Interpreting Film Noir: Sidney Pollack’s The Interpretor and Alfred Hitchock’s Psycho

Saw The Interpreter.

Caught it at Fame, Andheri, where, I’m relieved to report, the projection is just as good as ever (I hadn’t been there for a few months, and if you recall, I grumbled recently about how Fun Republic’s projection has deteriorated).

Now, for some people the big name in that movie is Nicole Kidman. Maybe even Sean Penn.

Both those people, I like a lot.

But it’s the director that really gets my molasses flowing.

Sidney Pollack is one of my favourite ‘serious-entertainment’ movie makers in Hollywood.

In case you didn’t know it, his filmography includes gems like Tootsie, The Way We Were, Three Days of the Condor, Out of Africa, Absence of Malice, Sabrina, Random Hearts, The Firm, and Havana, among many others.

He usually acts in his own movies, as well as other movies – he plays Sean Penn’s boss in Interpreter, the balding, grey-haired bespectacled fellow who keeps telling Penn to go home, get some sleep, rest.

His films have a certain languid elegance that makes you want to just switch off your brain and watch, knowing you’re in good hands, that this person will not lead you astray into schlocky Hollwood territory, nor will he drown you in pretentious intellectualism.

There are guns in his movies, but even if they’re fired in the course of the movie, it’s what’s said before and after that’s more important.

To put it another way, the words used by the characters and the things they say and mean, are more important than stuff like bullets and bras and brass bands.

Take Interpretor, for instance. It’s a very good film.

Not a great one, because it doesn’t aspire to that status. To be a great film, it would have to use real names, real places, real people.

And that would be a story too big for the commercial film format in which Pollack works.

That’s also typical of Pollack. He aims big, but not for the sky.

And that’s just enough.

He makes these wonderfully serious, slickly turned out, entertainingly crafted little gems that deliver a couple hours of thoughtful entertainment.

And occasionally, he gives you a moment or two, or a half-dozen, that are pretty amazing.

In this film, he gives you a dozen-odd ones, mostly with Nicole Kidman stealing the show, and Sean Penn underplaying his talents to provide a perfect foil to her – in short, playing ‘heroine’ to her ‘hero’ in a sense and doing a brilliant job of it.

(To really know what Sean Penn can do, of course, you need to watch a whole bunch of other movies which showcase his talent much, much better than Interpretor.)

In the end, Pollack leaves you feeling like you watched a movie, a good old-fashioned movie that yes, is designed to entertain you, but is aimed at entertaining an intelligent viewer.

Incidentally, I also happened to see a classic thriller that also has a major scene set in the United Nations Building, New York – although, ironically, that film’s director was flatly denied permission to shoot in the UN building and was forced to resort to building a set.

The film, of course, was Psycho, Alfred Hitchcock’s noir classic.

The amazing thing about it is how fresh and contemporary it seems even today.

I was actually trying to get my 16-year old son Ayush to watch it, and he was very reluctant.

I told him, ‘Check it out for five minutes, if it bores you, walk.’

Fifty minutes later, he was still sitting there, still watching.

The shower scene had just come and gone, the film’s main lead, the Janet Leigh character, had just been brutally murdered.

He wanted to know, What the hell happened next?

But just knowing who-did-it or what-happened-next wouldn’t have been enough.

It took that glorious musical score, that compelling script and direction, those wonderfully designed camera set ups and shots, the little details (like the highway patrolman who never takes off his sunglasses, and remains one of the most menacing images in cinema history, even though he never actually does anything even remotely menacing: it’s all in the look.

If you haven’t seen Psycho, you don’t know what you’ve missed.

Look past the black & white, look past the old-fashioned cars and paraphernalia. Even look past the word “classic”.

Just see it as a great thriller. The grandfather of film noir, a tradition in which even Sidney Pollack follows (although very very loosely, I hasten to add – for real noir, see Bruce Willis’s new starrer, Sin City: Now that’s great noir – more about that soon).

Even today, even in the fifth year of the 21st century, when film makers as gifted as Sidney Pollack are continuing to turn out Hitchockian tributes like The Interpretor, Psycho still holds its own.

(I also saw North by Northwest recently, and that’s terrific too, but Psycho is still leagues ahead.)

Heck, see them both. You know what they say, you can never read too many (good) books, see too many (great) movies, or listen to too many (terrific) albums.

The Interpretor qualifies as a pretty good watch, and Psycho continues to rule the roost as a great watch.

Jul 25, 2005 | Uncategorized | Leave A Comment »

Stephen King & Me: An unfinished introduction from an unpublished book

This one is part of the unfinished introduction to a non-fiction book I was to write on Stephen King.

And if you have read Stephen King, even liked his work, or some of it at least, then I don’t need to say another word.

Why King Really Is King

I. The Beast Within: A (Very) Personal Confession

I was doubly damned. First, for reading novels. Second, for reading horror. The dark lurid covers with gelid eyeballs, taloned hands reaching, girls with blood-streaked faces didn’t help much. It was hard to expect anyone–parents, teachers, friends, strangers on buses–to believe that there was something more than just a cheap thrill to be had between those paperback pages. What’s more, it was mostly cheap thrills. And I loved it.

And yet.

And yet.

Growing up with a psychotic mother, abandoned by a womanizing father, exposed to almost every act of human decrepitude imaginable–rape, drug addiction, alcohol abuse, infidelity, attempted matricide, attempted fratricide, blackmail, theft–compared to all these uplifting realities of my everyday life, those cheap fictional thrills were somehow…comforting.

Horror fiction was comforting.

A couple of years after my addiction to horror fiction–and King–began, I read an interview with Stephen King about his early years, I was struck by a pencil-sized bolt of jagged lightning. He talked about his money troubles, the struggle to put food on the table, the two jobs apiece he and wife Tabitha had to take to make ends meet (barely), debtors banging at the doors, the baby eating wallpaper, and revealed that it had been a “reliefâ€? to actually sit down and write about vampires and werewolves and rotting corpses in bathtubs. At that moment–I must have been around 15–I experienced a moment of epiphany, the kind you read about in biographies of Joan D’Arc and Saint Teresa. I got it.

Horror was entertainment, sure. But so were movies, streetfights, domestic violence, drunken couples bawling at each other from balconies (as you can see, I grew up in a posh part of town). What made horror different was that it admitted that monsters do exist in the real world. And that while they can get you most times, every once in a while, just occasionally, you could maybe beat the rap and get away clean. Well, almost clean.

I had monsters in my life. They were all around me. Growing up in a chronically dysfunctional family in Bombay, India, in the Seventies and Eighties, I felt a lot like the little kid in The Shining (the miniseries, not the Kubrick version, please)–able to see what was really going on yet powerless to do anything to save myself. I was stranded here in this metropolis of terrors, this island of ghouls. And sooner or later, they would get me in the worst way possible–they would make me one of them.

I don’t know what your reason was for first reading and liking King. I assume you have one, or you wouldn’t be here. (If you’re a first-timer and still haven’t popped your cherry, well, wow! Grab a chair and sit down. Boy, do you have a great time ahead! We vets would give our right arms to be in your pants. The only thing better than being a King fan–always “No. 1 fanâ€? mind you–is to be a first-timer coming to King’s work with no clue to what lies in store. You are a very lucky reader.)

My reason was intensely personal. I identified. Not with the normal people in his books–are there any? oh hell, yeah, they’re mostly normal, sorta–but with the ones besieged by vampires, moated by ghouls, beset by rabid dogs or inefficiently resurrected familiar corpses. With the protagonists of his novels and stories. Because if there’s one clear theme running through all of King’s ouevre, it’s that of the ordinary john or jane (scheduled to quickly become John and Jane Doe) trapped by monsters.

It’s about making a stand, usually with someone you care about enough to risk your life. About fighting your way through the terrible night that seems to last forever, and making it to daybreak. Or sometimes, not making it, but dying content, knowing you fought the good fight and died saving that beloved someone.

Reading King got me through the worst patches of my childhood and youth. The day my mother came home bleeding, dazed and babbling after a drug party gone very, very bad (don’t ask), the first image that sprang to my mind was Rachel Creed in Pet Sematary returned from the dead, dripping leaves and fungal mold onto the polished kitchen floor.

When I was called home from my job at an advertising agency to find my mother and grandmother grappling with a blood-smeared butcher’s knife in a roomful of broken glass and cutlery (splattered with blood from their bleeding bare feet), what sprang to mind was the scene in Needful Things when Nettie Cobb and Wilma Jerzyck are cutting each other’s intestines out.

The morning I sat in a freezing suburban morgue surrounded by several dozen dead people and struggled to dress my mother’s jaundice-yellowed body for her funeral (the municipal morgue attendants, whose job it was , wanted a bribe, which I couldn’t afford), what kept me going was the memory of 12-year old Jack Sawyer in The Talisman journeying across two separate Americas to save his mother’s life.

This wasn’t because I had some kind of a morbid personal fascination for gore and misery. In fact, it was the exact opposite. I related (and still relate) to King’s work so intimately not because he writes about terrible happenings, or because so many good people in his stories suffer these events, but because mostly–at great cost and after enduring much pain, it’s true–some of those good people did surmount and survive those awful happenings.

The sense that I could, someday, somehow, someway, outlive the real-life horrors of my childhood just as the protagonists of King’s stories sometimes outlived his gut-wrenching supernatural terrors.

This is the greatness of King’s genius.

Not that he scares us to death–or into paying him the hundreds of millions his craft earns him–but that he shows us that wavering light at the end of the dark corridor.

That he connects with us in a deeply emotional, almost spiritual way, way that few writers of popular fiction ever do.

That on every page, every paragraph, every scene, every story by King (with only a couple of notable exceptions) there is a deep faith in the inherent goodness of the human condition. A sense of a purpose, a plan, a pattern, to all the madness and badness of our lives. A sense that if we can just live through this, we will be the better for it.

Unlike many, many fans, I don’t have the same fascination with Stephen King the man.. That is to say, I don’t idolize him, or even (as his other “No. 1 fan� did in Misery) idealize him. He’s just a guy, a writer. But I believe that some of us are blessed by forces and powers beyond our imagining, touched by that giant magic wand, given the power to reach out and touch others in a way that makes them see, if only for a moment, what lies beneath the deceptively normal veneer of our civil lives. To glimpse the beast within.

And that is important. Because to forget or deny this beast is to forget a major part of what we truly are; like venturing into the African veld unarmed and in bermudas, whistling. We can only become better human beings if we acknowledge our basest impulses and learn to deal with them.

Stephen King, no therapist, M.D. or New Age spiritual guru, helped me achieve that much just through the power of his words and imagination.

That’s why I’m writing this book. That’s why I still get so much pleasure from reading his work. That’s why I was so happy to learn that he not only survived that crazy van accident, but came back writing better than ever (you can skip straight to the reviews at the end of the book if you don’t believe me) and seems set to produce his best work ever–again beating the odds for popular novelists by a mile and a miracle.

That’s my reason for being a King addict.

What’s your excuse?

II. When It All Comes Together

You don’t really need a reason to read Stephen King. But if you’re one of those who came late to his work–or has been away so long, you think maybe you might have outgrown him along the way, or have been disappointed by some of his later work and are on the verge of subscribing to the popular theory that any author who sells so many gazillion copies can’t be any good, well, then I’ve great news for you.

This is the perfect time to read (or start reading, or resume reading) Stephen King. Here’s why:

With Black House, King (and co-author Peter Straub) touched a career peak. This collaborative sequel to The Talisman not only exceeded expectations–if it’s possible to exceed expectations in the hype-driven sphere of bestselling fiction–but it also marked a new high in his career.

This brilliantly constructed novel pulled in elements and ideas from virtually all his previous novels–notably the ongoing Dark Tower series, and his Derry novels–and linked them together in much the same way that science fiction novelists do with personally created ‘universes’ (Larry Niven’s ‘Known Space’ series, Asimov’s franchised ‘Foundation’ saga) and fantasy novelists do with ‘shared worlds’ (Lovecraft’s Cthulhu Mythos, George R R Martin’s Thieves’ World, TSR’s Forgotten Realms). Black House wasn’t the first time King had attempted to create a kind of unified field theory–all his novels have subtle links which show up on repeated readings, or even, as in the case of the Castle Rock and Derry novels, obvious in-your-face connections.

But with Black House it all seemed to fit together. It was as if you’d been working on this enormous infinite-pieced jigsaw puzzle for a quarter of a century and you were finally shown a glimpse of the picture you were putting together. Just a glimpse, mind you, because Black House raises as many new questions as it answers old ones, but a startling vivid glimpse that stays in the mind.

Now, we longtime King companions can go on with our piecing together, knowing that there is a Plan.

Everything fits together. We don’t know the whole plan, but we know it exists. Sometimes, that’s enough.

King’s writing has improved vastly. Black House is a quantum leap forward in prose style from Carrie. While most popular writers tend to fall into a repititive self-mocking mode at this stage of their careers, King has grown so visibly, you feel he’s almost writing for a different readership now.

Not that I believe King ever wrote with a readership in mind, but his early novels seemed to be targetted straight for the schlock-horror section of the turnstiles in the Greyhound Bus Terminus, while his recent and (judging from excerpts and previews) forthcoming work is measurably superior in style and composition.

More than this, that unique voice, that warm, rambling, friendly, “I write like fat people diet� Bangor, Maine, New England Yankee twang has actually matured. It’s no longer the holy-cow-did-you-see-that approach gross-‘em-out that made his early genre chillers so simple yet enjoyable. There’s now a mature mind behind the thrill machine and you can hear it speak to you more decisively, more wisely, about the horrible goings on we’re forced to witness.

This is not to say that the early novels were mindlessly written, but that they were mindless entertainment. The new work is still great entertainment, but it’s a lot more besides. It’s like watching a great sportsman slow down, age, retire and turn into an even greater sports commentator.

If this makes him sound like The Old Fart of the horror genre, well, maybe he is that too. It’s sure as hell a lot better than some of the new fresh blood that keeps swinging into town, struts around for a while, then vanishes without leaving even a scene of gunsmoke behind. King continues to work in the horror genre which he not only helped create in the mid-Seventies, but to lend it a mass popularity and appeal which the genre sadly lacked after the Nineties.

