A writer's agonies and ecstasies

It has been a tardy, tepid week at the ‘little thought shop’, with no whippy ideas, bouncy reflections or any story worth sharing to the small community of people that checks my blog out regularly.
Things tend to wind down now and then, don’t they?
There are times when you are so upbeat about everything that you don’t mind adding two extra spoons of sugar to your tea or prance around the house feeling wafer thin after 3 back to back ice cream days or croon loudly in the bathroom as if you are on the Indian or American or Australian or any damn Idol show, feel ‘inspired’ to watch the most idiotic reality show on TV for kicks, squint at the cover of a magazine and utter wryly to the face staring at you, “so what’s the big deal about you being there? Some day, I will too.” Days when you brim with confidence to take on anything in this world, turn around and face anybody who breathes down your neck and essentially, feel on top of the world, for…absolutely no seeming reason. The heart sometimes goes on a trip to the moon on horse back. And on those days everything around you makes for a reason to live.
And then there are those down-in-the-dump days, when the best of your friends seem hypocrites, you suspect the whole world to be conspiring against you, the filter coffee suddenly tastes insipid, the AC isn’t cooling enough, the TV is the biggest source of sleaze on earth, your breath smells despite the Listerine wash, when nothing you do seems enough for you to make the cut and at the end of the day you plunk into the cot feeling like an utter loser. A loser who just wants to dash to the end of the earth and kick the bucket. But all you end up doing is thrash your limbs in the blanket and snooze off, because you know that the end of the earth is too far and kicking the bucket is the dumbest thing to do. It is just one of those days when the heart simply doesn’t find a horse to go to the moon.
I have been going through this zany period these past few months. Alternating times when I have felt enthusiastic about the book, loving it so obsessively that I have to talk myself down to some sanity and days when I have felt it was the daftest thing on earth to do – writing a book and expecting it to be read and worse, to be liked. In what witless moment must I have succumbed to such imbecility that goaded me to write a book, of all things in this world! And look where it has brought me now – reduced to a worrywart who can’t think of anything beyond it in the waking hours which now have extended, thanks to the..oh yes, the frequent fretting exercise over promotion, marketing et al.
But slowly, that phase seems to be passing. Not because my passion for the book has diminished, nor because I have given up altogether, but during one of those rides to the moon, someone whispered to my heart, “How does it matter, after all?”
What insightful words to heed! It knocked me back to some good sense and I don’t feel hassled any more. I have suddenly become enlightened !!!!
Fortunately, I don’t live off writing.
Thankfully, I am not overly ambitious.
All that I seek to do by writing is to give my life a direction, lend the journey some meaning, fill it with some preoccupation and if during the course of it I gain some worth and acclaim, it will only be a bonus. I shall get what I deserve by natural design. So why hanker after anything specific?
Meanwhile, I shall continue to write, because it is the one thing I would like to spend my life doing, apart from other routine affairs. It’s a commitment unto me. A job that would make my days complete and fulfilling – good or bad, returns or no returns.

Interview in Malayalam magazine - Kanyaka

Page 1

Page 2 Page 3 Click on the images for a larger view and to read the interview..

Defining Success

Continuing from where I left off last time, with a loaded question on the definition of success….

