone else a way to somehow stop it. With some hope.
My words are gone
Only a trembling remains
In my hands, slight epilepsy
In my eyes, a silent burst
Of emptied mind
Of thoughts no more.
For gone are the words
Flung away letter by letter
Torn off, screeching, screaming
Taken to the recesses
Burnt alive
Hacked to pieces
Crushed and then buried.
They lie under the earth
Not breathing anymore
Not hearing the sighs
Nor feeling the caress
Of the motherly winds
Suffocated
Dying
But not yet dead.
Waiting, patiently, tirelessly
To be believed in
By dreams and hopes
So that they can start
Create and make
When things need a shake.
2014
Till last year, I didn’t know who Paul Fernandes was, though I had seen his artwork all over Bangalore, occasionally colourfully covering up a bland restaurant wall or even an old space. I loved his work, without realising it was his work. Then, on a day walking during lunchtime, I stepped into his shop at Richard’s Park and connected all the humourous comic chronicles of 70s Bangalore I had seen strewn around in Bangalore. (And fell in love with a bag, but that’s another story). I stayed, my eyes crinkling with laughter at each of the framed poster.
As I left, I saw a man standing outside, chatting with the manager of the shop. He looked like any old man, white beard, unassuming kurta and a khadi bad slung around his chest, standing next to a moped. Being the curious girl I am, I stood in the circle too, chatting about old bungalows and how hard it was maintaining them. Afterwards, over lunch my friend told me that the person we had been chatting to all this while was Paul himself. I turned back as if to see him again, and imagined an unassuming man who could be missed, lost in a crowd. Everything lost, except for the satisfied smile. This was eight months ago.
Then August happened and my debut novel The Ghost Hunters of Kurseong released. In December, my graphic novel The Skull Rosary released. Two releases in the market meant a lot more of marketing. Ever since then, I have had to struggle with my writing. My time travelled between one more online update, one more connection in the marketing industry and then one more chasing the journalist who wouldn’t remember my name. In the lists of neverending tasks-to-be–done, my writing (the reason I quit my job and career in journalist), lay in a corner, gathering dust and wondering why it was being ignored.
So it was with a heavy, confused heart that I was at the Times Literature Carnival last Sunday. I had been feeling lost since a couple of weeks (my wise mother named it rat-race of the author’s world), not getting enough time to get into the blackhole that is required for creativity. Not able to switch off from the constant stream of social updates as well as public updates that wave after wave came to my shores. Not able to back off and go back to the closed room.
Then I saw Mr Paul Fernandes, standing in a corner, smiling at the festival. The same smile I remembered from the sunny day in Richard’s Park. I headed to him and made conversation about this and that. All the time my mind was whirling, at unrest, wondering. Finally, with a deep breath, I said it.
‘Sir, can I ask you something? It’s sort of vague and personal but I just have to ask.’
He nodded. My cue was here and my best bet was to be as expressive as possible.
‘Sir, how does one balance marketing with creative works? I mean, once there’s certain level of success, once you have achieved the first step of success, how do you stop that ambition from taking root and go back to your work? What you loved doing in the first place? Writing for me and painting for you? How do you switch off?’
‘Me? I just love what I do. I love to draw and so I do it.’
It wasn’t enough. I needed more.
‘But sir, how? How do you switch off?’
‘Well, I go back to my table, see all my pens and papers strewn around and then leave the world outside. I close the door.’
‘But sir, how do you control ambition? I mean I have a certain level of success, but I want more. How do I stop wanting more?’
‘But, ambition is a good thing. Just leave it outside the door when you go inside.’
Such a small conversation. It took two minutes of standing in the bustling Carnival of literature but it hit home. I left smiling, suddenly lighthearted after so many weeks of this heavy stone in my heart. It wasn’t that I didn’t know this before, but when Mr Fernandes said it, it just somehow hit home. And so I decided to close off everything, all tasks, all lists, all the world, and close to door, with only my paper, pen and laptop for company. It was hard before, but suddenly, after hearing it from Mr Fernandes, it became so easy. Thank you, Paul, for that.
