Pack of Lies

About to write…

Friday, July 30th, 2010

Saint George Island

So, even though I am not writing at the moment, I assure myself that I am collecting material. Looking, seeing, smelling, tasting, eating, listening – it’s all data collection. It will, I tell myself, churn about, or maybe just sit there and ripen, and surely and quickly turn into a clever, or dour, or exciting, or, most hopefully, erotic stream of words that will get me to my deadline. Working/not working – toward a collection of erotic short stories. Erratic.

Kashmir Blues and A Pack of Lies are sitting on Amazon’s shelves collecting cyber dust. I write because I want to. But I do now wish for my writing to be read. I would give it away free, but then, in this world it would be judged as worthless. Also, potatoes and health insurance don’t come free, or art and literature would be too. I’d write for my own delight, and then for the thanks and praise after (abuse would be fine too, it would mean the abuser read my writing). And I’d eat potatoes and be well.

There’s no oil on the beach where I was working last week. They said it was a hundred miles to the west of us, and probably wouldn’t make it there. Trucks and booms lay ready and waiting though, just in case. I collected a lot of sand and salt wind and serenity. Monday morning, there will be words.

Sharmila Phadke in Loksatta

Tuesday, July 6th, 2010

clip from Loksatta

http://www.loksatta.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=80677:2010-06-25-05-22-38&catid=194:2009-08-14-02-31-30&Itemid=194गौरीच्या मुलीचं पुस्तक

Propeller!

Wednesday, January 27th, 2010

plane

For those of you who don’t know it, I have no degrees, and basically no formal education. In the last ten years, my attempts to “go back to school” have been thwarted by my visa status. Late last year, that obstacle was resolved, so when my son, now a sophomore, said to me that I should “take some classes”, I decided to investigate the matter. As it turns out, I will have to fulfill requirements such as English, social sciences, math, and so on. And I will of course, not being a US citizen, have to take the TOEFL – Test Of English as a Foreign Language. As I scoured the website of the community college looking for ways to get a PhD without putting in thousands of semester hours, I began to feel pretty poor, and sorry for myself.

And then my phone rang. I thought, looking at the area code, that it was someone I knew. It wasn’t. A voice, somewhat nervous, young, male, asked for me. When I identified myself, he said, very quickly, that he had just read POL and liked it, and wanted to tell me so. He hung up rather quickly. Perhaps he was a bit embarrassed, or maybe he didn’t actually think I would answer the phone and wasn’t prepared for it. I don’t really know. But I do know this: he made my day.

I never thought it would concern me, I was pretty blasé about writing and putting it out there. Readers were not real to me then. They are now. I care deeply what every person who reads my book thinks of it. I would talk to every last one of you, and to hear that you loved the book is validating, of course, but just to know that you read it is surprisingly fulfilling. I really didn’t expect this. At all.

When my mother got fan mail, or met a fan at a reading or a conference, she would be thoroughly delighted. Sometimes she would say to us, full of smiles and happiness, “that was not just a fan, he/she was a propeller!”

Well, I don’t know if the person who called me today in the midst of my episode of self-doubt and confusion was a fan or a propeller – but I understood something about my mother today, and, this perfect stranger reminded me why I publish what I write. Thank you, Mr. Joshi.

(And this is not an invitation to other readers to call me – I’m just saying – thank you all for reading my work!)

giant steps

Monday, January 25th, 2010

 

walk

My mother told me once that Werner Herzog walked from Munich to Paris to heal his friend who was very ill. She told me this when her own publisher and close friend fell ill, and wondered if she should begin to walk to Pune from Hong Kong, where she was, and if he would recover by the time she got to him. He got well by himself, and she did not need to make the journey. But she was quite serious, I believe, when she said it. I remembered this story yesterday as I neared the end of my walk. I started going on long walks only after my mother died. I don’t know whether walking long distances will heal a loved one or not, and won’t go too far into the idea that my mother could have been alive today if only I had walked across continents to be by her side.

For one reason and another and another – my cholesterol, my reflection in the bathroom mirror, my burgundy velvet dress that no longer zips up – I have started walking everyday, what seem to me like long distances. Today I thought, when I was done, that from now on I would walk for someone other than myself. That I would dedicate each day’s walk to a person somewhere in the world who was sick, or hungry, or sad, or lonely. I could walk for entire countries. For war-mauled Iraqis, for the citizens in darkness in North Korea, for the starving children of India, for those left in the rubble that is Haiti . The sick parts of the world, and all the sad people in it, are more numerous by far than I have walks, or even steps left in me. But if Werner Herzog is right, and we all walked a little for someone else, maybe we could heal the world.

