Writing a novel is like putting a universe
together: constructing its foundations first, living in it for days,
acquainting with the people, and then letting it go. It’s a very slow process
that requires immense patience. But once you are good at it, there’s a lot
going for you. Recently I completed my novel and now, horrors, I am submitting
to those whom I trust for a first look.
But then why do writers take this arduous
journey to nowhere. Half the time – when you are writing - you are wondering
what the critics will say. You are in turmoil, you don’t think straight, your
narrative may falter, in which case – God forbid – you go back and rewrite. All
along, you are not being compensated for your time. You are in constant dilemma:
will my character say this; will he behave thus? Yes, in western countries you
have grants, which you can avail while writing a novel. Yann Martel was on a
grant when he wrote Life of Pi. But in India you have nothing. Zilch!
Yes, there is something. Aha! You get a lot
of shit thrown at you if you read a chapter at a writer’s community. You sink
into perdition once again. People in Indian write in their own language plus English
(own language + English). I mean, Malayalis write in their English, Tamilians
write in their English, you get the drift, right?
My effort has been to steer away from
stereotype to portray a stereotype. In Mr. Bandookwala I have written
about different communities and the different ways they talk English, without
identifying the community. It becomes obvious which community I am talking
about, and at the same time, a foreigner can laugh at the quaint way we talk.
It was a tough task. But, now that it is done, I have the jitters again.