King is not horror fiction; he’s just King, the way Elvis was his own brand of rock and roll, or Picasso was modern art. He writes a kind of story that is beyond horror; that is so much more than the tropes of the genre that it’s literature–to use a dirty word–and just plain great storytelling, to use a more homely term.

Sure, he did his vampire novel, his werewolf novel, his haunted house novel. Hell, he shook the whole bag out into our laps.

And when it was empty, he just put his hand in and kept yanking out new surprises, like a magician with a top hat. He didn’t take a sabbatical, retire, become a playboy and hang out in a string bikini on a yacht on the Riviera, turn to religion, politics or business. He just kept writing stories.

(Although, as his memoir and writing manual On Writing shows us, there was a price to be paid for ‘just’ writing.)

And when he ran out of good ideas, he gave us what he had, and did his darndest to make it entertaining. When he was tired of the old stuff, he tried out new stuff.

Sometimes, he didn’t pull it off. Mostly he did though. And even his failures were far far better than the successes of lesser writers.

He even beat that bane of all writers–show business. The film and TV adaptations of his work got better and better, until, from Misery and The Shawshank Redemption onwards, they actually got that most unattainable of halos: mainstream acceptance. Today, King’s work in the miniseries format brought us nothing less than a terrific horror novel for the small screen, Storm Of The Century. Rose Red and Kingdom Hospital further establish his ability to work his magic through the medium of images on a screen rather than words on paper, and they’re just the beginning of many multimedia projects in the pipeline.

With his phenomenal output straddling every possible medium, King is beyond authorship. He’s an industry. But a one-man unfranchised industry. Everything he produces comes essentially from the imagination of one man, hewing to an inner vision that is as original, exciting, and enthralling as any two-dozen writers. Is he doing this for money? Sure, who doesn’t.

Is he doing this just for money (a vital difference)?

I think not.

If the money was the only goal, it would be so much easier to sharecrop his series the way Tom Clancy has done. His grandkids would rake in the royalties till their hair turns grey.

The fact that he continues to produce so much so fast is his greatest strength. There’s no time for BS when you’re producing at that pace. Hell, there’s barely time to spend the hundreds of millions you’re earning!

How many billionaire entertainers continue to work so hard and produce so much good work? Oprah’s one, but she plays off the electricity from live audiences, while King still has to sit in a room alone and type words.

But none of this need convince you to start reading, keep reading, or re-read King’s work.

Just pick up any of his books, turn to the first page, and start reading. You won’t need any other reason.

Jul 23, 2005 | Uncategorized | Leave A Comment »

DarthMix: The Music Album Created and Mixed by Mr. Vader Himself

Hi there.

This is your not-so-friendly neighbourhood (neighbouring galaxy, that is) Imperial Commander, Darth Da Rockin’ Vader here.

I needed a change of pace on the music front.

Something that would shake things up, be unpredictable, yet be pacy, throbbing, circulation-enhancing.

(…As you might guess, I’m writing a major battle sequence!)

So here’s what I came up with: The DarthMix.

I call it that because the cornerstone, or fountainhead, or key theme is Star Wars Technofied.

Technically speaking, only two of the tracks are Star Wars.

But the underlying theme overall is ‘dark epic’.

(A phrase, by the way, which was used by the group Evanescence to describe their music, although you won’t find any of their tracks on this collection.)

I think it creates what I call the “OST Effect”.

By which I mean a CD compilation arranged in a manner that, when you listen to it, creates the feeling that it’s the soundtrack for an imaginary film.

If the OST Effect is, well, effective, then you actually can imagine what that film might be like.

And if the tracks are cleverly enough arranged, then you can even get a sense of the dramatic arc of the film.

In this case, the imaginary film is an epic war fantasy.

It’s also a tragic love story…with a happy ending.

Okay, so maybe the film is predictable, sort of.

But the soundtrack isn’t.

Record the tracks for yourself in the sequence given and listen to it, and then judge for yourself.

If nothing else, I think you’ll have a cool new compilation.

Totally FOC.

Now, I downloaded the tracks off a sharing network – Limewire, actually – so the titles and artiste details may not be cent per cent accurate.

It’s common for Limewire and other sharing network files to get renamed, often incorrectly.

But these titles should be sufficient to help you do a search for, and find, the tracks in question.

I can’t say happy listening, because the tracks are somewhat dark, offbeat, and even ominous.

“Dark Epic”, remember?

But almost every one of them – except for a couple of brief instrumentals which I used as transitions and to help create the OST Effect – have a very strong backbeat.

It’s a mix of Trance, Techno, Rave, Industrial, and Acid remixes.

So it’s probably more accurate for me to say, ‘snappy’ listening.

Ready?

Snap down your helmet visor. Engage your breathing apparatus. And you’re ready to rock!

THE DARTHMIX: A DARK EPIC SOUNDTRACK
Compiled and Arranged by Darth Ashokus Bankerius, the XXVIth

War (Intro Cue) from World Of Warcraft, Jason Hayes
Ya Habibi Yalla, Gypsy Kings
Final Fantasy 7 Techno Remix, Faye Wong
One Night in Bangkok, Trance/Techno Mix
Final Fantasy 7 Prelude
Darth Vader Technomix
Song of Prayer, Shiva
Star Wars Imperial March Club Mix
Dark Escape, Midival Punditz
Bittersweet Symphony, Techno, Moby
She Moves in Mysterious Ways, KMFDM
9 PM (Till I Come), ATB
4 O’Clock in the Morning, Lazard
Will I Ever, Alice Deejay
Lord of the Dance (instrumental), Gypsy Kings
I Was Made For Loving You Extended Version, Kiss

Jul 22, 2005 | Uncategorized | Leave A Comment »

The Population Problem: A short story

(This one was written about ten years ago, possibly before that.

But it shares the same spirit.)

The Population Problem
by Ashok Banker

1

They sounded like cheap firecrackers going off, but Diwali was months away, and then, after a moment’s pause, there was the sound of glass shattering which had nothing to do with a religous celebration.

The fat man walking beside Sheila stopped and looked around. “What was that?”

Sheila broke into a run as she heard more gunshots. Some sort of automatic weapon. Definitely in Pimenta’s office, because his was the last one at the far end of the corridor, and that was where the shots were coming from. As she ran, doors opened all along the way, people looking out cautiously, some jerking back as she went by. “Call the police,” she called out.

She reached the end of the corridor as the door to Pimenta’s office opened. A man with a very short haircut came out, grinning. He had a revolver held loosely in his left hand. Another man came out after him, calling out to someone else inside the office.

Sheila stopped running.

The third man emerged from Pimenta’s office. He was carrying a khukhri. There was blood on the khukhri. He was holding the khukhri up like a sword, brandishing it. He saw Sheila, saw the heads looking out of the doors all along the corridor, and waved the bloody khukhri as he shouted in pidgin Bombay English: “LONG LIVE BHAI THAKUR! DEATH TO BHAI THAKUR ENEMIES!”

Doors slammed shut all down the corridor.

Sheila waited as the man, followed by the two gunmen, strode down the corridor toward her. The first man looked at her breasts and muttered something in Hindi to his companions. They laughed harshly. The khukhri man met her eyes as he approached: his eyes were blank, black, fish cold. Sheila met his eyes with a rage of her own, but he didn’t notice. To him, she was just a pair of tits.

She recognized the second man. And the third.

She expected to be recognized too. But as they swept past her, she realized that she had been a child when she had last seen them. They would hardly connect her with that girl in the blood-spattered nightgown 13 years ago.

She ran to the door of the office. Held onto the doorjambs and stared.

Pimenta was on the desk. And on the walls. And on the floor. And on the bookshelf. And on the PC. The deskjet printer.

They had cut off his head and placed it on the desk. On a copy of the newspaper he edited. His eyes stared wildly at Sheila from across the room.

She heard a man scream and turned back.

It was the fat man. The one who had been in the elevator with her, waddling beside her as she came into Editorial.

He had frozen out of fear. Blocking their way.

Khukri Man was yelling at him in Marathi to get out of the way, idiot, but he was locked solid.

As Sheila saw what was about to happen, she began to run again. But Khukhri Man had raised his hand even before she took her first step.

The fat man was planted bang in the middle of the corridor. Flat-footed sandals planted apart as in the broad stance of a woman during late pregnancy. Mouth open, shoulders heaving, breath pumping in and out in a rapid, panicked rhythm. He looked like he was ready to deliver right there and then, with or without a midwife.

The khukhri swung down, striking him in the lower abdomen. Blood flew. God, so much blood. Great thick gouts like vomit from a drunk’s mouth. Splattering onto the shiny tiled floor.

The fat man emitted a groan. Grabbing hold of his belly with both hands. As Sheila began to sprint towards them, she saw him fall to his knees, moan once and then fall face forward onto the floor.

The men were at the end of the corridor now, disappearing through the doorway.

Sheila reached the fat man and leaped over him and the pool of blood in which he lay. He was past helping.

2

She reached the hallway just in time to see the elevator door shutting on their grinning faces. Ignoring the shocked suits standing around, she slammed through the door marked Stairs.

She took them two and three at a time, shoulder hitting the wall on the landings, shoving her way past astonished journalists and workers stained with printer’s ink.

On the ground floor, she leaped over the last banister. The sound of gunshots led her directly to the foyer. Two security guards were down, their outdated carbines unfired. A third was cowering in a corner, trying to punch in a phone number and fucking it up. There were people everywhere, crouching, kneeling, prostrate. Screaming, calling out, crying.

Sunlight struck her face with the impact of a body blow. Knives of light and heat pierced her sleep-deprived eyes. She shielded her face with her palm and scanned the street. D.N. Road on a Monday morning. Packed with suits and officegoers walking from Shivaji Terminus to work. After her sojourn in New York last month, Sheila couldn’t get used to the crowds here. 18 million people packed into a city the size of Long Island, and it always seemed as if they all took to the streets at once.

She barreled through a knot of goggle-eyed commuters all staring in the same direction. Slammed into a chinese food stall, knocking down a suit’s breakfast of greasy noodles. Through a group of people milling around a bus stop, she saw them.

Opening the door to a Maruti Van. White, with dark tinted windows. They didn’t seem to be in any hurry. Khukhri Man was at the door, unlocking the van. The other two still had their guns. Nobody around them seemed to be very upset. Traffic flowed past as usual.

Then she remembered. She didn’t have a gun.

She ran back to the lobby of the Times building. One of the shot security guards lay sprawled across the steps, blood dripping from step to step to the street. A small bunch of interested onlookers surrounded him, watching him bleed to death.

Sheila pushed her way through them, leaned down, snapped open his holster, and yanked out his revolver. She checked it: Loaded. Glancing around at the curious street people, she figured it would have been lifted in another minute anyway.

She ran back to the street, holding the revolver above her head. Nobody noticed or moved to let her pass. She shoved her way through the crowds with brute force.

They were in the van, the engine running. She saw Khukhri Man in the driver’s seat, talking into a cellphone.

She stopped on the pavement in front of the van, and took the classic firing crouch: Both hands gripping the revolver, legs spread, knees bent.

The gunman in the passenger seat saw her and spoke sharply to Khukhri Man. The gunman in the back seat leaned forward to get a better look at her. He was leering.

Khukhri Man said something to the other two. Then finished his cellphone call and snapped the flap shut. The khukhri was on the dashboard, she saw.

One of the gunmen raised his gun. A Chinese Type 56, what the press mistakenly called an AK-56. He gripped the tip of the barrel with one fist and made a masturbatory gesture, grinning at her.

“Aaja jaaneman, aaja,” she heard him call out above the sounds of traffic.

Khukhri Man put the van into gear. He was parked between an Enfield Bullet and a Willys Jeep and had to maneuver a little to get out onto the street.

Sheila didn’t want to fire at them on the open street. There were too many people around. Fucking population of this country.

She saw where Khukhri Man had to go once he reversed his way out of the parking space. And ran to intercept him.

The one-way street led off the main D.N. Road toward Metro, past the Metropolitan Magistrate’s Court. She stepped out into the middle of the two-lane street, aiming the revolver again.

The gunman in the front seat stuck the Type 56 out of the passenger side window as the van came around. But he was on the far side and moving slowly. Khukhri Man swung the van around fast, and hit the pedal, heading straight at her.

She fired once and saw a hole punch through the windshield, spider-cracks shooting out.

Type 56 jerked back, hit in the face, blood gouting out of the wound in his cheek. The gun fell out onto the street and the rear wheel went over it, twisting the barrel.

But the second shot had missed: Khukhri Man ducked his head at just the right instant and the shot went through the back of his bucket seat and on through the rear windshield. She hoped it didn’t hit anyone on D.N. Road. So many people.

The van roared at her like a mad white bull, blinded and in pain. Like a torero, she stepped aside and the vehicle growled past, the left door-handle tapping her hip sharply as it went past. She fired at it, shooting one-handed, and didn’t see where it went.

The van shot down the street and for a moment she thought that was it, they were gone. But instead of taking the turn down the curving lane, it went on straight, and crashed into the silvery pole of a streetlight with a biscuit-crunching sound. Smoke puffed from the exhaust pipe and the engine turned over, accelerating furiously, then roaring impotently.

She kept low as she approached the rear. The van’s low axle had gone up on the pavement. Stuck on a pile of iron girders left over from some recent roadwork. The wheels ground a mound of gravel, showers of pebbles and dust flying behind. The beast pawing the ground angrily.

The engine turned over one last time and stalled.

She had seen six cartridges in the revolver when she had checked it. So far she had fired three shots.

The rear door slid open and the second gunman fell out, vomitting as he emerged. He had cut open his forehead when the van crashed, and blood streamed down his face and neck.

Sheila shot him once in the chest as he released two rounds of his Uzi. They went wide and slammed into the side of a brownstone, gouging out chunks.

He spun around, like a jazz ballet dancer pirouetting in a desi version of a Broadway musical. Banged into the side of the van, bounced off, and fell onto the girders, striking his head hard as he fell. He didn’t move.

Four shots.

She crouched low as she went around the van, on the passenger side. She could see the first gunman slumped in his seat. He was screaming, clutching at the gaping hole in his face.

She took careful aim and squeezed off a shot. His head jerked forward, hitting the cracked windshield. The screaming stopped.

One shot to go.

Sheila heard an explosion and felt a blast of searing heat slap the left side of her body. She fell to the ground, her elbows crunching into gravel. A volley of Type 56 fire followed. Khukhri Man had graduated to semi-automatic fire.

