Curious Quotes to keep

Sharing a few interesting things that people said to me on my book and my writing…

“You are not an author until you have produced a best seller.”

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“It’s no big deal. Anybody who knows a language can be a writer.”

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“Remember, you are neither Dan Brown nor Sidney Sheldon.”

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“Do you have westerners following your blog?”

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“When is your next book coming out?”
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“I am waiting to read your book. I’m a ruthless critic, I’ll have some hard-hitting comments to make on your book.”

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Asked by someone after a short introductory speech I gave on my book. “Is your book in English or Malayalam?”

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“I found your blog riveting, in fact, stunning for a person who kept a surprisingly low profile while doing college.”

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“Someday when you write your autobiography, it’ll be nice to begin with stories of your early struggle as a writer. It’ll make good reading than the biography of an IIT/IIM graduate, who held corporate positions for years, and then shifted to writing.”

O mama, I've won a prize !!!!

Trrrrrnng..…

“Hello, this is from the Man Booker advisory committee and I would like to speak to Asha Iyer Kumar, please.”

“You are with Asha,” I drawled, not hearing the first part of what was said to me nor catching the distinct British accent in the voice. That’s what happens when you pick a call while in sleep mode.

“Ms. Kumar, congratulations. This is to inform you that you are the recipient of the Booker this year.”

Still half asleep, I droned, “A cooker?” It could have been from the Hyper Market where I had dropped countless raffle coupons in the past few months. A cooker, when the grand prize was a BMW! Well, something was better than nothing.

“Electric or pressure cooker?”

“Not a cooker, Ms. Kumar. The Booker, Man Booker.”

“Waaaat??” I fell off the cot and hurt the funny bone. I can still feel a dull phantom ache there.

"For what??"

“For your debut novel Sand Storms, Summer Rains.”

This wasn’t funny – this prank. I had almost decided to hang up when I heard the voice say, “The jury has decided that you are the most deserving of all the nominations this year.”

“Eh?” I gulped emptily and squinted at the receiver before putting it back to the ear. “But, this isn’t possible. I hadn’t even got the book into the market when the nominations must have been made.”

“Oh, that wasn’t an issue. We had your manuscript in hand. Almost every literary agent on the globe had a copy and we simply had to make a call to fetch one. Although I must say that they were bewildered at our choice and their inanity. They just had gone a Booker winner slip out of their hands. Lack of business acumen.”

“Oh well... (I am sure I must have rolled my eyes in contempt). But it beats me how the jury ever knew about the book. I haven’t even touched 1000 copies in sales yet.”

“That wasn’t difficult. We knew about your efforts, we knew the hopes you nurtured and gave to other unknown, aspiring writers and we were certain that you could well be on your way to success with some due approval and recognition. It was all that you lacked. We have faith in your work. Your PR efforts have been fantastic so far, especially the way you have trudged along with so little outside support, although we must say they haven’t paid off as well as they should have. Our decision to award you with the Booker should more than make up for that.”

“I thank you for the kind consideration and support, but it kind of makes me feel queasy. Is it possible to not let the world know about this Booker thing? At least until I find a place to hide.”

‘That’s a strange demand to make. You are going to be on every media space as soon as the official announcement is made. It is inevitable.”

“Not a demand, a request, if you may. I have just begun to be a writer. My first work has just gone out in the middle and the second is waiting in the wings to be picked up. The third is still in contemplation and there is so much more left to do before I earn due place in this sphere. I am an amateur with just a lot of dreams in my eyes.”

“It is your dreams that the jury was enamoured of. The inspiration and hope you give to million other struggling authors. You hold promise Ms. Kumar and we would like to acknowledge your accomplishment. We know about your plans to write the biography of a certain Indian TV queen whose life is a “How to” book on just about everything. It isn’t everyday that we come across something as socially and economically viable as this.”

“You mean Rakhi Sawant?”

“That’s the one, I believe. We just have a sketchy notion of your future projects.”

“Oh, it isn’t the best thing to do, but I am toying with the idea just in public interest. It can be a very popular project. I have yet to decide on that.”

“I am sure it will work. You just need to know the difference between what can be popular and what can pop in the market. It is this discernment that makes you deserving of the prize. I hope you will not reject it.”