Paul Fernandes is one of Bangalore’s well known illustrator and artist and cartoonists. He has illustrated many books, including On a High Note and Peter Colaco’s Bangalore. To see his work, head to his gallery in Bangalore, aPaulogy.
Around 9am on Sunday morning as I walked to my nearby slum where I teach yoga to superbly enthusiastic kids every week, I saw a poster hanging at its entrance. Rajnikanth’s smiling face jumped out of the poster. Alongside were two words in English: Happy Birthday. It was a small poster, about A3 size, strung up casually, hanging in the air, tilted. The poster had more love than execution (Wish I had taken a picture, but I usually don’t take my phone to the class).
Before the class began, I asked the kids who put it there and what it meant. Was Rajnikanth coming to their slum? What was the connection? One of the kids, Pratap who’s the librarian in the area too, told me that they were celebrating Rajnikanth’s birthday. They had gone around the slum, collected small bits of money from everyone and with that, bought this poster which was proudly hanging at the gate of their slum. They had also bought a huge cake and candles and were going to come together as a community, light up the candles, sing the birthday song and cut the cake.
Yes, they love Rajnikanth and who doesn’t? But that’s not the only time they celebrate. Even though most of them barely have enough food on their tables, they celebrate all festivals and birthdays together. They cut cakes, buy sculptures, dance, drink, laugh, all as a community. That’s how this community works. They do everything together. Celebrate, cry, support. I constantly get amazed about how people in this community are so there for each other. Yes, there are fights, but there’s also constant celebration.
I am an outsider. I have no community. I am middle class and in my building people nod and smile to each other, but they are too busy, with their televisions or their phones or their internets or their children or worrying about their maids or EMIs. They don’t walk together, they don’t laugh together. Take their cars out, go to malls. They look at people on the roads suspiciously. They keep the cars and the home doors closed (In that slum, the doors are always open).
So I wonder. Do the doors close and togetherness lessens because we are living in bigger houses? Or does it happen because we have money and more stuff? Do the things we have collected around us: our TVs, phones, clothes, jewellery, spic-a-span, make us suspicious of others? When did it happen that the things we collected took over our lives?
It’s been three years since I began writing stories as a profession. I have had three books published so far: The Skull Rosary, The Ghost Hunters of Kurseong, Krishna. Two of these released in 2013. Needless to say, I feel good.
I started writing without any knowledge on how to write, how to edit, what and where to edit, how to send a proposal, where to send a proposal, who to connect to, who to approach for getting published, or how to market my books. I have learnt everything all thanks to countless blogs of helpful writers, and advice from writers, authors, editors, publishers that I have been lucky to have found. Of the advice I have received, some has been well meaning, some funny to downright hilarious, insightful, offensive or kind. Here is some of it:
Change your surname: Yes. I got that. A publisher over a cup of coffee told me to change my name and surname and make myself sound Bengali or Anglo-Indian if I wanted to get published in India. Fine, it was a joke and I didn’t really take it seriously but jokes always have hidden truths. Right? So how many of you have seen a book, read book’s back cover, seen the author’s surname and made humongous assumptions about him/her? I bet a lot. No wonder actors change their names, how their names are spelled and their affiliations in Bollywood. And the fact that astrologers are doing so great.
Write more to make money: When I asked a helpful author over email on how he was making money (yes, I can be quite upfront about these things on emails), he told me he wasn’t till the first five books of his got published. But slowly, as little money trickled from each of the book (and believe me, most of it will be littlebee trickles), he’s started to make some moolah. But not enough for designer clothes or big cars. Just enough for survival, a jhola, a glass of wine and not being dependent on anyone. So there. Accept this fact (no Bollywood doesn’t enter the picture) and move on.