She felt her ribs. The shot had just grazed her chest, but the scratch burned like a hot poker pressed against her side.

There was a gap in the girders, just enough for a person to squeeze through. She crawled under the van, forcing herself into the gap. Oil dripped on her head. She heard gutteral Marathi abuses from somewhere above her. When she was directly below the driver’s seat, she raised the revolver and fired one shot, careful not to hit the fuel pipe.

She waited. Nothing happened. The cursing had stopped.

She crawled out on the driver’s side, experiencing one very bad moment when she was prone and visible. Then she was on her feet, springing around to face the driver’s side window.

He was inside, struggling to get a grip on his khukhri. The Type 56 was beside him, so she assumed the magazine was depleted. Then she saw his other hand. There was too much blood to be sure, but it looked like his thumb and two fingers had been shot off. That was why he had abandoned the gun: it took two hands to hold a Type 56 steady. He was lucky. There was a hole the size of a rupee coin in the middle of his seat, between his thighs.

He grimaced as she raised the gun to his head. He brought up the khukhri very fast, hacking at her neck. She dodged it and chopped his wrist, feeling it snap. The khukhri thunked into the gravel and lay imbedded.

He swore at her, holding his other, blood-smeared hand to his chest. Teeth bared as he bit back the pain.

“Who are you, bitch?” he asked in Marathi.

“Sheila,” she replied. “Sheila Ray.”

He frowned. Then his eyes widened in recognition. He looked closer and she knew he was examining her features to compare them to his memory of her father. Everybody compared her to her father. She was used to it.

“Yes,” she said. “Ashok Ray’s daughter.”

He nodded, acknowledging her, impressed. He had heard the stories, she could see. Then his face wrinkled in a scowl of confusion.

“Why?” he asked in Marathi. She knew what he meant. Why would you, a contract killer like me, attack us?

“Well,” she said, crouching briefly to retrieve the khukhri. “Actually, the fat man was a good enough reason. You didn’t have to do him, you know. He was just an innocent bystander. So this is for him.”

She shot him in the groin. That made six.

She threw the revolver aside and watched him thrash in agony.

“And then there’s the fact that I was hired to do the same job. Hit Pimenta. Of course, I would have done it much more gracefully, using these blades.”

She lifted her shirt, showing him a glimpse of the blades in their pouches in her specially made belt. “But obviously, Bhai Thakur thought that the more goons he hired, the better his chances of getting the job done. Or maybe it’s just this fucking country. Too many fucking people, too few jobs. Even in this fucking field, can you believe this shit?! In India, even the underworld has a population problem!”

She shook her head, disgusted. “But the thing is, brother, when I’m hired to do a hit, I do a hit. So you did Pimenta. And I have to do you.”

And then she used the khukhri on him. Cutting off his screams. It was important to send a message back to Bhai Thakur.

When you hired Sheila Ray, you didn’t hire anyone else. Even if there was an unemployment problem in this over-populated city.

3

As she walked away from the van, the whinging sirens of police vehicles drew closer. She didn’t bother to run or hide. She simply crossed the street, crossed D.N.Road, and went up the side entrance into C.S. Terminus.

In seconds, she was lost in the mass of people going in and coming out of the station.

Jul 19, 2005 | Uncategorized | Leave A Comment »

Wassup: Notes on recent films, music, reading…

Saw Fantastic Four on the weekend, at Fame Adlabs.

I don’t know if this is just my imagination, but the projection at Fun Republic just isn’t up to the mark anymore. Maybe it wasn’t, from the very beginning, but it certainly seems worse now.

I’ve noticed dirt in the projector gate, fibres, out of focus reels, and various other little inconsistencies.

Either they’re short of good projectionists and are forced to shuttle operators from screen to screen, or their people are just not good enough.

It’s a pity, because I actually like Fun Republic a lot.

I still hope they’ll improve, quickly.

Meanwhile, my family prefers to go to Fame Adlabs, or even Fame Malad, if we’re in the suburbs.

Or, of course, Inox rocks in town. And Sterling and Regal, those old warhorses, are still rocking too.

Anyway, back to the movie.

It’s a pretty good adaptation of the comic book.

As comic book movies go, it’s an ‘origin’ story, which means it’s more interesting for those who don’t know much about the comic book characters and their mythology.

For stalwarts like myself, who have been reading comics and graphic novels since around the time our moms were trying to get us weaned off cerelac and onto solid food, well, it’s still pretty good.

The casting is really spot-on, which makes a difference.

The effects are as good as you’d expect.

What it doesn’t deliver is a bangup climax. In fact, there’s almost no climax as such, just a kind of coming to terms, pulling together, and taking a stand.

But, as in the case of X-Men, I’m betting they’ll have a more action-packed plot-oriented picture the next time around, and slightly less emphasis on character banter and interaction.

(On the other hand, Spiderman managed to get it all just right the very first time out of the gate, just as Batman Begins seemed to get it all wrong, so you never can tell.)

Still, FF is a tp film worth catching, whether you’re a comic book fan or not.

Me? I went back and read through my Gotham Comics pile, and was hungry for more already.

I even went back and re-read my special edition of Batman: The Dark Knight Returns by Frank Miller, quite possibly the single greatest superhero graphic novel ever published.

(Don’t take my word for it: Read it. It really is a great book, and not just a great comic book.)

On the subject of comic books still, I read about the upcoming film version of Alan Moore’s classic graphic novel, V For Vendetta.

What can I tell you? V is another great, great graphic novel.

Again, I’m not exaggerating. Many readers like Moore’s Watchmen more (and that’s also being adapted to film) or his League of Extraordinary Gentlemen (already adapted, with apna own Naseerbhai providing the exotic exxxxtra ingredient).

But for me, V is V, V, V, Good!

(Sounds like an ex-President of India, V. V. Giri!)

On DVD, I finally got Mean Creek, a movie I’ve been wanting to see for a while.

It’s what I call an ‘alt-rock’ movie.

As in, it’s offbeat, but not Hollywood offbeat.

It’s a teenage movie, in the sense that all the main characters are teenagers.

But it’s a very serious film, with a very serious subject and script, and while it doesn’t deliver anything fantastic, it’s still a worthwhile film to watch.

Sort of like Garden State or Orange County, or films like that, movies about American teenagers who live such boring lives, they have to go out and complicate things a bit. Or a lot.

The music by tomandandy (that’s how they spell it in the credits) is very nice, a sort of incomplete symphony, half-notes, and half-chords, like listening to an orchestra practise and warm up before the actual performance.

it goes very well with the film, perfectly matching the movie’s tone of ‘we’re just trying to show it like it is, not making any comments or giving you a moral-of-the-story’.

Like the movie, it’s pleasant, soothing, like drifting down a river on a sunny afternoon, your hand trailing in the cool water, birds winging overhead.

But not exceptional.

On the music front, I’ve been listening to all kinds of stuff.

Techno – have you heard the techno versions of Star Wars? Trust me, they’re pretty cool. Imagine a techno version of all the famous set-pieces from all the Star Wars films? That’s right, da-da-du-dah boom-boom-badda-boom!

Darth Vader must be rocking in his grave – the Force is with us!

I’ve also been compelled to listen to some Hindi film music, courtesy of my family, who has some pretty abysmal taste at times – as, I’m sure, they feel the same about me at times! – and has been listening to things like “Dus bahaane” and stuff like that.

Reading? I mentioned Batman: The Dark Knight Returns, and lots of Gotham Comics, right?

I also read The Fixer by Joe Sacco. Which, if you’ve read his earlier graphic (non-fiction) novels, Safe Area Gorazade and Palestine, is another realistic B&W portrayal of people in a war-torn area, Sarajevo, Bosnia, in this case, during the past ten years.

It’s a terrific piece of journalism cartooning, and a great piece of literature.

Like the Persepolis series by Marianne Satrapi which I’ve been reading ever since the first English translation rolled off the presses in France (where the first book was first published, since Satrapi writes in French), and which my 12-year old daughter has been reading with great pleasure too – making it her first foray into the alternate-reality of graphic literature.

For serious reading, I’ve been delving deeply into too many Mahabharata sources to list here. But time and time again, I can’t help marvelling at the greatness of Kisari Mohan Ganguli’s supremely brilliant translation of the great epic.

Truly, no other translation or edition in the world has come close to touching Ganguli’s brilliance.

(I’ll be happy if I come even within a mile’s reach!)

For fun, I’ve been reading a novel titled Utopia by Lincoln Child.

Child is one half of the writing team of Lincon Child and Douglas Preston, who team up together to write some of the best adventure-techno thrillers I’ve ever read.

I’ve been reading their books for years and enjoying them.

If you haven’t discovered them, trust me, try them out today.

Check out these ones in particular, the best of their bunch:

Relic.
Reliquary (sequel).
Riptide.
Mount Dragon.
Thunderhead.
and
The Ice Limit.

Their more recent novels are part of an ongoing series featuring the same protagonist, FBI Agent Pendergast.

Personally, while I enjoyed reading about Agent Pendergast’s eccentric but brilliant investigative techniques in Relic and Reliquary, both excellent adventure-mystery-thrillers, I don’t care very much for his solo outings.

Which was why I thought of trying out one of the team’s solo novels.

And I haven’t been disappointed yet.

I’m halfway through Utopia by Lincold Child.

And it’s terrific entertainment. Especially if you like your thrillers spiced with lots of tech stuff, knowhow about coding, programming, robotics, neural networking and the like.

I can’t claim to be an expert at any of those things.

But I get a big thrill reading about them, and reading about people who work in those fields.

Speaking of which, if you’ve got anything to do with coding, programming, gaming, or hell, anything to do with the IT biz at all, you must read Masters of Doom.

It’s about the guys at ID Software, the company best known for creating Doom and its sequels.

And it’s one of the best non-fiction books I’ve read in the past year or so.

There were a few more books, movies, music…

But that’s all I’ve got time to chat about now, people.

Why don’t you tell me what you’re reading, listening to, or eyeballing?

Just post them as comments after this post. I’m always looking for good recommendations.

And my tastes are as wide as my waistline used to be (but happily isn’t anymore, thanks to my disciplined diet and exercise regime, and my excellent trainer!).

Jul 18, 2005 | Uncategorized | Leave A Comment »

“For 500 years, others spoke for us”: Native American author Craig Womack in conversation with Ashok Banker

This interview appeared earlier on Rediff.com.

As well as many other very interesting, and important, questions.

“For 500 years, other spoke for us.”
Craig Womack in conversation with Ashok Banker

For centuries the only literary record of American Indian lives and people came to us through the works of non-Indian authors. The savage raiders of James Fenimore Cooper’s romances, Injun Joe in Mark Twain’s Tom Sawyer, Queequeg in Herman Melville’s Moby Dick, the renegades of countless Western pulps.

Until as recently as 1968, only nine novels by American Indian authors had been published. Then in 1969, Kiowa author N. Scott Momaday won the Pulitzer Prize for his novel House Made of Dawn and won acclaim and readership from non-Indian authors. The Seventies saw a flood of Indian publications that has only swelled over time.

But even as native American literature grew from strength to strength, its worth continued to be judged by Western non-Indian standards. How can you fit a square peg into a round hole? How can you unlock a door with a pencil instead of a key?

Similarly, it’s unfair to read Native literature by applying conventional postmodern literary criticism.

This was the important and illuminating argument raised by Red on Red: Native American Literary Separatism, published in November 1999. The author, Craig S. Womack, is Assistant Professor of Native American studies at the University of Lethbridge in Alberta. He is Muskogee Creek and Cherokee.

Recently, while on a visit to Bombay to deliver a seminar, Craig Womack spoke to Ashok Banker.

How would you describe the situation of Native American literature today?
For 500 years, other people spoke on our behalf. Now, we’re finally speaking for ourselves. All these centuries, we’ve lived in a kind of historical limbo. That’s changing now.

How did these changes come about?
Access to education has made a difference. I’m the first from my family in this generation to go to college and university. There are a lot of our people in boarding schools today, turning into American citizens – mainstreaming themselves. Over the ’60′s and ’70′s a lot of Native Americans began to stand up for their rights. Protested for Fishing, Hunting, Land rights. (Grins) They stopped being so well behaved as they were before. Now, Red Power and Red Pride are two key phrases you hear everywhere. And it’s a reality, not just a catchphrase. A completely different mindset, believing that American Indian culture exists in its own right.

How did this affect American Indian literature?
Activism led to authoring. It gave our people confidence that we could stop being the subjects of non-Indian stories, and become authors of our own stories.

What led you to write Red on Red?
I grew up reading Native authors and reading how other critics read them. I found that publishers, editors, book reviewers, critics, all these people publishing and commenting on Native literature were from outside our community. And they were applying their principles of literature to these Native works. But really there is no one right way to read the literature of a community. Any way is as legitimate as another. But if you try to see it as a local, grassroot-level dialogue between the text and the community in which it’s set, you get so much more out of it. By reading with a sensitivity to local Native issues, relevant to our own people, you get so much more from the text.

That’s interesting because in a sense we face a somewhat similar situation in India, where Western criticism and publishers seem to influence our own assessement of our literature and authors. Do you see any similarity in American Indian and Indian-Indian literature?
I haven’t read a lot of Indian authors but I think it’s basically a problem of White Text. Both Native Americans and your people face a lot of basic survival problems. That makes it hard to develop a body of literature. You need a group of intellectuals who are involved in every aspect, who understand how the community is presenting its language, art, intellectual ideas. Instead of relying on White Text to judge you.

How much of a difference has the American media played in popularizing American Indian literature and bringing it to the attention of the mainstream readership?
It’s had a very positive response in certain ways. Authors like Louise Erdrich, for instance, have crossed over into the mainstream readership, winning major awards, featuring on bestseller lists. But the attention is very limited. You see a few authors get a lot of attention – which they certainly deserve. One unusual example was Silko’s Almanac of the Dead, a great great novel with the very bold premise that Native Americans get America back!

So the majority of Native authors still don’t come to the attention of the general book reader? Or is it that general readers aren’t interested in ethnic literature? After all, Americans are famous for not wanting to look beyond their own backyard!
The influence is more in other areas. For instance, there’s now a much more holistic attitude to the environment. Whether it’s pollution or saving the planet or protecting endangered species, certain walls like this have come down. People are not just talking about these issues now, they’re actively involved in them. The media is responsible for making non-Native Americans aware of these issues, which we have always taken for granted.