“Reject? Oh no. I am just hugely embarrassed. It will take a while for me to get used to the idea of being a Booker winner.”

“You will, eventually. When the hype takes over the book and the hope takes over your actual work, you will.”

“Ah, I now have to find a specialist to handle this. It is too much, too soon for me to take in.”

“You had better be quick. Public memory is very short and shorter is your time in fame.”

“Yes, I understand. Thank you for your kind words.”

“Congratulations, once again.”

“Err..I would like to say that I don’t deserve it, but I accept it. Thank you.”

“You are welcome. Must say, your words have a distinct presidential ring. So noble..”

I must have drifted deeper into sleep by then, for I only remember muttering something under my breath before hanging up.

Trrrring…..

It is the morning alarm going off after a 15 minute snooze.
Yet another day in the life of an upstart writer begins.
More mails, more follow ups, more query letters, more PR efforts, more market challenges, more hurdles, more quirky people to contend with, more hopes, more dreams and more miles to tread..

Less 'senti', more 'mental'

Suddenly, all too suddenly, we have made a point of hyperventilating over just about anything around us – social, domestic, political - pick any issue and we have ample reasons to feel ‘offended’ and ‘hurt’.

Our urgency to react, raise an alarm and rebel is getting to levels of absurdity and making me wince with absolute disgust. Not that we are not aware of our sickening but growing propensity to kick up rows, not that we personally support such indiscriminating clamour, not that we don’t know that it is all but part of a larger, individual design in the portals of power and pelf, not that we don’t know how ridiculous we sound and silly we look and not that we are not bored with it. Yet we put up with the theatrics, merely because we, the common men and women, need to get by. It is a world of the supremely strong, sumptuously vain and severely antagonistic clusters of people and the last thing we want is to get caught in the cross fire of indiscriminate wrangling and ego wars.

But we are a sensitive lot, mind you. I need to keep saying this, to survive in these tumultuous times. We are awfully sensitive and I am scared out of my wits to say anything about anybody ouside my family. Who knows what can get me into a flap, whose sentiment and pride can be hurt and what if the wound that I inflict causes him/them to bleed and then, to die (martyred??)? I don’t intend risking such eventuality, not when my business of life is cruising along with its own small and not so small concerns.

Yes, I am self-centred, to the point of being indifferent to the dramatic overtures of the more sensitive, less sensible slice of our democratic society.

I am self centred to the extent that I feel deeply for the thousands rendered homeless in many parts of the world, thanks to natural and man made calamities. It is just another television grab for those of us watching it from our living rooms, but to those out there, it’s a life put paid to. Their immediate wait is for an air dropped meal, their next dream is about a home to call their own, their plight much worse than what a copter riding politician can know from above.

I feel angry about the injustices in the world, much of which is beyond my comprehension and my power of suggesting solutions.

I feel helpless and frightened when the imbalances in the society affect the weakest and the rage over the inequity spills over, spreads and takes vast swathes of the world into its fold.

I feel depressed when a father rapes his daughter, parents kill their children for honour, debt worn peasants commit suicide, double crossing politicians come scrounging for our benevolence, and fritter our money on weird things from statues to feeding pampered airline employees and worse still, when we question, put up a nauseating charade of being austere…ugh!

Yes, I am sensitive and there are things that I am concerned about, but they don’t push me to burn and break, they don’t turn me into a vandal, they don’t make me a pseudo rebel. I must confess, I don’t have the sensibility required for such response, much less the inclination and nerve.

For some reason (and condemn me for it if you like), my sentiments are not hurt when someone makes a caste remark in a movie or if a former diplomat punches a cattle class tweet or the city I live in is called by its former name or a veteran artist in exile has shown a Hindu God in poor colours. There are better things in life for me than these to ponder on. My belief system is not so fragile as to be shattered or smeared by a remark or artistic rendition. My faith is not so shallow as to be disturbed by passing winds of disregard. And my sentiments not so touchy as to be hurt by nondescript issues that have no bearing on my heart or hearth.

To those who have made a sport or vocation of extremist activity, there are ample opportunities to revel in. But to me and those of my ilk, wearing social sentiments on the sleeve and making war cries is simply gauche and absurd.