Continue to write and write: Advice through a short sweet tweet when I asked KP Singh (Raisina Series) what he did to market his own book after it was published. I personally discovered him not through any reviews / media interviews / friends advice / literary fests, but at a bookstore. I picked up his book because I liked what I read on the back cover. Not because I had heard of him, thought he was cool, liked his name or his face (sorry, Singh!) If that’s how books get picked up, maybe you need to rethink on that marketing, fellow authors.
Give back some advice: When I thanked, Zac O’Yeah, a well-renowned author for his kind email and advice on writing and publishing which I desperately needed, he gave me another to follow. He told me to continue the circle, to be supportive to authors or writers who approach me, tell them how they can get published, guide people, guide people to fulfill their creative ambitions. And this is one advice I intend to follow. I am not saying that I know a lot about the industry, but whatever I do, I would love to tell you all. I would love to connect you, tell you how to connect with publishers, what to write in proposals (though sorry, I can’t tell you on what to write about). Because we are in the same boat, you and I. Both of us want to bring alive a part of our dreams.
Readers can tell you when something’s wrong, but not what: This came from a blog of one of my ever fave writers, Neil Gaiman. Primary readers (and it’s essential that you get your book read by some) can tell you there’s something wrong in your book, but when you ask them what it is, most probably they will point out to the wrong thing. Don’t ask me why that is, it is. Neil says so. And I know it is so.
You’re published, now sell: That was helpful advice from a publisher. The baffling Indian publishing industry is the only one where the publisher can happily shirk off from the majority of work involved in marketing the book. It’s like a pen-manufacturing company asking the designer of the pen to sell the pen in the market. I don’t know why it is as it is, but it doesn’t look like changing. An author friend told me it’s because publishers don’t have much money to market each book. You should be thankful that they are producing and distributing it. Yes, but they also tend to keep 90% from sales, so they should market all the more, right? Have no clue why that logic doesn’t work in this industry (read the heading). According to me, the books are left in the hands of authors to market, who frankly totally suck at marketing. They have no clue what to do, which is why great titles are completely missed.
Media coverage + lit-fests = your books will sell: This came from a PR friend and lots of other well-wishers I went to after the above advice, desperate to figure out how to market my book. And I did fall for it. Most of it though is bull (Yes, I believe it. Yes, I believe it. Yes, I…). Though this is the game that a lot of authors seem to play. Yes media coverage feels good for the ego, but very less readers actually pick up your book when they read about you in the newspapers. They pick it up because 1) friends recommend it, 2) they like the cover, like the backcover, like how a couple of inside pages read 3) have read your books before. As a debut author, readers don’t know you. It’s better to push your book slowly and patiently in specific groups rather than blast it onto media. And wait for the lit-fests to come to you after one of your books has become successful. For all these will happen AFTER your book gets a few readers. So focus on getting readers, one by one, one book by one book. Of course nothing is stopping you from playing the game, but remember if the game gave all winners, all books would be bestsellers. Well, that’s my opinion on it now. But let’s see what 2014 brings in.
Media coverage / sales for Book 1 means you ensure a contract for your next: Got this from another marketing expert. Nopes doesn’t work. A publisher will reject your next book (unless you are like super duper author), even if book one with them sold well and you frequent page 3 parties. Why? Because the editor might not like the book or it might be a completely different genre like mine was. Nothing to do with you as an author. My debut book, The Ghost Hunters of Kurseong, was accepted by Hachette India through an email submission, from the slush pile, without any agent/connection or media coverage. The editor told me this was the one book in 2012 that they picked from the slush pile. My second book was rejected by Hachette and many other publishers, even though I had made a sort of a name for myself in the industry. Reason? Because it didn’t fit their type of books and the genre was different. And now it’s found another publisher as well. The game goes like this. So there’s no surety on a contract for a book, not even when you make it HUGE. Better to go back to writing.
You’re as good as your last: Neil Gaiman again. (Love that guy!) Even if you dish out the next bestseller, when you go back home horribly drunk and giddy and plan to write your next big seller, you face the empty whiteness of your word document and the silence of no keys plonking, alone. No amount of success, praise, media coverage, people can help you write a better story next time, or give you a great story idea . So be thankful for all the ideas that are swimming in your head and meanwhile, keep writing.