You’re part Creek and part Cherokee, but a very educated intellectual. How active would a Native American like you be in your community rituals and events?
Traditional culture is very strong and active today. The Creek community have 15 active ceremonial grounds where a lot of young people regularly participate in community gatherings. Great singers, dancers come together to take part, and that’s lovely to see, that’s how we remain close to the earth, rooted, always knowing who we are. There’s also a lot of support for young people to get education, learn skills – both modern and traditional ones. All our Indian skills are still active, but it’s not just that old clichÈ of the Indian with a blanket. Before it was Either/Or. Now, there’s no conflict between the two cultures, Western and Indian, we move in both worlds.

There’s a lot of humour in Red on Red, and this also seems to flow through a great deal of Native writing. Would you say this is an integral part of the Native personality and literature?
Oh, yes. It comes from our culture. Very deep, fundamental part of our culture. Among us, whenever Indians meet, we always laugh a lot. We tell stories and it’s always a lot of humour. That’s something that’s impossible to capture on the page, because it’s such an oral tradition. We have a saying among my people: ‘If it wasn’t funny, it wouldn’t be Creek’.

That’s another unexplored side of the Native personality that ‘white’ literature never brought out. They only wrote about the violent, rebellious aspects. Probably it was easier to simplify than observe realistically?
Well, if you look at Native texts honestly, you’ll find a lot of them are very funny. But here’s a certain sense of guilt among White people that makes them want to focus on a tragic vision of our people and our past. When Thomas King’s novel Green Grass, Running Water was published, there was a glowing full page review in Time magazine which said something to the effect that ‘unlike other Native American novels, this one has humour’. But almost all Native stories have always had humour! This goes back to our tradition of telling stories orally. Creation stories, for instance, which are the essence of our narrative tradition, have so much humour in so many difference forms. That’s why earlier Native writers kept trying to find ways to express this oral tradition in print, through the use of dialect, personal letters, Creek English, the politics of our community. I’ve talked about this in Red on Red.

To a reader who hasn’t really discovered Native writing, what are the books you’d recommend as starters?
Some really important ones are God is Red by Vine Daloria, it’s about comparitive religion, and compares Christian with Native philosophy. House Made of Dawn, of course, a superlative example of technique and modernism. Leslie Silko’s Almanac of the Dead, because it’s a very critical text that’s completely non-assimilistic. Black Eagle Child by Ray Youngbear, which is a superb example of the tribal way to tell a tribal story.

What about older narrative works? Have any of the creation tales or epics been transcribed and published?
There’s a lot recorded in books by both Native and non-Natives. But generally, the approach to oral tales has been the old-fashioned anthropological way: looking at the hero as a trickster or a monster. But in fact, some of the great stories are still waiting to be told, stories of how my people signed treaties with non-Natives without fully realizing what they were signing. The Indian point of view on so many important historic events and issues. But the non-Native critics look back at those texts and think they’re just stories about talking animals!

So there’s an entire Alternate (Native) History of the United States still waiting to be writing.
Oh yes. So much waiting to be unearthed.

What is your next book about?
I’ve just completed a novel. It’s called Drowning in Fire and it should be out by the end of 2001. There’s a collection of novellas I’m working on now, a different kind of Indian story, a piece of historical fiction. There was this Cherokee playwright who wrote a play called The Green Growth of Lilacs which was turned into the musical film Oklahoma. Her name was Lynn Rig and she went on to write screenplays for Hollywood, work with Bette Davis, so it’s a really interesting look at the Cherokee mind in a Western environment in that period. There are other stories like that of other realities.

And do you find your Native identity to be an advantage when submitting a manuscript to publishers?
It’s a mixed bag, a blessing and a curse. There’s often a lot of interest but for all the wrong reasons. Publishers expect the book to be some kind of exoticized Indian fiction, not really a realistic insight.

That sounds very similar to the attitude to Indian writers until very recently. So perhaps there are similarities between the two kinds of ‘Indian’ writers after all!
I’ve been very impressed by the depth and amount of interest in Native Literature by Indians I’ve met on this trip. It’s like a great hunger for knowledge about Native writing. I hope it continues.

Jul 15, 2005 | Uncategorized | Leave A Comment »

Now, go make your own Godfather: Ram Gopal Varma’s Sarkar and beyond

Saw Sarkar this weekend.

For those of you who don’t know, I’m an inveterate Ram Gopal Varma fan.

I’ve been following the man’s career for a while now, and make it a habit to watch any film by him on the first weekend of its release.

Not only because I like his work so damn much – I do – but also because he makes films that are films, not song-and-dance variety entertainment extravaganzas that can’t decide what kind of story they’re telling.

His films rarely disappoint.

Even the ones in which he (unfortunately) bowed to the inevitable pressure from distributors and slipped in a few songs, like Gayab and Naach, are worth watching if only because he makes them so unpretentiously and without hewing to the same old cliches of Bollywood.

Okay, so he often falls back on his own brand of cliches – like the coterie of supporting actors who reappear so often in his films that you often feel like you’re watching a drama troupe performing its latest production: so many familiar faces, even their roles are similar.

But I still support his brand of film making over the typical Bollywood trash anyday.

As a producer, I think he’s brilliant.

He provides his directors with the scope to make films that would otherwise never get made – like Ek Hasina Thi – or get watered down into glitzy Sajid Nadiadwala-Jhamu Sughand over-productions where there’s more money spent on the sets and costumes and locations than on the talent making the film.

He also specializes in a particular style of gritty, intense, realistic film making that we’ve needed sorely.

Films like Ek Hasina Thi (yes, again, it’s one of my favourites, I admit), Bhoot, Company, D, even the lesser successes (qualitatively speaking, not box office-wise) like Vaastu Shastra, Gayab, and Naach, are all stamped with his unmistakable ‘chaap’.

It’s a ‘chaap’ of serious, intense story telling that doesn’t shy away from showing what happens next, doesn’t try to sugar coat reality, uses real locations and atmosphere rather than the studio-manufactured fakery of most Bollywood bunkus, and focusses on telling a story about real, believable, interesting people, rather than just providing a vehicle for stars to pose and pout for the entertainment of feeble minds.

I liked Sarkar.

I loved the way it was shot: tight, naturally lit close-ups with blown-out backgrounds, capturing every nuance of emotion on the person’s face, every flitter of thought, every tiny change of mood.

In a sense, it was the very opposite of the cinematographic style employed on The Godfather (Varma’s self-attested source of inspiration) where every frame was carefully composed, designed and lit like a Rembrandt painting.

Sarkar was lit by God himself, designed by God’s own foster-son, Varma, and doing justice to those extraordinarily intrusive close ups was God’s younger brother, Amitabh Bachchan in person.

And, in the second half of the film, God’s nephew, Abhishek Bachchan.

I don’t know about you, but I have had my eye on Abhishek since he began his career.

I’ve always felt that he’s the most interesting actor around, apart from Ajay Devgan, and only needed the right vehicle to launch his career.

In Sarkar, he’s so damn brilliant, without actually trying to be brilliant.

The whole film is brilliant, of course.

Brilliantly directed, scripted, produced, performed, shot, designed, recorded…you name it.

The only reason it falls short of expectations is because we’ve seen this all before.

The material itself is old wine in a new Ram Gopal Varma bottle.

The same shootouts, character actors, wily politicos, snide associates, slimy godmen, brutal assassins, ravishingly beautiful supporting actresses, the same chases, gunfights, face-offs, even the same kind of locations you’ve come to expect from Varma & Co.

Make no mistake about it, Sarkar is a fantastic film.

But the story is one that we’ve all known and read or seen a thousand times before.

It’s done brilliantly here.

In a very unique, original vision.

But it’s still SSDD.

(And to know what that means, you need to check out Stephen King’s Dreamcatcher…)

And you end up walking out of the theatre wishing that now, if only Ram Gopal Varma could find a story, a script, a plot that hasn’t been done to death by countless film makers, good, bad and ugly, before now.

That, now that he’s got his Godfather fixation out of his system, he’ll do something that’s *his* Godfather. A film so original, so dauntingly unique and innovative, that generations of film makers afterwards will hail it and refer to it the way today’s film makers refer to Coppola’s Godfather trilogy.

I know that Varma has it in him to achieve something that historic.

The only question is, will he find the script to make such a film?

And when he does, will he have the balls to do it?

I’m betting he will.

Until then, I’m more than happy to support him and his brand of non-Bollywood film making, one multiplex ticket at a time.

(Actually, four multiplex tickets at a time, because we’re all RGV fans in this family.)

Jul 12, 2005 | Uncategorized | Leave A Comment »

Strangers with Scalpels (and Keyboards): Who are the best bestselling medical thriller authors in the biz?

Another oldie-but-goldie (I hope) from my Rediff.com days. This one’s about medical thrillers. I haven’t read a new one in years, but note that Michael Palmer and F. Paul Wilson are still turning them out.

BOOK CHAAT
by Ashok Banker

Strangers with Scalpels
Beware the men and women in white, advises Ashok Banker

What is it about hospitals that frighten most of us?

Is it the awareness that death walks freely down these sterile white corridors? That there are corpses and soon-to-be-corpses in this building that never sleeps?

Or is it the knowledge that sooner or later we will surely visit here, perhaps for a day, perhaps for the rest of days. At worst, to suffer untold miseries of the flesh. At best, to have our bodies cut open and investigated like the engine block of an automobile on the mechanics hoist at the local garage.

And almost certainly, when the time comes, to die. Then to be packed in ice and trundled into a freezing steel compartment in that vast chamber deep in the bowels of the building.

All these fears pass through our minds everytime we visit a hospital. Even if we aren’t consciously aware of them, or willing to face them. They are part of the collective subconscious that hears the psychic screams of those who have suffered in these halls, the primordial sense that sniffs out the stench of death and decay that no amount of antiseptic can disguise.

Hospitals are houses of horror. There’s no denying that. If you scoff at the idea, then it’s probably because you’ve been blessed not to have endured the terrors of medical emergencies or to have watched a loved one struggle through those final moments.

But it’s not the hospitals themselves we should really fear.

It’s the doctors who work there.

Those men and women in white with the power to save our lives. To extend the fragile years we spend in our biomechanical cages of flesh and bone, through the use of drugs, instruments, machines, and their own skills.

They also have the power to reduce these same lifespans, either through human error or miscalculation or mechanical failure. A power outage. A mistake during surgery. A bad blood transfusion.

There’s no limit to the myriad ways in which the human body can be damaged or harmed by the wrong doctor or even by the right doctor at the wrong time.

And yet, we can’t live without them. At no time in human history have so many people depended so completely on the skills and appliances of these men and women in white.

Their power is as close to being absolute as can be.

While a spy-fi thriller can seem exaggerated and unlikely, and a techno-thriller can seem imaginatively unrealistic, virtually all medical thrillers are based on real possibilities, real threats, real fears.

Even a serial killer novel requires you to suspend your disbelief in the events being described, and to accept the remote likelihood that you might someday become the one-in-a-billion victim of one of those rare human predators.

But medical terror can strike anyone at anytime. It could happen to you today, right after you finish reading this column — God forbid!

That’s why medical thrillers as they’re commonly called, are such favourite fear-fests for readers. But it’s also curiously true that unlike detective stories or spy-fi pulps there just aren’t very many good medical thriller writers around.

Michael Crichton used to be one of the best. A practising MD by day in his youth, he was a prolific author of medical thrillers. so prolific in fact, that he wrote under more than one pseudonym. Now, of course, he’s moved on to dinosaur disasters, time travel epics and other techno-suspense thrillers. But even today, the doctor in him is still visible at moments. And his earliest bestsellers such as Sphere, The Terminal Man and Congo were imaginative thrillers based largely on breakthroughs in medical science.

Then there are the dozens of dime-a-dozen fictional doctor-authors who produce reams of surgical terror. Well, not dozens of authors perhaps. But dozens of titles certainly. We’ve even seen one Indian author make a contribution to the genre, although the novel doesn’t seem to have chilled many spines — maybe it scared readers away, heh, heh, heh!

Among the best of the best, there are only two names I’d recommend. Michael Palmer and F. Paul Wilson.

F. Paul Wilson rose to fame with a trilogy of novels — The Keep, The Touch, and The Tomb. All three were suspense-horror thrillers with nothing else in common. The Keep was a vampire mystery set in WWII times. The Tomb was also a chilling horror novel. While The Touch was a medical horror thriller about a man who develops the power to heal — or kill — through physical contact alone.

All three of those books are regarded as classics of horror/suspense and their original editions are collector’s items. If you get your hands on them now, consider yourself lucky and don’t let them out of your sight, even after you finish reading them.

After a considerable gap, during which he continued his own medical practise (yes, he’s a qualified and successful MD too), Wilson began writing straightforward thrillers set against the backdrop of medical science. He continues to publish these even today, at the rate of about one a year, often in collaboration with other authors.

Of these, the best by far is a novel entitled The Foundation. A tale of a medical college where a young student discovers grisly goings-on, this excellent thriller is reminiscent of the best parts of Crichton’s Coma, which you might remember by the equally effective film of the same name starring Michael Douglas and Genevieve Bujold.

Wilson’s other medical thrillers are always readable and enjoyable, but they tend to be almost too neatly put-together at times. Having read so many thrillers, I tend to see the whole plot laid out before me after reading just a chapter or two, which sort of spoils it for me. But if you haven’t read a lot of medical thrillers and don’t want too much gore and gristle, then Wilson delivers a fast-paced, fun read with believable characters, authentic science research, and interesting political plots.

But my personal Master of The Golden Scalpel award goes to Michael Palmer. He’s the finest medical thriller writer ever to work in the genre, in my opinion. And that’s no idle hype.

Palmer is also a practising physician, and his medical knowledge is as accurate and authentic as anyone else’s. Certainly far superior to my own family doctor’s knowledge! Whether he’s telling about a new drug to treat angina or a new procedure for surgically removing brain tumors, you know you’re in safe hands.

But that’s not what makes Palmer the master of medical mayhem.

It’s his characters. This is the one medical thriller author who has the ability to create believable, likeable, identifiable characters with real lives, real problems, real predicaments. Unlike say, Crichton, who gets overawed by his scientific ideas, or Wilson who focusses more on plot and pace, Palmer makes you care about his people.

