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Close Encounters of the Reading Kind

And then I came upon noted American Spanish-to-English literary translator Edith Grossman’s comment on translation, which she calls ‘a kind of reading as deep as any encounter with a literary text can be.’ And I thought, how many authors have I read in such a manner. Which writer has transcended the average and beyond to stand out and make me delve deep into their works, the charm of their words and the feelings they evoked. How many of these books managed to remain alluring over the years? Which writer delighted with words in the same way a painter does with colours and images or a singer with voice and lyrics?

To Write Like Gabo

The first time I read Gabriel García Márquez, I wanted to write like him. It was one thing wanting to, and quite another being able to. But I learnt a lot of lessons along the way.

1. Desire: In 1951, Márquez returned from a trip home to Aracataca, his home town, to write Leaf Storm (1955), his first novel. ‘From the moment I wrote Leaf Storm I realized I wanted to be a writer and that nobody could stop me and that the only thing left for me to do was to try to be the best writer in the world.’

The Sensibility of Words

Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit, and tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, I will be brief – William Shakespeare, Hamlet
The dictionary defines words as units of language, consisting of one or more…Read more

The Stories Around Us

Everywhere I look there is a story. They are everywhere. These people, their stories. Sometimes they come looking for you. Most times you stumble upon them. Every person I meet has something to tell. They all have been part of their own stories, characters that were born and grew with age. Some lead remarkable lives. Others an ordinary existence. They have made compromises, choices. Now they live their stories every day. I see it in their faces, the way they talk, their walk, their clothes. They are the characters of my life as I am in someone else’s. Not all characters are human.

The tree in front my window has a story of its own…

Apr 3

Gabriel Garcia Marquez with “One Hundred Years of Solitude” on his head

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Found in Translation

Literature in translation is meat and if you are not reading them, you are missing out on a whole new world. Around 60% of all translations are from books originally published in English, but only 3% of books in a foreign language are translated into English. A glaring disparity without a doubt and one that smacks of arrogance? Or is it that translated works do not sell? Murakami, Paulo Coelho, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, T Steig Larsson are writers whose books sell in their millions. When I buy a book, the thought that never crosses my mind is whether it is a work of translation.

Mar 21

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The Androgyny in Strong Female Characters

We are a group of seven friends and we make it a point to have dinner once every month. The food is always an excuse and we end up talking more than eating. Last week, we had this debate on strong female characters in movies or books. They said the term implies women are weak. I said strong as in strength, strength as in character. The discussion veered to a post in NYT where the writer lampooned strong female characters as ‘men with boobs.’

Mar 4

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Writing Distractions

Writing is an enjoyable pursuit, but unless you have the concentration of a monk, there are too many distractions to make it a frustrating exercise at times. I have wasted many a day doing things I shouldn’t have been doing only to rue the time lost. How many times have you been tempted to turn an excuse into a necessity to give yourself a break from writing? How your writing must have suffered as the minutes turned into hours. What are your top distractions? How do you stop yourself from getting distracted? Here are mine in no particular order.

Feb 24

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Tablet

Every day around three in the afternoon, the dolphins come to frolic in the waters of the Brahmaputra by the Northbrook Gate. They splash past the ferries, past fishermen singing in their boats, past the faithful releasing their prayers in little canoes of flowers and offerings from the steps of the adjacent temple. It is where I spent countless hours staring at the waves, caressed by a breeze that gave me respite from the grind of city life. Not far away loomed Peacock Island in the afternoon haze. It is the smallest river island in the world and home to an ancient temple and an endangered langur species. Yes, Tablet reminded me of the golden langur, dark and bronzed, and with an unkempt bunch of red orange hair…

Feb 16

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The Terrible Itch of War

Wars, without doubt, are the most brutal of human horrors. They are also the most ironic. Last month, a team from Japan arrived in Guwahati to take home their dead from the war cemetery. They came in the winter chill looking for their dead comrades in the thick mist of the Chitranchal Hills. Here, they had rested for sixty eight years along with British, Canadian, Australian, Indian and Chinese soldiers, eleven servicemen, killed fighting British and Indian troops in April-June 1944 in the Burma Campaign. They are a long way from home. Such was their itch for war…

Feb 8

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My Friend in the Loose Shirt

I saw him for the first time many years ago. Short of stature, a loose shirt wet in patches from the rain, torn sandals on his feet. He stammered something and placed an envelope on my table. I took out the letter, saw the bright red sun emblazoned on top and put it back. What was there to read? The rebels have come to visit. They want a share of my money. “No,” I told him. “I can’t. And I won’t.” My voice quivered as I added: “You can shoot me if you like.” For an hour I spoke. No, ranted. I shouting, he listening with his head bowed. At the end of it, he raised his head. Our eyes met. They were like unpolished marbles, cold and lifeless. Eyes that has seen something of the world and didn’t like what it saw…

Jan 31

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Beginning with the Ending

I have this pile of books by my side. The dog is nearby, sleeping on another pile. I am reading to catch up. I look through the books. First one, I toss aside. No names, please. Names cause strife. The blurb is enticing enough, but when I steal a glance at the ending, something didn’t feel right. The words, I think. The next book, the ending I liked. No, not how it ended, but how the words came together to say something sensible, beautiful even. It held my attention. I began reading. Like a good beginning, endings also matter. Have you done the same with writing? Have you ever written the other way around, beginning with the ending first?

FicFaq

tête-à-tête with Subhakar Das

Close Encounters of the Reading Kind

To Write Like Gabo

The Sensibility of Words

The Stories Around Us

Found in Translation

The Androgyny in Strong Female Characters

Writing Distractions

Tablet

The Terrible Itch of War

My Friend in the Loose Shirt

Beginning with the Ending

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