I apologize for being so hopelessly moralizing, but certain things don’t fade from the mind so easily, especially when the reality of life strikes you so hard in times like these. And what a blessing this blog is, for some like me to dump all woes, disburse thoughts and voice views! It provides fomentation to the thought-swollen, fatigued mind and a lurching spirit. It feels like going out to the end of the universe and bawling your lungs out, with no one to chide, no one to take offence, no one to be pleased.
Now to the point…
Yesterday, a metro bridge under construction fell in Delhi. That admittedly is nothing new in a country where rampant corruption almost guarantees public disasters of this kind. Nor is the resignation of someone at the helm owning responsibility so rare in a country where such acts have become if not pure charades, at least mediocre stunts.
But what set the resignation of the grand old Rail man (I am so tempted to call him India’s Dagny Taggart) E. Sreedharan in the wake of the bridge collapse in Delhi is the manner in which the nation responded to his uncompromising stance to quit. The nation stood up in unison to back Mr. Sreedharan, to absolve him of any responsibility for the slovenliness at the work site, and there was not a single soul that wanted him nailed for what had happened. What a refreshing contrast to instances where the public sentiment generally bays for the blood of the helmsman after such occurrences!
Held in unparalleled esteem by an entire nation not just for his technical prowess, but also for his absolute integrity and a spotless career, Mr. Sreedharan stood tall as a true leader who the people could not dispense with. A nation could not let its dreams come crashing behind a collapsed bridge and it chanted paeans to his ethical probity in unequivocal tones. The Delhi government lost no time in refusing him leave, for where would it go to find a replacement to such unmatched amalgam of competence and complete honesty? What a rarity to be found these days in high places!
This is success. Unadulterated. Inspiring. The kind that wins you admiration brought by immaculate reputation. The kind that makes you an icon for what you are than for what you have acquired in terms of countables. The kind where, not a blot, nor a blame comes between you and your lifetime. The kind that makes you utterly indispensible to an entire population.

I have found today, one example of success to live by. My search for more will continue..

Random thoughts, post MJ...

It might be a gross aberration in these mournful (?) times to say that that I have not been a great fan of MJ and that his death did not leave me particularly somber or teary-eyed. Blame it on the circumstances that I grew up in or my own lack of popular taste, but Thriller and Billie Jean have just been passing fancies in my teens that I didn’t carry to a point which would leave me shell shocked at the news of his moving on.
Yes, it was a sad and unexpected piece of news; especially the manner in which it happened was surprising. But it also underscored the theory that great lives often had depressing and inglorious ends, the death over shadowing the lofty life it plucked away.
As I watched TV grabs of the memorial service, two thoughts occurred, both of which had me mulling over some profound truths.
It is a curious thought, but so true that death obliterates the evils in a man’s life. It wipes out the worst chapters from his past, brings to fore the merits, both real and fictional and makes a saint out of even a deviant character. In the aftermath of one’s departure, the world (as if facing a deadline) suddenly hurries to glorify the past like a final burst of pyrotechnic and surging tributes clog the psyche of a world that previously criticized and cast aspersions.
In the generous view of the world, it is a sin to slam the dead.
Nevertheless, one thing that death can bring to a public figure, apart from a spurt in career, is posthumous fame that highlights only the purple patches and pulls a rug over past blemishes. All courtesy of frenzied media ingenuity.
The other dominating thought I have been wallowing in, unable to quite pin my mind to a certainty has to do with the virtues of success. Viewed in the light of MJ’s life, success failed to make its impression on me either as a virtuous means or as a desirable end.
Is merely having millions of one’s work sold, with truckloads of cash flowing in, in its wake, success?
Is having a world tripping over itself to catch one glance of a grotesque looking, caked with make-up face, success?
Is, having to put up with the ignominy of a heinous crime that was later buried in the lucre, success?
Is tossing all the money one has made into senseless, arbitrary purposes, success?
Is living the life of a weirdo, who the world looks upon more with suspicion than with affection, success?
Is harbouring so much inferiority that one subjects himself to bizarre treatments under the scalpel, success?
Is having to pop pills for a good night’s sleep success?
Is being a puzzle than a person, success?
Is having the world sentiment work up into a lather when the news of death flashed, success?
Will someone explain what on earth this abstract, illogical yet overpowering thing called success is? And why, for God’s sake, are we so hopelessly subservient to this mad fixation?

Picture Pickles..

Presenting a copy of Sand Storms, Summer Rains to the Consul General of India in Dubai,

Mr. Venu Rajamony at a private function in Dubai.