And caring, as Stephen King once wrote, is the key to creating effective fiction. If you don’t care enough about the characters, you won’t care what happens to them.

With Palmer’s books, you care enough to get involved in the characters’ problems and situations. So when the plot unfolds in twists and turns, embroiling the protagonist in an imbroglio of murder and paranoia, you’re caught up with him or her and swept along for the ride.

Even in the only film made to date from his novels (although several have been optioned and might make it to the screen someday), Extreme Measures, it’s protagonist Hugh Grant’s personal problems that scare us more than the larger medical conspiracy going on. We don’t want this guy to lose his job, to have his reputation besmirched, and most of all, to die.

As another great story-teller, Alfred Hitchcock once put it. Great terror is the art of showing us a woman who goes down a dark staircase at the bottom of which is a beastial ax-murderer. If, by the time that woman goes down those stairs, we don’t care enough about her, the killer might as well chop her head off and we wouldn’t waste time yawning.

You’ll never yawn in a Michael Palmer novel. That’s a promise I can make based on my own sleepless nights.

The other thing about him is that virtually all his novels are equally good. I’ve read all of them so far except the first one, titled The Sisterhood, which I’m told is the best. I absolutely loved Side Effects, Flashback, Extreme Measures (even better than the movie), Natural Causes, Silent Treatment, Critical Judgement, Miracle Cure and his latest, The Patient.

Once you’ve got through Palmer, Wilson, Crichton and all the usual suspects, there isn’t much more to discover in this genre. There’s the occasional novel like The M.D. by Thomas Disch, which has a great two hundred pages then falls apart like a badly bound exercise book at school.

Or the Alex Delaware series by Jonathon Kellerman which deal more with psychological medical science than physiological and therefore isn’t really in the same category.

Or even the forensic pathological thrillers of Patricia Cornwell and Kathe Reichs, which are now fast becoming a genre unto themselves.

Or even the more medically oriented thrillers that Jeffrey Deaver sometimes writes, like his excellent The Bone Collector (also made into a superb film).
Or those timeless medical soap-suspense novels of Henry Denker or Jonathan Fast.

But for consistent, book-after-book, year-after-year, medical suspense, there’s only one name to really beat on the antiseptic block. That’s Michael Palmer. His scalpel slices deepest. Beware.

Jul 09, 2005 | Uncategorized | Leave A Comment »

Three avatars of Ecstasy: Sex, Religion, and…?

This is another of my old media columns, written in one of my more tongue-in-cheek moods.

I thought it would make a nice change of pace. :~)

BRAND BAAJA
Ashok Banker

Three avatars of Ecstasy

Last issue, I wrote about prophets of the media age. A day later, I learn that Deepak Chopra is writing a “steamy novel” (the article in Sunday Review says that, not I). And another day or two later, I happened to read Sudhir Kakar’s latest book Ecstasy. Which at first glance, seems to be a steamy novel (okay, this time I said it).

As it turns out, Kakar’s novel is about religion not sex. The title refers to religious ecstasy rather than the orgasmic kind.

Now, this is a nice swap. Chopra, best known for his spiritual books, decides to turn his hand to a “steamy novel” (please note the quotes, Mr Chopra’s lawyers). And Kakar, who is often quoted as an authority on the psychology of sexuality–and whose previous novel was about sexuality–decides to turn his hand to a “spiritual novel” (those are my words, Mr Kakar’s lawyers).

As if reading my mind, the jacket copy of Kakar’s novel sums up the significance of this subject-swapping dichotomy: “Sudhir Kakar, the best-selling author of The Ascetic of Desire, a novel about sex and sexuality, has written a richly layered and revelatory book about the other great theme of humankind: religion.”

Sex and religion.

Strange bedfellows, but familiar ones. The Sadhu and the Streetwalker. The Pope and the Prostitute. The Wise Man and the Whore.

Sex and religion.

The link between the two is neatly summed up right there in that single word title of Kakar’s new novel. Ecstasy. There are only two things that evoke that extreme emotion in a human being. Two states of being that are otherwise as different from each other as amrit and Scotch.

And yet, both evoke the highest state of awareness possible. The ecstasy of Realization, as Isa Upanishad calls it. And the ecstasy of sex, as everybody calls it.

Kakar’s first novel was deservedly a bestseller. Because it dealt with this arcane subject of Indian sexuality and Indian spirituality in an original and thought-provoking way. By using the life of Vatsayana as a base, Kakar explored the inner workings of Indian sexual behaviour and attitudes, using folklore, myths, misconceptions and misassumptions to weave an entertaining and insightful tale that was as much an extended essay as a work of fiction.

But with Ecstasy he falls flat on his pen. (Hope he didn’t hurt himself). Because all he does is tell us about a young boy’s visionary gift and how that gift made him one of the greatest seers of our time. The book is based on the lives of Ramkrishna Paramahansa, his successor Swami Vivekanda, as well as other similar historical personages. Yet it comes across as a strangely unmoving tale. Almost a religious tract, dramatized to promote a spiritual message.

To understand why Ecstasy fails as a book and The Ascetic of Desire succeeded so brilliantly, we’ll have to go back to Deepak Chopra. (His lawyers are waiting for me to do just that, I know, I know!). Dr Chopra understands this principle far better than I do, because I’m writing about him writing his book, while he’s actually writing the book!

What Dr Chopra understands is that sex and religion are bonded together. Not in an obvious vulgar way. But in a subtle, intricately linked, forever-together kind of way. Just as pious pujari-producer Ekta Kapoor understands that her serials must have sexy bahus and even sexier husbands. So also Dr Chopra understands that as an acknowledged expert on spirituality (I can call him that, can’t I?) people would not just read a “steamy novel” by his hand, they would approach it with interest, enthusiasm and even critical interest.

It’s the same interest we have if a famous iconoclastic actress pens a novel–which is why Neena Gupta has several contracts for novels. Or a socialite who people believe has experienced the grimiest underbelly of high society first-hand–which is why Shobha De wrote novels until her children grew old enough to read them! And the same allure that will draw us to open the covers of Dr Chopra’s “steamy novel” if only to find out if the good doctor has managed to pull of his Merlinesque magic once more.

That magic, I think, lies in the ability of arouse, provoke, evoke, not just religious, spiritual or sexual ecstasy. But holistic ecstasy. Which includes the orgasmic thrill of earning fabulous sums, of winning the jackpot on KBC, of going shopping without having to look at the pricetags, of touring the world, being featured on the cover of xyz magazine, or whatever else turns you on.

Because, here’s the rub: There is a third kind of ecstasy that both Kakar’s and Chopra’s books don’t necessarily deal with.

The Ecstasy of Wealth.

And judging by the orgasmic spending and earning going on all around, it’s likely to beat even religion and sex hands-down.

And I mean hands down, you naughty boy, you.

Jul 08, 2005 | Uncategorized | Leave A Comment »

‘Tis the tale, not he who tells it: Why the Ramayana is greater than any writer

Here’s a curiosity I found in my old files.

Whichever you prefer.

BOOK CHAAT
by Ashok Banker

Hey Ram
Our most loved epic outshines every translator or reteller, writes Ashok Banker

In the current wave of feverish hype over Indian authors, it’s often easy to forget that our tradition of literature is as old as our civilization. And that Indian authors have been lauded and read by scholars and bibliophiles across the world long before there was even a Booker Prize or a Nobel.

An age when a story was read for its own worth, not because some critic had recommended it in a review or a committee had handed out a prize sponsored by a company that made munitions or industrial chemicals.

A time when epics were truly epics, not merely 1000-page novels labelled so by an assistant editor in a publishing house. Tales about Gods and Demons, Devis and Apsaras, great acts of heroism and vile acts of villainy.

And of all the tales that were told in ancient India, not many could compare to the richness and greatness of one particular epic. A story whose resonance is most felt in our cultural bones at this special time of year, the Diwali season.

The story of course is Valmiki’s Ramayan. And there are few things I could say about it that have not been said before. So let’s not waste time with any pseudo-cultural comment. Or psychoanalytic revisionism.

Instead, let’s talk about translations.

One major problem English-reading Indians face when approaching a great Indian classic is the paucity of good translations. Either there are none available, as in the case of several dozen works that still languish in dusty museums. Or they’re ridiculously truncated, like the several ‘retellings’ of The Mahabharat.

One particular edition I found offers ‘one of the most complete’ retellings of the original work. How ‘complete’ is that? Well, it contains translations of around 800 verses out of the full 40,000 verses!

Apparently, the only genuinely complete translation of The Mahabharat is being done by a team of scholars working for over 2 decades at an American University.

Which is the second problem: Foreign translations. There’s no question that some of the greatest Indophiles have been Europeans, from the late great Sir Richard F Burton and Max Mueller to the surprisingly large numbers of Sanskrit scholars that stream out of Swedish, Dutch and German universities even now.

But there comes a time when you tire of all those footnote explanations of dharma and karma, the constant concessions to Western readers, the Anglicizations and the italicizations. And your heart yearns to read a translation written by an Indian for Indians.

Thankfully, the situation is much better with The Ramayana. Here too, it’s difficult to find a complete edition, but the good abridgements are far more complete than the Mahabharat ones. Partly because the original work itself is much shorter than the Mahabharat. Moreover, the parts left out by Ramayan translators are usually the parts that most scholars have agreed upon to excise. Or the parts that were never part of the original work but were conveniently added on over the centuries by enthusiastic regional translators.

Most of these well-meaning but egregious additions came about in the course of translating Valmiki’s great epic into various ethnic Indian languages. Since almost every one of us has grown up speaking a language other than English or Hindi, we’ve probably heard these local versions of the Ramayan, with the accreted embellishments, rather than the original Valmiki Ramayan.

Which often means that the Ramayana stories we take for granted may not even be a part of the original epic!

For instance, did you know that the story of Lakshman drawing a circle around Sita in the forest, the basis for the famous Lakshmanrekha, is apparently one of these ‘additions’? That’s why you’re unlikely to find it in any of the reputable translations of Valmiki’s original work.

So which are the best, most authentic English translations of The Ramayan? Well, there are quite a few to choose from. Any good edition you pick should be based on the Valmiki Ramayana and of these, one of the best is believed to be the Critical Edition prepared by the Oriental Institute at M.S. University, Baroda.

If you’re keen on a complete translation, the most famous are Hari Prasad Shastri’s and N Raghunathan’s version. Robert Goldman’s team of scholars have been working on their version for years and it should be out anytime.

Among abridged translations and retellings, there’s a wider variety. Earlier ones by Kamala Subramaniam, P. Lal, William Buck and C. Rajagopalachari are all immensely readable and even enjoyable.

R K Narayan’s retelling is perhaps the best written one. The master of Malgudi’s deceptively simple prose style makes his version the ideal one for young readers, or for those who want their Ramayan simple and unadorned. Narayan leaves out most of the quaint archaism of the Sanskrit text, which is replete with the animal metaphors of Valmiki’s age.

For older, more traditional readers, the C. Rajagopalachari version still remains a perennial favourite. I don’t know how many reprintings the Bhartiya Vidya Bhavan edition has been through since the original publication in 1951, but as of 1997, it was numbered at 31 reprints. Which means tens of thousands of readers, at the very least, have grown up with this version, including this columnist as a child.

But for readers who are seeking a more modern, more authentic version, here’s good news. Arshia Sattar, an Indian scholar, has written a wonderfully rendered abridgement of the Valmiki text. Published as The Ramayana Valmiki, it’s available in hardback as well as paperback, and it’s the one I keep closest at hand.

How much difference could there really be between versions? After all, the story is the same, isn’t it? So how far from the road could different drivers wander, you wonder?!

You’d be surprised.

As just one brief example, here’s how two versions open their narration. The first, taken from the 1997 reprint of the C. Rajagopalachari version, reads thus:

—————–
The story begins with the visit of the Saint Narada one morning to Vaalmeeki’s aashrama. After the usual welcome Vaalmeeki asked him: “Oh, all-knowing Narada, tell me, who among the heroes of this world is the highest in virtue and wisdom?”

Sage Narada then briefly narrated to Vaalmeeki the story of Raama.
——————

Now, here’s the same opening in Arshia Sattar’s translation:

The great sage Valmiki was a bull among men who practised austerities constantly. One day he said to the eloquent Narada, “Tell me, great one, who is the most virtuous man in the world of humans? Who is the most honourable, dutiful, gracious and resolute? Who is the most courteous, the most dedicated to the welfare of all beings, the most learned, the most patient and handsome? Who is the man with the greatest soul, the one who has conquered anger, who is intelligent and free of envy? Who is this man, whose anger frightens even the gods? I am sure you know of such a man and I am curious to hear about him from you.”

Narada, who knows the past, the present and the future, was delighted with Valmiki’s question. “There are few men with all the qualities that you have described,” he replied. “But there is one man, O sage, who has all these virtues. Listen, and I will tell you about him.”

(Then follows five full pages of Narada’s story of Raama, as against the single dismissive sentence in Rajagopalachari’s version.)
——————–

It’s not my intention to critique either translation. Each has its own following, and for very good reason. But personally, I’ve been waiting for a more modern, more comprehensive translation for years, and was thrilled to find the Arshia Sattar one.

It could certainly be much, much better. For one, it could have more physical detail and not veer into endless pages of abstract monologue, but that’s clearly a choice made by the translator. Just as Rajagopalachari chose to truncate the great sage Narada’s recounting of Rama’s life history, probably because he knew that the rest of the book would tell the same story in far greater detail anyway.

On the other hand, Sattar clearly chose to retain the original dialogue of Narada and it makes for a very fine encapsulation of the main events of the story. In fact, if you had to tell anyone what the Ramayana is about, these five pages are totally comprehensive (in a wide overview), as well as authentic.

There are always a myriad of choices made by each translator. This leads to often incongruous, even strikingly contradictory versions at times.

But whichever version you choose, one thing is undeniable. Towering above every translator’s individual idiosyncrasies and scholarly choices, there’s the greatness of the tale itself. The Ramayana’s timeless quality outshines every translator, scholar or critic. This is still a great story, no matter how it’s told or by whom.

As another great unknown writer once wrote, millennia ago: “‘Tis the tale, not he who tells it.”

Rarely is that as true as in the case of one of our greatest and most loved epics.

Jai Siya Ramkatha ki jai!