I am not given to sentimentality, or any kind of spirituality – I just cannot help but feel there is a kind of no-nonsense practicality in this idea. Tomorrow’s walk has a purpose. And at the end of all my walking, even if I heal no one else, I will be a healthy corpse.

pale male

Thursday, January 21st, 2010
Red Tailed Hawk

Red Tailed Hawk

There is this hawk in New York City. I became aware him of when his nest was being removed from the building he had built it in. Many people have followed his story. Celebrities living in the building protested the disturbance of his home. Photographers follow him. There are websites about him. Books have been written about him. He is a star. And he is a beautiful hawk. As all hawks are. The funny thing is, he doesn’t know he is a star. He would be just as beautiful whether anyone photographed him or not, whether anyone saw him or not. Pale Male, as he is called, because of his unusually pale coloring, is a hawk, and that is all he will ever be. Isn’t it enough to be a hawk, if that is what you are?

My love for hawks is quite large in my heart. Always has been, not related to Pale Male, I have never seen him. I wrote a short story recently, called “Hawk”. It is the only short story I have ever written. It is rough, and needs work, but I found out after writing it that my short-story writing skills may be better laid to rest, what little I have of them. I’m too old to start working on something I know won’t improve much in the time I have left. But, if someone asks to read it, I will post it. And I promise I will take any comments and suggestions seriously.

From Oran

Sunday, January 17th, 2010
Eduardo Pola

Albert Camus by Eduardo Pola

I had never read Camus, I’m ashamed to say. But no longer – I just read The Plague, and am reading The Stranger. The Plague made me claustrophobic. I began to wonder if the world didn’t begin and end at Oran, the town in which the book is set. If, after the plague had burned out, and the quarantine was lifted, there would even be a world out there. This book easily took me into this town, into the hopes and fears of the people who lived there, and were stuck there. Reading a spectacular piece of writing – an acknowledged classic, could have demoralized me. Sometimes, when you encounter the pinnacle of your art or skill, it can have that effect on you. You could say, “why bother, it’s been done, and so much better than I ever could…”. I heard a story about Sting in a bar in London on a night Jimi Hendrix performed. Halfway through Little Wing, Sting was suddenly filled with despair. With a debilitating certainty that his talent and hard work could never come close to what he was experiencing. I’m glad he didn’t give up. It may have been a rock myth, but still…

After reading The Plague, though I understood that I could never be a Camus, I also understood that I don’t write to be a Camus: I write to be me. And I don’t have the choice not to, if I want to be as much me as possible.

Interstate love song…

Saturday, January 9th, 2010
10 west

10 west

At the end of this decade, I was driving on an American highway – the Interstate 10 to be precise, in dense fog, at 2 am. I started my drive at the east-most point of I-10. If I drove West long enough, this road would take me all the way West to California. I wasn’t going West, though, just a few hundred miles away, home. Alone in the eerily beautiful swirling white fog, I thought about the ending year. 2009 brought me a new career, my first published book, a new life. I couldn’t see too far ahead of me, but I kept going, enjoying the apparitions of trees that revealed themselves as trees when I was right next to them, and the shining lights of oncoming traffic that became clear for a moment – a Mack truck, a Thunderbird, a garden variety Camry – as they passed me, and diminished into fireflies glowing for seconds in my rear view mirror before disappearing into the blackness. E.L. Doctorow said  “Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.” Writing, to me, is exactly like driving a familiar highway to a familiar destination at an unfamiliar time. I see nothing until it is upon me, but I know, if I keep going, I will get there. My book was written much like this drive. But, I thought, not just writing, but life itself has been very much like this drive. I am full of anticipation to see what I will see next, and where I will stop, and to find out what those shapes and lights are that I can vaguely make out in the distance. I don’t mean to be trite, but I did have a moment there of really getting it: We all know what the destination is. It’s the journey that’s the fun part. It’s the revelations. So though I’ve said it before, I wish you, my reader, my friend, my family, whoever you might be, a journey of discovery. Of yourself, and the world.

rotten eggs

Thursday, December 31st, 2009

I will not be going to the movies anymore. I only end up losing hours of the short time I have left in the world, and ruining the enjoyment of friends and family with my bitching. In spite of being told otherwise, my expectations, I feel, are not unreasonable:

- Real action heroes – who really train hard, fight hard, and whom I care about.
- Unpredictability - I should not know at the outset, that the “good guys” will win, or even who the good guys are.
- Emotional content – if I do take sides, I should care deeply about who wins. At least till the movie ends. At least for a few minutes.
I could expand on all of this, and maybe one day I will. Right now I feel it would be even more time wasted talking about the insulting mediocrity of today’s blockbuster movies.
So, I’ll just say, I won’t be going to the movies anymore, I’ll just stay home and watch football. Because football gives me all that and much more. And when the season is over, and the playoffs are played off, and when the Patriots have won the Superbowl, I’ll go back to writing.
I hope 2010 will be a year of experiences and intensity and love and peace and fulfillment for you all!

Real Action Hero!

Real Action Hero!

Deccan Herald Review

Thursday, December 24th, 2009
Painfully ever after

Painfully ever after

#mce_temp_url#

Tranquebar Times interview

Friday, December 18th, 2009
TranqubarTimes2
Tranqubar Times
Tranqubar Times