It’s a shitty line of work. Quit: This one was from an author who struggled for quite a few years, with great books out, but not enough sales. This was also two years ago. Now he’s become a best seller and made it huge internationally. I don’t know if he remembers this advice, but I do. And I am going to ditch it. Not because I hope I will make it huge someday like him, but because I seriously can’t stand that Anantya Tantrist wriggling in my head and want to get rid of her by writing her series. (More about that, soon).
That’s it for now, folksies. Will add more as and when I remember the advice. Happy 2014 ahead.
I recently went to Comic Con Mumbai to launch my graphic novel The Skull Rosary. The week before it was maddening; last minute edits, waiting, back and forth and the general nervousness before anything goes to press. The one thing that struck me, and struck me hard again and again was a sense of self-censorship that we as creators – me as a writer and Vivek Goel as an artist as well as the publisher of the book – were applying to the book. We were all slightly scared, of putting out things that might offend. And in a book which was made to offend, we softened things that shouldn’t have been softened and loaded it with disclaimers. I bet we will still get some angry emails and posts and tweets. After all, self-righteousness is fashionable in the society.
Talking about transgression, or things that are taboo, that deviate from the norm is important today for us as creative people and for readers. Especially since we as a society are becoming so rigid, so unacceptable of other point of views recently. Upon just seeing The Skull Rosary’s summary, a journalist asked me if I wasn’t skeptical that this book and the way we portray Shiva and other deities will cause protests. Because protests by those who think their religion and moral stance is better than others’ is a done thing in our society and happening a little too often in our country. I answered yes, sure. Everytime some boundaries are breached, some people have a problem. You can’t help that. But as a storyteller I am willing to take the risk because stories have always been and will always be about questioning the status quo, to become a mirror to the society.
As a creative person, it’s not a choice for me to break boundaries. I write, I create because I want to break boundaries. I want to question the status quo, to force myself and the readers to look at our own filth, to touch it, gobble it, taste its grubbiness. I feel it’s my duty to transgress in everything I create, to explore the darkness inside and outside of us. For if that doesn’t happen in stories, then how will change happen? How will we progress? Move onto something new? Become (if it’s possible) better?
The Skull Rosary for me was all about exploring taboo subjects. The idea behind all five of its stories, whether its dialogue or art was to break down boundaries, both of the story and of the graphic novel as a structure. Brahma’s fifth head explores the issue of incest and is written in verse form because rhythm touches the soul in a way language can never do. So you have poetry which was inspired by the Greek Furies in comic format. The blind demon is the story of Andhaka who is blind and consumes by the desire to see. What happens when you get consumed by a desire? When it eats you up whole? So much so that you can cross any boundary to get there? Prahlad’s dream even explores what happens when a god gets drunk with desire. Then there’s the Oedipal complex, where a son desires his mother. That’s in The Other Woman. In Goat Head, a king lets his daughter die because for him a status in society is more important. These stories explore our filth, our dirty secrets and our evil sides.
Shiva to me represents everything that’s taboo in our society. He teaches us to accept everything, even those in the fringes. He’s okay with murderers, thieves, sexual deviants, prostitutes. In other words he is the guy to go to if you are on the fringes of the society. And in a society that is shrinking in acceptance, more and more people are going to the fringes, to that which is considered unnatural, taboo or unacceptable. Hello, Section 377 anyone?
On another note, the novel I am writing currently is also feeling the pressure to be self-censored. In every sentence I write, the censor board in me tries to soften the crassness, the violence, the frustration, the expletives. Sometimes I bow to it, but mostly I try and ignore the moral police inside of me. As I keep hoping that we as a society will learn to do as well.
Let me confess something first. I might have written books (one novel and two graphic novels) for kids, but till now hadn’t interacted with them much. Not the ones who are in the 9-13 years of age. Actually, not many at all. For writing, I had used the kid inside me. So when I committed myself to doing detective workshops at schools with Bookaroo, I had a whole week of sleepless nights! If I haven’t handled one kid, how would I deal with 100+? Would they get the mystery I had created? Would they like solving it? Would they be bored and fidgety? My first workshop at Sardar Patel Vidyalaya had more than 200 kids. It was a riot, but a happy one. (Read Bookaroo’s blog on it here).