Jul 07, 2005 | Uncategorized | Leave A Comment »

The Epic India Group Returns!

Well, you asked for it.

And here it is.

The Epic India Group is back again.

It’s been a long hiatus, longer than expected.

But hopefully, it’s been worth the wait.

Those of you who are wondering, what’s this Epic India thingie, well, it’s simple.

It’s an email discussion group for anybody who enjoys discussing anything to do with India, Indian authors, mythology, culture, music, art, sculpture, history, you name it.

Of course, you’re also free to discuss my Ramayana books, and forthcoming Mahabharata books too!

But there’s really no compulsion to talk only about my work – or even to praise it.

I’ll personally moderate the group, which basically means I’ll personally approve (or reject) every application for membership.

And I’ll also try to read the posts and chip in from time to time.

Especially since I’m no longer accessible by direct email.

As you probably know by now, this will be the only way to get in touch with me too.

Although that’s by no means the main purpose of the group.

A few ground realities (okay, so they’re rules, all right):

1. No flaming, abusing, or dissing anybody or anything, whether they’re part of the group or not.

2. No racist epithets, religious bigotry, or communal propoganda of any sort.

3. No commercial promotions or marketing of any kind – that includes me and my books.

The rest we’ll figure out as we go along.

This is very much your group, not just mine.

For those of you who have some doubts, I own the Epic India website whole and sole, and I also own the Epic India Group. I have no partners, business investors or financial backers.

Even my publishers have no stake in this group, website, blog or any of its contents.

Just thought I’d make that clear so you know that I have no vested interests or other agendas.

The rest is up to.

Talk. Chat. Discuss. Enthuse. Enjoy!

Looking forward to seeing you on board!

The first member to join happens to be, coincidentally, Richard Marcus, because he accidentally or innocently applied for membership at the very time that I was re-activating the group.

Welcome aboard, Richard.

Take a bow and introduce yourself…

Or, wait. Let the others come in, settle down and get comfortable first.

Come on, people.

The coffee’s warm, fireplace is cozy, and the dhurrie is soft and deep.

Let’s talk…

Start by clicking on the button below.

It should take you to the Yahoo Groups website, where you’ll find further instructions on how to register and apply for membership.

I will approve each membership within 7 days of receiving each application.

In cases where I reject a member’s application, I’ll try to email a reason for the rejection, but if I don’t, please don’t take it personally.

I may ask a question or two before letting you join, just to make sure that you’re not trying to use the group to promote your own business, product, or your family’s jewellery store. :~)

You could cut that stage short by letting me know a couple of things about yourself when you apply: Such as your real name, the city and country you’re currently residing in, and why you wish to join the group.

Look forward to hearing from you – and to having some enjoyable discussions together.

Oh, and did I mention that I will be posting exclusive excerpts from my forthcoming Mahabharata series to the group first, and only later put those up on the blog and the website?

There may be a few other goodies too.

And a couple of surprises.

More after you join…

Click to join epicindia

Jul 05, 2005 | Uncategorized | Leave A Comment »

Reader loses control, injures 2 in Mumbai: Or, why I’m not accepting email from readers anymore

It’s a well-known fact that authors don’t take criticism well.

When confronted with a reviewer’s opinion of their book, they’re apt to go off the edge, frothing at the mouth with anger and self-righteous indignation.

Often, their frustration is justified. Critics can be brutal at times, getting personal about authors’ characters, lives, even their families.

But no matter what a reviewer writes, there’s really nothing to be gained from haranguing him or her.

If nothing else, it questions the reviewer’s right to have an opinion – even an offensive, unfair, bitterly rancorous opinion – and without that right, where would we all be?

Without the right to free expression, even authors wouldn’t be free to write as they please.

I’ve had my share of unfair, bitterly personal attacks as well. One memorable reviewer, writing in a (mercifully low-circulation) Delhi newspaper actually found a way to refer to me as a ‘bastard’ by cleverly positioning a strategic quote.

Another called me a ‘tapori’, yet another a ‘Mumbai taxi driver’, and so on.

On the whole, though, I’ve been lucky.

Often, even my worst reviews have something good to say about the book. Or, at their very worst, they tell me that a certain section just won’t accept my books, which is also useful information.

More often, though, it’s just that one person’s opinion.

It doesn’t matter if the person happens to be Geeta Doctor, writing in India Today, and she thinks I’m such-and-such and so-and-so.

People reading that magazine, and most others, are sensible enough to see through the invectives to the real review. As in, what is Ms Doctor actually saying about the book under review?

In that particular case, very little. Even I was left scratching my head, unable to understand whether she was reviewing a book or writing a tangential piece on the colourful vocal habits of Mumbai taxi drivers.

But she was entitled to her opinion, and she writes interestingly, even entertainingly, and that’s more than most reviewers can manage.

Some are actually very useful. I look to certain reviewers for insights into how I could improve as a writer, or at least to gauge how far I succeeded (or not) with that particular book.

I value the opinions of Nilanjana S. Roy, Renuka Narayan, Uma Mahadevan-Dasgupta, to name just three of my favourites. I’ll never miss reading a review by any of these three, regardless of the book under review.

Even though they’ve launched some of the harshest attacks on me and my work in their columns.

I’m sure they had good reason at the time, or felt justified in doing so.

Either way, their attacks on me, personal or otherwise, don’t change the fact that they’re intelligent, sophisticated, knowledgeable readers with whom I share a number of similar likes and dislikes.

It doesn’t mean I agree with everything they write – whether about my own books or others. It just means I like the way they review books, and enjoy reading their reviews.

There was one occasion when I made the fatal mistake of writing to Ms Nilanjana S. Roy, or more accurately, to her alter-ego, Hurree Babu, the name under which she blogs.

She set me right by flaming me and having all her friends flame me as well, teaching me a lesson in how foolish it is to question a reviewer’s opinions – or worse, a blogger’s opinions!

And in the long run, I’ve come to accept that.

They’re entitled to their views, however harsh or one-sided or personal or unfair. And I’m entitled to my views of their reviews.

And they’re entitlted to their views of my views of their reviews…ad nauseum!

But not all writers take that…view.

Some believe that they have the right to demand a certain kind of review and to harangue the reviewer personally if they don’t get exactly what they want.

Recently, I reviewed a book titled L* by a new author named JV*.

After the review appeared, JV began emailing me personally, writing long derogatory letters, calling me names and accusing me of a number of things.

This was the first time that I’ve ever been on the receiving end of such a tirade.

But in the end, it was entirely my fault.

Not because of anything I wrote in the review: I stand by every word. It was an honest appraisal, and in fact, I thought it was a pretty good recommendation for the book itself!

But apparently, JV felt he deserved better. Or, if I understand him correctly, he believed that he had gotten the impression from me that I liked the book much, much better than I eventually wrote in my review.

That left me scratching my head too.

I mean, how is it possible for an author to have expectations of how the reviewer perceives or should perceive his book, and then how the reviewer writes his review?

Sounds absurd, doesn’t it?

What was worse was that JV had been repeatedly contacting me, emailing me, over the past few years.

Just the previous week, he had sworn undying friendship to me, insisting that he would support me and my film project no matter what.

And suddenly, bang, the day my review of his book appeared in print, he changed his tune.

And began slamming and flaming me like I was the worst reviewer in the world.

And all this for a review that actually praises JV and his book and recommends it highly to readers!

It taught me a valuable lesson.

One, when you’re in the news, for whatever reason, all kinds of people get attracted to you.

Some will even pretend to be your friends. Or, as in JV’s case, an admirer of your work. (He claimed he liked Vertigo very much.)

And will do anything to get close to you, including trying to meet you personally – ‘just for a coffee’, getting you to sign their copies of your books, even talking about your doing a project for his company (JV works with a division of a major advertising agency which is attempting to get involved in some way with Indian TV programming and films, I’m not very clear how exactly), and otherwise offering to help network for you.

All that, of course, changed once he read my review of his book and it didn’t live up to his expectations – or his expectations of what he thought I “really” felt about the book, whatever that means. Basically, he believe he knew how I ‘really’ perceived the book, and that I had ‘betrayed’ him by not reviewing it the way he had expected.

Which is a very sad thing for JV.

Because in doing so, he made the cardinal mistake that every author should avoid.

He responded to his critics and tried to critique them in return!

And he lost a friend.

I don’t know if it will teach him anything, but it taught me a valuable lesson.

I will never, ever again read a book by any author who contacts me personally.

It also taught me not to give out my email address so freely, or meet ‘readers’ so easily.

Because you never know what nutcases are out there. Or what their hidden agenda may be.

In JV’s case, he not only invaded my privacy, he insulted me for doing nothing more than writing a review of his book – ironically the only review of his novel to appear in a major national publication.

And to add injury to insult, he feels that he’s the aggrieved party!

I tried at first to tell him to calm down and back off, but when he continued to flame me, I decided to post this message. Hopefully, by exposing his attacks publicly, he will stop.

But this incident has also taught me another valuable lesson: An author should concentrate on writing his books.

It’s very nice if hordes of readers love them and want to tell you how much they love them.

But if an author gets involved in communicating with all his readers, especially when they’re multiplying at an exponential rate like the readers of my Ramayana series, then he can often find that communication impinging on his privacy, as in the JV case.

At worst, it can disrupt his working and the very thing that earned him those readers in the first place: the writing itself.

It’s not just JV, of course.

There’s always the occasional female fan writing in to make me unmentionable proposals.

Or the strange ones who send cryptic messages that would require a team of Mensa experts to decipher.

And so many varieties and variations that it would take several pages to list them all.

In the end, though, it boils down to just one thing:

I need to write.

And that takes time, isolation and focus.

Which I can’t have if I keep corresponding with everyone.

And it especially can’t happen if the likes of JV surface from time to time, abusing the privilege of a personal email address and ranting and raving about me personally under the guise of, presumably, critiquing a critical review.

So with some regret, I’m disabling my email addresses from here on.

It means that you won’t be able to reach me by email until further notice.

And that, while you’re free to comment on any entry in this blog, including this one, I don’t promise to respond.

I’m sorry, but it’s the only way I can get my writing done, and live my life.

I wish you the very best, and remember always, I write for you.

That’s why I need to remove myself now from the public gaze, to stop giving endless interviews, sound bytes and quotes to the media, to stop maintaining lengthy email correspondences, and to stop commenting on comments on the blog.

And yes, to avoid the JVs of this world.

*I’ve removed JV’s full name and the title of his novel.

Jul 05, 2005 | Uncategorized | Leave A Comment »

Vertigo revisited: Reader and critical reviews of Ashok’s semi-autobiographical novel Vertigo

Vertigo: A novel by Ashok Banker 

Featured Comment by Amit Varma, on his popular blog
India Uncut

Banking on passion

Ashok Banker, in an interview with Sonia Faleiro, says:

I don’t think I’m a very talented writer, but I have passion. What I lack in stylistic or linguistic dexterity, and sheer artistry, I make up for with fecundity, fire, and feel.

He’s right. That isn’t a boast or false modesty, but honesty, a rare quality when the most common failing of our species is self-delusion.

I must confess here that I am not entirely a fan of Banker’s writing. I haven’t read his recent series, and I read “Vertigo” and “Byculla Boys” years ago. The quality that struck me most about “Vertigo” was passion. It was honest and in-your-face writing, devoid of pretence, with no attempted literary flourishes or suchlike. The book didn’t say, as so many Indian novels in English do, “I write so well, look at me.” It said: “This is the story I have to tell. Listen.”

Banker’s passion for telling the story and nothing else also manifested himself in the way he dealt with the world, and his disdain for the press and the trappings of being a writer. He speaks about all that in the interview with Faleiro, so go read that to get more of a feel for what the man is about.

Featured review by Manas Sengupta, Mumbai: This review first appeared on Mouthshut.com

“A MUST READ!!!! For anyone who has faced insecurity about work! For anyone who has craved true love! For anyone who has felt completely at sea about things around him (/her)! For anyone who has ever been beyond the glory days of teen and tried to find his true self.

Jai, the protagonist, is you, is me, is all of us. His is a simple story told in simple words. That’s the best part about it. Unlike many Indian authors, A Banker, does not try and prove his worthiness as an English writer by using heavy 10-letter laden words. He does so by writing a book he feels about, he surely has gone through and by keeping his foot rooted to terra firma.

For people in Mumbai, u will relate to him rite from the minute details, (viz. morning rush hour local to Churchgate) to the deep rooted concerns, rather insecurities, abt work, love, family, finance etc. For people outside of Mumbai, you will still relate to all thats happening in Jaiís life. Even if u dont know where and wat Gokul is. (Those who do, cheers, lived 2 years on those cramped tables!!)

Hats off to the author for writing a simple story which encompasses everything. Just one regret. How the hell did he not write a sequel to this book??

The various reviews of the book (not just on this site) called it an Indian epic. I was circumspect.. even cynical. But trust me, if you are a middle classed working Indian, you HAVE to read the book. And to think that this book was written in 1992, not much has changed!!

As for critiquing the book on specifics, here goes.

The characters are simple, yet clearly and honestly defined. A spade is called a spade.
The plot line moves fast. Every chapter rushes you through a major event. Its so beautifully structred, you are finishing one episode and you are already thinking ííWhat Nextíí.

The pace is maintained throughout, and that is the only let down. Cause, even the climax is the same. It doesnt reach a greater height. Unlike what climaxes are meant to do. They end the story with a question mark… thought provoking yes, but fulfillin no.

All in all, read the book, just get your hands on it. You will love it. I did. And it surely is the MOST simple yet enriching book i have ever read.” Manas Sengupta, Mumbai

“I got into big-time reading after getting my hands on a copy of Vertigo. I have your Ramayana series too. I have been looking for Byculla Boy everywhere. Can you send me a signed copy? Sir, I am your biggest fan.” Ekta Kapoor, film and television producer, by sms to Ashok

The following review by S. Manzoorul Islam first appeared in The Daily Star (Bangladesh), on May 7, 2005. It appears below exactly as published; not one word has been altered or deleted.