Introducing SSSR to the audience

A personal triumph to cheer

Let me plunge straight into a question that has been increasingly playing on my mind in the last few weeks – is publishing a book a crust-moving accomplishment? I am caught between an ‘aye’ and a ‘nay’ for answer.
Going by the over whelming response that I am receiving these days from people who have just known about this not-so-common-occurrence in their immediate circles, it seems like I have pulled off something worthwhile. But I am not certain.
The response has been a mixed bag so far, dominated by the whoopees and wows with a smattering of reserved and cynical rejoinders. I apologize for being so vain and self-conscious. But with this book taking so much of my attention and anxiety these days, it seems only natural for me to dwell in thoughts related to this new development in my life.
Coming back to my question, is having your name to a book laudable and worthy of raising a toast? Let me first tackle the ‘nay’ that is weighing down on me rather forcefully. The current glut in the book market (thanks to any one who has an experience of something in life taking to pen a manuscript, dishing it out between covers as a novel, memoir, biography or poetry) makes me contend that writing a book is something that one can do as easily as learning to swim. It may not be as easy as fish taking to water, but with a few floats on you to sustain in the initial days, you can become an author, no less. You just have to have a will, an idea to flesh out, some fast paced, snappy lingo and the time to actually stamp it down as a document and voila! You have what you can call a manuscript that will sooner or later find a place to roost in the vast, easy-to-get-lost literary firmament.
I am not joking, anybody can venture to write a book and quite a few people that I know have said that they had a mind to do so, but have never got to doing it, owing to constraints on time. Some of them are people with immense experience, are a repository of worldly knowledge and have fantastic linguistic and syntactic skills. They are the ones I sincerely wish would write. But they don’t for their own reasons. When such folks congratulate me on my first book, I take the credit with guarded pride. For, I suspect that in their view, I have only done something that they could do so easily but have consciously chosen not to. To them, writing is a cinch and so, what is the big racket I am creating about a book? I can almost hear the words in their voice.
And then there are those uninitiated tribes who responded to my mails about the book with news about their family and friends. They did not care if I had spent 6 years or 16 years trying to make this book a reality. They didn’t have the slightest interest in knowing if my novel was about people or pygmies. No congratulations, no commendation, nor any casual remark of acknowledgment. It was as though I had written a book because I had nothing better to do in life. According to them, a house wife, tucked in some remote corner of the desert land had just found a new way to stay occupied after her chores. To each, his own!
Now, to that lovely cluster that presently makes me feel like a celebrity in my own right, with their glowing praise of my new enterprise. Some doffed their hat, some trilled that I had done something incredible, some were immensely proud to be my acquaintances and some in their over enthusiasm even said that I would go on to carve a niche of my own in the literary world (That’s a rather long shot, but who knows??).
I would like to share a few such compliments that came by e-mail from people who I believe are truly pleased with my small accomplishment and pulled no punches with their appreciation.
There are also those who conveyed their generous thoughts personally too, making me go red of face with an unspecified emotion. I dedicate this post to all of them.

- Dear Asha, I was pleased and delighted to know that someone I know has indeed written a book, a novel at that! Being a student of literature myself and one who spends at least an hour every night reading before sleeping, I know that reading is easier than writing - especially when it comes to churning out some 450 pages!! Congratulations !!

- Congratulations Asha. I’ll certainly go to the Palakkad store and get a copy. Proud to say that you’re my friend.

- Hi Asha, I had to write a quick note congratulating you on this great endeavour. I read an excerpt of Sand Storms, Summer Rains on bookwag.com and it left me wanting more. I have already asked my husband to pick up a copy of your book at the local book store in India.

- Hey aash!
what a wonderful piece of news! Great! really great! I’m really proud of you, gal.

- Hearty congrats. Very nice great stuff. Does not read like a debut novel.


My heart felt thanks to all those who acknowledge that this book has been a culmination of a long period of sustained work, seasons of struggle and some teeny-weeny flashes of talent.
A new friend told me recently, “It is not everyday that you come across a person who has written a book. We see books in the book stores, we hear about people who write, but I am seeing an author for real now.”
It was one surreal moment which put my doubts to rest.
Is writing a book really an achievement?
Yes, it’s a hell of a personal triumph and I am going to bask in this self-consuming thought for some time to come.