I wasn’t sure the workshop will work, but after four workshops in Delhi and one in Bangalore, in conference rooms, libraries and open grounds, and book stores, I see that like me, all kids love mysteries. Their eyes shine, they huddle in groups and chat and that’s how they solve things. One little girl approached me after the third workshop (Mount Abu School, Rohini) and said in a serious tone, ‘Thank you, mam. I was expecting a boring session where you tell us how to write stories, but the case you gave to solve was so much fun for me. I really, really enjoyed doing it.’
They love being detectives. Kids are marvelously curious. They like to question, like to make stories for the gaps and if given a mystery, like to solve it. They love donning the detective hats!
They do if they care. There’s nothing more beautiful to see a kid passionate about something. Before the workshop began, I compared them to Kartik the main character of the book, who solves this really complex mystery. Kartik is their age. If he can, they can. This little competitive spirit makes them care for the characters. If they care, they keep their heads down and solve the mystery till the very end. And this passion (see the pictures) makes me smile every time. A headmistress at Ambience School, Safdarjung wanted suggestions on how she could get more kids to read. My impromptu answer was make them more involved. Ask for alternate endings to known books.
If they like a character, they will read about him/her. School principles, teachers, parents have told me that their kids don’t read, don’t care about books. But here’s one kid, Medha, 12, who sent me this email after I did the workshop at her school: ‘I attended the Bookaroo workshop which was held in Sardar Patel Vidyalaya. I read The Ghost Hunters Of Kurseong and it is the best book I have ever read! It was a really nice mystery and I kept guessing the culprit until the end.’ Someone read the book because they remembered Kartik, from the workshop.
Do they believe in ghosts? No. Yes. Maybe. Ask them if they believe in ghosts and see their eyes light up with curiosity. Kids, unlike us adults, don’t have so many pre-conceived notions of science, superstition and beliefs. Some put their hands straight up, some sneak a look at their friends and some keep their hands in their laps, shaking their heads. Yes, they are open minded, but they are also opinionated.
Kids loves monsters and ghosts. They really do. They love to read about non-human characters (though my book is not completely that. Which made me wonder, why are not more writers writing ghosts stories? I asked them which authors they read and most replied RL Stine or other American authors. Why are they not reading Indian authors?
Winning is important for them. Every workshop ends with some kid or even adult asking: So who won? When I say no one, there’s an anti-climactic feeling, a let down feeling. Has competition become so necessary to our society? Who wants them to win? Themselves or their parents?
Not so early in the morning, I look down from my third floor apartment. There’s a lady sweeping the dead-end road. I know her, though I don’t know her name. She wears the official BBMP coat and she collects garbage from each of the apartment building. Sometimes I see her, while walking, from a car and smile and wave at her. She smiles back. A beautiful, cheery smile, but with an edge of self-consciousness. As if unused to be smiled at. As if unacknowledged as a human by those who live in apartments.
(Pic for representation only. Can’t find the one I clicked)
Then there’s another from BBMP, I see from my third floor apartment. He comes on the open garbage truck, a small one to pick up garbage from the apartment building opposite mine (there are 24 flats there). The building has three long drums which are filled upto the brim with all kinds of icky stuff—polythene bags full of kitchen waste, toilet paper, condoms, leftover curry gone bad and dust. He puts his naked hands into this middle class garbage and efficiently separates the non-biodegradable, the tetra packs, mulchy polythene bags, Styrofoam cups and recyclable waste.
A middle class man who lives in the apartment sees him and makes a face full of disgust. A lady with a little child, walks by, crinkling her nose at the awful smell. And I, clean and distant from the scene, on my third floor balcony, wonders how someone who deals with other people’s shit, can smile so beautifully.