Dizzying depths: A review of Vertigo by Ashok Banker, Penguin India New Delhi, 2005 reprint, 392 pp, Rs. 295

1. The setting of Vertigo is Bombay, or rather slices of it: the financial district, a few suburban areas, the Marine Drive, a couple of hotels, the two flats Jayesh or Jay Mehta, the protagonist, lives in. Bombay is not yet Mumbai, since the time is early 1980s, and the milieu the novel describes consists mostly of denizens of a Darwinian corporate underbelly where money and power and glitter rule. Ashok Banker has meticulously kept to his time frame, drawing generous references to the happenings in the Indian and global corporate worlds, politics and culture of the time to authenticate his narrative: Indira Gandhi, Lee Iacocca, Dirty Harry movies, Dan Aykroyd and James Belushi, Grease 2, Gigi, Bruce Springsteen’s Brilliant disguise, Ayatullah Khomeini, Automatic Teller Machines, 386 liquid crystal display laptop selling for under Rs. 1 lakh . . .. Say it again? Yes, ATMs and LCD laptops. But in Bombay circa 1982? Why not?! However, but the reviewer, who was in Bombay for a week in 1983 doesn’t remember seeing even one ATM in the crowded bank of Bombay where he went to cash his US dollars, and had to wait endless hours while lethargic clerks conducted the whole business absolutely manually, writing down bank note numbers ever so meticulously and counting Indian rupees over and over again. But then the reviewer may have missed the laptop clutching grey suited executives from the world of advertisement zapping past him in a frenzied race to be the number one rat in business. The ATMs and laptops, whether real and authentic, (the burden of establishing the verisimilitude should be left to more assiduous researchers) are an important part of the elaborate discursive setup of Vertigo, which aims to capture every subtle shade of the fiercely competitive canvas of advertising and direct marketing. This is the world where the workday Jay belongs, and willy nilly, is drawn into its vortex. Banker draws this world as ruthless, cruel and fiercely challenging. It’s a world where big fish routinely make a feast of small fish. Jay, a small fish, would have been swallowed whole by fish even slightly bigger than him, had he not been protected by a woman roughly his own age, but one who had bloodied her teeth and claws in corporate warfare early and knows the trick of survival. She also happens to be the woman who feels an emotion akin to love for Jay. The woman, Meera, is liberated in the late 1990s sense, and is guide to Jay while he! tries desperately to pick up the fragments of his life, which include his non-functional love life for, his fiancee, Tuli, a Gujarati girl who believes she does not exist outside a family relationship, is predictably cool on questions of carnality. Now, the rather sombre account of Jay’s life should place him in the age range of late 20s, but he is only 19 or 20 when the story opens and is only 24 when it ends.

So why is he seen picking up the fragments of his life that early when, even for most corporate minnows on a salary of Rs. 2000 per month, life should just begin? Answer: It’s because Jay has to look after his mother, an abandoned wife, an incorrigible alcoholic, a temperamental and pathetic woman. With a Halaku Khan for a father (who once left Jay a ten-rupee note when he had pleaded with fearful eyes for his help in looking after his mother) Jay has absolutely no other choice except to live with her, nurse her, sometimes feed her, wash her, suffer her neurotic outbursts, and earn a living good enough to see them through the month. Balancing the two lives, both equally traumatizing, Jay begins to break down. At the ripe old age of 22! It is this elementally sad and tragic, gripping and unforgettable tale of Jay’s balancing act that rather than the fast-paced narrative of Bombay’s competitive, do-or- die corporate world produces the real vertigo. Ashok Banker appears unrivaled, except for the likes of Anita Desai (remember her Clear Light of Day?), the very best of the lot, really, in his sensitive description of fractured and tragic lives. A 20-year-old young man, alone and abandoned by an indifferent father, the burden of the love and patience he can muster, tries to salvage some sanity in his and his mother’s lives. In this he is not helped by his mother, who rather makes his life more difficult. But the young man persists, driven by no particular passion, but burdened with the memory of a mother’s desperate attempt to bring him up, put him through school and generally shelter him from the slings and arrows of fortune. Added to this is the constant neglect of his father and the annoyance he shows wherever mother’s name comes up. Driven to desperation, and in search of a life away from mother that he so desperately deserves, Jay moves out to a flat in the suburb, urged on by Tuli who wants a clean break from the past. But before he makes the move, Jay muses on what it would mean to him, staying apart from his mother. What will she do then? And, more important, what will he do? There can’t be an answer to that, except saying that both would be more miserable, in their own, different ways.

2. Vertigo’s plot line is uncomplicated, and lends itself to easy retelling. Jayesh Mehta, 20, and his sick and alcoholic mother are forced to live on their own, having been driven out by a successful businessman father, who then quickly remarries. Jay, fresh out of school has to find a job, and takes on the task of looking after his mother. His job at a DM company is not easy, given the dog-eat-dog work ethics prevailing there, and he struggles on, forever unhappy, forever feeling deprived. A distant relative, Meera, a woman of great personality and charms, turns up at the same company, occupying a higher post, and takes a fancy on Jay. She quickly becomes his surrogate mother, while expecting to be his lover, guiding him through the jungle of life with patience and poise. But Jay has a fiancee, Tuli, who is divided sharply between her loyalty to her parents and family, and her lukewarm liking of Jay whom she cannot imagine to be approved by her family for marriage. Yet marriage is what she desires and eventually gets . . . but not with Jay. What can Jay do? He can be more drunk, more miserable and more desperate. And to compound matters, Meera is away somewhere in Dubai, doing an overseas stint for the firm. Jay begins to flounder. He had left his mother, if you recall, and begun to live his own life. Only it proves to be a shadow of a life. He changes his job on better prospects, but cannot bring it to himself to go back to mother, or even visit her. He had fixed her up with a caregiver, and he forces himself to forget her. Indeed, the last time he had seen her, she had thrown a glass after him, which shattered and showered splinters all over. When he had closed the door behind him, it was the sound of glass breaking that chased him away.

After months of lunatic loneliness, irreconcilable but inescapable the mother dies. Back at his mother’s flat after the funeral he sits on the floor of his mother’s bedroom and muses: so this is what it comes to finally? This is the price? [He had sold the flat to a neighbour at a good price.]
And what is he supposed to do with the money…?

This woman has suddenly thrust him up to the top of this paper mountain and here he stands now, alone, looking down at the city, at the puny people toiling mindlessly, at the hordes trudging homewards every evening . . . But wait. He will not be alone for long. Because up comes Meera, who is in town and knocks on the door. Jay doesn’t open, but she says she’ll wait. All night if I have to. He looks down at the latch and after an eternity debating who he really loved, and what this sleep-around bitch [meaning Meera] really is, he relents. Slowly, as if of its own volition, the latch begins to turn, to open.

Two stories, two lives. They finally merge at this point.

3. The Bombay story of Vertigo is about a ferocious, cannibalistic cult which considers money the sole god, and power and pleasures his two outstretched hands. This story is single minded and because of its commercial association, slightly global.

It is also strangely Anglo-Indian, as the novel’s early eighties ambience doesn’t include any Indian or local cultural markers. More Hollywood than Bollywood. No local celebrity is mentioned: Lata, Mohammad Rafi, Gavaskar, Dev Anand — none. In keeping with the upper-crust Bombayites’ craze for a western life, the cultural markers are also imported. The mother-son story, on the other hand, with all its Indian connections and connotations, is a genuinely home-grown one and is the stuff that contributes to the novel’s enduring appeal. It is vicious but simple, elemental but enduring.
The story has an air of inevitability about it — it just happens, it doesn’t have to be willed into place. Banker knows the power of this archetypal, Indian tale, and weaves his other story around it. Jay’s rejection of Bombay at the end is an indication of how the more local and timeless story has the power to pull us into its deep centre. And the force with which we are pulled leaves us with a strong feeling of vertigo.” S. Manzoorul Islam teaches English at Dhaka University

“Ashok Banker’s Vertigo is an amazing work where fiction and non-fiction mix, merge, morph into each other. While essentially about Mumbai, the city, the metaphor, the mystical moment that traps all of us so magically. Despite its high-pitched style, the book’s absolutely unputdownable. Banker is without doubt one of our finest writers today and the autobiographical quality of this work sears your soul.” Economic Times

“Vertigo, the title seems perfect for starters because this piece of speedy writing depicting the anti-hero’s situation could send one’s head reeling. It is also a comment on the jetset, image-conscious realities of Mumbai wehre relationships have taken a backseat, making way for personal gratifications. And yet it is the protagonist who is left to care for his mother, perhaps a frustrating foil to the mechanical humdrum of city life. The book is written ina post-modern style, with fragmented sentences delineating the frayed existence of the lead character – torn between his ambitions and an alcoholic and psychotic mother who throws such deadly tantrums and mouths such obscenities that the narrative gets nauseating. And yet one is reminded of how this abandoned woman raised her child all by herself since her indifferent husband stopped paying the alimony. The 20-something protagonist, Jayesh Mehta or Jay for short, is emotionally battered by his boss who underestimates him and refuses to give him a promotion in his direct marketing company called DM, and instead hires a hardboiled and go-getter woman, Meera, as his group head. She is intelligent and attractive with the ability to stoop and twirl people around her little finger. Jay and Meera are opposites but vibe together. This helps delineate Meera’s other side. While Jay secretly harbours an ambition to become a copywriter, his three-year stint at the thankless direct marketing job sees him perpetually hard up for money. He suffers from a strange disincinclination towards food, somewhat like an anorexic. This again is built in with a lifestyle that is anxiety-prone and perpetually in hardship. Jay’s girlfriend, a teenager named Tuli, is already planning to get married to him. She is picturised in a series of flash words and the reader is supposed to put the pieces of the jigsaw in place. She is demanding and Jay suffers from a tug of war. The book is absorbing, if you are in the mood for large doses of realism. Vertigo is Mumbai uncut.” The Statesman, Kolkata, Sunday edition

“Dizzying heights. A portrait of one man’s pursuit of happiness and material wealth as it is dreamt in a city like Bombay. Vertigo – if that means fear of heights, would it mean fear of never reaching some heights or would it mean falling off from such great heights that recovery is hardly possible? Ashok Banker’s novel that goes by the same name could imply almost all of those fears. A portrait fo the pursuit of happiness, material wealth and capital as it is dreamt in a city like ‘Bombay’, Vertigo is also an insight into the dark underside of that dream. Twenty-something Jayesh Mehta lives in Bombay with his ailing, alcoholic mother abandoned years ago by her Gujarati businessman husband. A small-time client servicing executive, Jayesh dreams of becoming a copywriter someday. But dreams never get fulfilled easily. And for a person like Jayesh who has not learnt the art of survival, a nasty boss, a demanding girlfriend and an over-whelming sense of duty for his mother are enough to send his dreams to a tizzy. Everyday becomes a struggle as Jayesh finds his ambitions and romantic desires ruthlessly stifled by the same city that nourished them. So where do his struggles lead Jayesh to? Do somethings at least fall in place? And if they do, have they made a difference to Jayesh? That’s for the reader to find out. Vertigo is a fierce narrative and portrays Bombay as a city where nothing comes with ease, where double standards are a way of life, where detachment and ‘being busy’ is the order of the day, where money is very important, and survival is most difficult. It is also the story of betrayal, of loss, of profit, but most of all a story of loneliness. A loneliness that Jayesh constantly battles with – both in personal and professional life. A racy piece, Ashok Banker’s novel is a definitive peek into the lives of the salaried class of executives who are forever trying to make it ‘big’ – if not in Bombay maybe elsewhere. The language is easy on the reader and the occasional local slang adds to the piece. All in all, those craving for some reality check have one book that could glue them to the reading table.” Subbalakshmi B.M., Deccan Herald, Bangalore

“This is Mumbai uncut and without apologies. Banker’s novel of love, longing, and survival in Moneytown is a must-read.” Cosmopolitan’s Fab Reads for February 2005

“You have done something extraordinary. From the first page where he comes out of the train at Churchgate Station, right through to the heart-breaking ending, I couldn’t put down the book. I picked it up just to read a line or two, and I couldn’t stop reading…Even though I couldn’t understand why. I mean, it’s not as though the plot is so gripping, or the story is so action-packed. On the contrary. There are passages full of purple prose, where you describe things for pages and pages ad nauseum, and it should be tedious to read it all, but somehow, it is so engrossing and compelling, every word, every line is so intense, it pulls you in, and doesn’t let go till the end. I stayed up till 4 a.m. reading it, and I couldn’t believe I’d done that. I don’t know how you achieved the effect or why a novel I didn’t even know existed should have such an effect on me. Some parts left me with butterflies in my stomach, they were so real, like my own life. It’s a brilliant, brilliant, book, and the best on Bombay I’ve ever read. Simply amazing.” Pritish Nandy

“Think Bombay. What goes through evey mind is the over-crowded trains, the filth, the squalor, Marine Drive, Juhu beach and vadapav. You get a taste of all this in the novel. Of congestion, not only on the roads, but also the dreams and aspirations of 20-something Jayesh Mehta. Bitten by the misfortune bug, in an alcoholic mother, a disinterested father, a demanding girlfriend and an underpaid assignment, Jay ‘learns survival’. Meera, colleague, friend, ‘shoulder, becomes the road to self-discovery, of hope for Jay. Lady luck does shine on Jay, but at what cost? The style renders the book its authenticity, moving sometimes as if one were on a Thane fast local or at other times, lazy, like flicking sand with your feet along the beach. The author manages to keep the tempo going except in the end when he drifts into the 1984 riots and speculations in the share market that could have ended in two lines but was dragged across two chapters. The end too becomes very pretentious, in the author’s attempt at giving it a very theatrical effect. Apparently, the book is in its second reprint, the first being in 1993. The book is sure to get you hooked for the simple way it recreates Mumbai with its tangible smells, tastes, sights and a justifiable storyline.” First City, New Delhi

“In tracing the life trajectory of Jayesh Mehta, the protagonist of Banker’s novel Vertigo, the reader is also treated to a ringside view of the profusion of contrary pulls and propulsions that made for a Bombaywalla’s life in the Eighties. Born of a Catholic mother, and deserted by his ‘respectable’ Gujarati father, Jayesh or Jay as he is generally known, tries to carve a life for himself armed with a high school education, a father who couldn’t care less and burdened by his mother’s chronic alcoholism and premature senility. There is never enough money to go by, and his fiancee Tuli keeps yo-yoing between her attachment to him and the realisation that Jay’s job and monetary status do not match standards that her Gujarati background demands from a ‘suitable boy for marriage’. The narrative, as it unwinds, recreates the city of Mumbai with its known landmarks, its bustle, its local trains and the vast, pouring, seething passions that drive its denizens. A great read.” K. Subbarayan, Free Press Journal, Mumbai

“When I picked up Vertigo at a Bombay bookstore, I wasn’t sure what to expect. I have read your Ramayana and I thought this would be along those lines. Vertigo is so much better, much more accomplished. It is a perfect book. Maybe I am biased because I am in advertising and a Mumbaikar, but I would like to know which of your books you think are the best – Vertigo or the Ramayana? I think Vertigo is your best work. If it is not The Great Bombay Novel, I don’t know what book is.” Ashok Agarwal, advertising professional, Mumbai

“Let me confess. I always thought that Indian writers and Indian literature was a little above soft porn and a little below melodrama a la Ekta serials. In fact, I wouldnít be caught dead with a Indian writerís novel on my person. Imagine my irritation when this book found itself in my house, and that too a second hand well worn version of the book. It was a hot Monday morning when I started reading the book, what kept me into the book was the stark reality and the logic amongst the characters, be it Jay, the Marketing guy, his collegue and companion, or his girl friend, Tuli. All these people are someone who you can look around and find almost everywhere all around you. And this is where the author has won hands down. The author hasn’t prepared a dream for us to dream about, he has prepared a mirror to our society, and so beautiful is the mirror, that we are forced to see our reflections in it. The novel basically is the life story of the main protagonist, and how he rises in his personal and professional life, with the help of many and almost all women he has ever met. Once again, Ashok Banker has not created any miracles or any out of the way happenings for Jay. He has shown the generation next and all the others coming after them that there is no comparison or alternative to those golden qualities of hardwork, talent and then lady luck. But.. what actually made he remember this novel after almost a year of reading it, is this character which still makes me squirm in embarassment whenever I think about the novel and itís characters. The character of Jayís mother, the doomed woman, who dies a silent and sad death, away from the only person she ever loved, her son, is someone which will wrench the hearts of all ícareer oriented young peopleí and show them the stark reality of where their preferences should lie. Read it.” Nawab, Mumbai.

“This is the first novel by you that I have read. I had not heard of your books until recently, and picked up this one on a friend’s recommendation – her mother had bought it and she had also read it, and both were raving about it. I understand now why. It is so fantastic, I am now a fan of your work. The way you describe Bombay of that time I feel like I am living in the city, I can see and smell and hear everything as if it is happening right now. Sometimes I can recognize some places you have describe like Carter Road and Bandstand (I did not know Bandstand was called Land’s End, but now I know why Taj has that name), many a times I am not able to recognize which place you mention because some things have changed. The characters are amazing. The parts with the mother make me want to cry. or maybe shout out loudly. I can feel the pain and the emotions with them. Just one question, if you do n’t mind my asking, sir: In the end, when someone rings the bell and Jay is not opening the door, who is it outside? Is it Meera or is it Jay’s mother come back in a new life as Meera? I thought maybe it was Jay’s mother because I cannot describe the emotion there, what a beautiful ending, I am still living there and seeing it as if it is going on front of my eyes. I want to give you money so you can keep writing such books. I am goign to buy your Ramayana books now and read them, which is the first book to start with?” Satish, Mumbai

“The cover of the re-issue of Ashok Banker’s novel Vertigo proclaims that the book has acquired “cult status as the quintessentially Bombay novel”. Put that down to the puffery of publishers. Vertigo has been out of print for a long time. It has not acquired any such status. Cult status is a difficult concept. It should mean that there’s a loyal band of readers who treat the book as the pronunciamentos of the divine, or something close. But contrariwise it should also mean that everyone else is aware of the book, even if they’re not sure why the initiated get so excited about it. Cult status is what Jonathon Livingstone Seagull has if you’re a birdbrain. Cult status is not what Vertigo has, although it is very Bombay in its concern for prices, its casual use of local celebrities, and its get-rich-quick story.” Jerry Pinto, Time Out

“Ashok Banker is one of the lesser-known Indian novelists writing in English. And that probably has to do with the fact that he is not yet published in the West, although there are rumors that he has hooked (I apologize for this term) a publisher in the US (of A fame) for his latest novel, The New Ramayana. For the uninitiated, Ashok Banker was also the scriptwriter of the first (and perhaps only) Indo-English serial telecast on Indian television, A Mouthful of Skyí. Vertigo is Bankerís most accomplished work, leagues ahead of even the poignant ëByculla Boyí. The narrative begins with a staccato narration of life on a Mumbai Monday morning. The protagonist, Jayesh Mehta (Jay for short) is on his way to office amidst the cacophony of a new week, upset with the anticipation of being fired by his boss for not completing an assignment over the weekend. En route he meets Meera, a very close friend who has joined his organization as his superior.
What follows is a highly disturbing tale of youthful aspirations gone astray. Numerous hurdles face Jay, a client-servicing executive working in a Market Research organization, in his personal life. His mother is an alcoholic and he has to fend for her addiction despite his meager salary; his father has left him in the lurch; his girlfriend, Tuli, is a selfish woman, who despite all assurances leaves him for another man. Essentially a tragedy, the novel ends with Tuliís betrayal and the death of Jayís mother. In this extremely dark narrative, the reader comes across a marvelously etched character of Meera. Strong-willed, ambitious, and compassionate, all at the same time, she is the only one who provides emotional succor to Jay. Their relationship is revealed in a series of brilliantly crafted scenes. ëVertigoí, unlike the Alfred Hitchcock movie of the same name is not a thriller, yet one cannot but help trying to finish it in one sitting. Where the writer does seem to go wrong is in the climax, which fails to match the expectations built by the preceding chapters. All in all, ëVertigoí is a novel that should not be missed. Its copy should be grabbed with both hands, much like a once-in-a-life-time-opportunity.” Moid Askari, New Delhi

“I just finished reading the new edition of the book Vertigo by Ashok K. Banker today. I got a personally autographed copy of the book, yesterday, from Ashok K. Banker himself! A great writer and human being and one of my favourite authors now. He has an awesome way with words and his books are really well worth a read (or two or even three!). Coming back to Vertigo – it’s a story of a guy trying to survive in Bombay. The book takes you through his life of dealing with his alcoholic mother, his (very demanding) girl friend, his job, money, etc… A very intense novel and definitely ‘unputdownable’ like all of Ashok’s works. In fact I finished the book in two sittings inspite of having a final exam tomorrow! It was a very intense book. Very gripping and very realistic. Completely (totally) different from the Ramayana…But I loved the book! Somehow Ashok K. Banker’s books always tend to come during my exam time and this time was no different. I got the book on 18th Jan and I had my final exam on 20th! But no exam could tear me away from Vertigo. Finished it in two sittings and truly was impressed ñ in fact I was blown away! I could relate to a lot of situations in the book, which made the experience a whole lot more complete and deep.” R. Sabarish, Bangalore

“Dear Mr Banker, I am quite sure that you do not realise the impact you are having on young and upcoming writers like me. I want to congratulate you on your remarkable successes and want you to know that you r an inspiration. Indians all over the world are proud of you.” Nikesh Murali, Australia

Jul 04, 2005 | Uncategorized | Leave A Comment »

The Armies begin their march: Indian Express and Telegraph pick Armies of Hanuman in their best new books lists

This little snippet on Armies appeared in The Indian Express, New Delhi, on Sunday, July 3, 2005.

I certainly want to know what you felt about it. Good, bad, or indifferent.

Armies of Hanuman
By Ashok K Banker
The freshness of Prince of Ayodhya hit us like a sledgehammer in 2004. Three books later, while that freshness is taken for granted, Banker’s storytelling remains taut, feeding on the travels and travails of Rama. In Armies, Banker takes a 13-year hyperjump from Demons of Chitrakut where Rama with his rag-tag army decimates thousands of rakshasas, to the peaceful environs of Panchvati. Which is around when Ravana, lying dormant in Lanka, resurrects and abducts Sita, setting the stage for Bridge of Rama.

This pocket-review appeared in The Telegraph, Kolkatta, another publication I respect.

It is listed in an article on best new books, though.

Armies of Hanuman: Book Four of The Ramayana (Penguin, Rs 350) by Ashok K. Banker is the fourth in Banker’s modern retelling of Rama’s story, and takes on his journey to the kingdom of Lanka. For Banker, this story is “not about ‘hindutva’ and the politics of religion, but about ‘inditva’, Indian pride, and a story too great to be saffronised or sanitised.â€? This is a hybrid retelling, in which Amar Chitra Katha meets Iravati Karve meets the modern fantasy blockbusters meet the Indian TV serial meets computer games. The prefatory author’s note shows wide reading, but the end-product is not-quite-sophisticated kitsch: “Ravana lived. In the cosmic maelstrom of his mind…he saw through the eyes of rakshasas in the habitat,many miles above his private den-chamber, milling about in confusion as the news of their master’s reawakening rippled through Lanka like a sea-typhoon.â€?

Jul 04, 2005 | Uncategorized | Leave A Comment »

“I don’t think PR does **** to sell books” : Ashok’s Tehelka interview

These are excerpts from an inteview I did with Sonia Faleiro for Tehelka, which appeared in the issue dated July 2, 2005.

Hats off to Sonia Faleiro, whom I had never met before in my life, for asking the tough questions and having the guts to record the tough answers I gave her.

You emerge only when your books are released, but are inaccessible otherwise.
I don’t think pr does shit to sell books. Even if it did, I still wouldn’t do it. As a writer you should write the best damn book, and for me to do that, I need isolation. I don’t talk to the press because doing so when one has nothing to say is trivial pursuit at its worst.

Your reticence extends to the Mumbai literary circle. Mixing with them is not PR.
Well, it is. Look at contemporary Mumbai writers. They are all part of this artsy-fartsy circle, a clique of people who meet once a week to support and promote one another. They are so heavily into pr themselves, yet they criticise other writers, and accuse them of drumming up publicity.

You’ve been accused of manipulating the press with regard to the advance you received for your Ramayana series.
How can a guy sitting in a flat in Mumbai manipulate the media machinery of the entire country? And why does my advance matter? At the time, The Week asked me about it, but it was premature. I had signed the German and US contracts, but was in the process of signing the UK film and language contracts. I said, “I can give you a specific answer in three months but it has passed Rs 1 crore and could be as much as Rs 10 crore.� Today, I can confirm that the advance for all six books has crossed Rs 3 crore but is less than Rs 4 crore. All the contracts have still not been signed though.

The controversy generated great dislike against you across the board. Why do you think that happened?
Very simply put, I told journalists to screw off. I told them if you only want to talk about the advance, get lost. Bombay Times wanted to shoot me in a dhoti, with a bow and arrow, on Marine Drive. I turned them down, and they said, “But we’re bt. bt is bt.� (Laughs) And you know what cnbc wanted? To sit at Bandra Bandstand, reading from my Ramayana, for a story titled ‘Flogging a Dead Horse’! For which they would interview people asking, why the hell do we need another Ramayana. (Laughs). I’m nobody’s whipping boy.

Do you regret your reaction?
It’s stupid to play with the media like that. I don’t do it anymore. But because they hated my guts they left me alone to write. I don’t suffer fools gladly. I’ve had fools reviewing my books without reading them. Someone said Byculla Boy was about the ad world when it’s about a kid growing up in Byculla in the 1970s. I’m far more critical of my work than any critic. I don’t think I’m a very talented writer, but I have passion. What I lack in stylistic or linguistic dexterity, and sheer artistry, I make up for with fecundity, fire, and feel. I don’t write for money. Otherwise, I’d still be writing thrillers.

You have an aversion for foreign media.
Yes, I’ve refused a Washington Post Book World cover feature, an interview with Salon, and The New York Times. I didn’t want to become one of those writers who panders to the foreign press and fights with the Indian press. Pankaj Mishra is a very good example. He writes so much for the foreign press his perspective is stilted. He’s very conscious, stylised and very mannered. I don’t want to become like that.

You must be a lonely writer.
It does get extremely lonely. I long for the company of other writers, if only to discuss things like how the hell do you deal with an agent? But there’s no guarantee they will respond to me. I would have to put myself out on a limb. Sometimes, this loneliness turns to animosity and hostility. I become a porcupine and porcupines are lonely creatures.

Vertigo was “the” Bombay book. Now Maximum City and Shantaram are.
It’s an affectation of the media to name “the” Bombay book according to which writer is in the news. Gregory David Roberts is very willing to pander to the press. Ditto with Suketu Mehta. I read something very interesting in Tehelka, where Vidhu Vinod Chopra talks about his dislike for Suketu. Why didn’t other journalists write about it? Because they want to interview Suketu again. If an author is willing to be on Page Three their book is a bestseller.

You had a Hindu father and a Catholic mother. How did that affect you?
I fell through the crack. My father’s family would say, “his mother’s a meat eater.” And my mother’s family would refer to me as “that Hindu boy.” My mother converted to Islam to get a divorce. Then she remarried and that ended too. Till her death she tried to keep in touch with all three faiths. She had reached a point when things happened to her–she got pregnant by Mahesh Bhatt and had to have an abortion, then she was drugged and raped. I know who raped her. I was the only person she could talk to who wasn’t part of society in the larger sense. After the rape she descended into psychosis. She was in nursing homes, and when she came home I was the one cleaning and feeding her. She was a mess, and I was regarded as a “poor kid,” then a roadside chokra, a drug addict and a punk. People who knew me then are shocked my sanity survived. But my mother was so crazy, I became sane by default.

Your first film Beautiful Ugly is her biography. Does the reaction concern you?
When she died, people insinuated that she deserved what came to her. They can’t say anything worse. I want people to know that she was wonderful and bright and full of life. And someone abused her and abused me, and destroyed us. And I want that to be known. I want to set the record straight.

Have you spoken to Mahesh Bhatt?
No. He was smashed in those days. It’s very possible that my mother and he had some kind of liaison without him knowing. I don’t need any closure from him. He’s a footnote in the story.

There must be some resentment towards your mother.
No. There was no space for anger. What I resented was that our families wrote me and my mother off. They dismissed us as though we would magically vanish. I resent that after I got a little fame I got calls from cousins in England and Australia and Santa Cruz. My father didn’t give me money to buy my mother a coffin and my step-father washed his hands off us. What kind of family is this?

Jul 04, 2005 | Uncategorized | Leave A Comment »