Return of the Podder: More of my favourite Podcast Shows (Part 2)
KCRW’s BOOKWORM
Umberto Eco
Nicole Krauss
Bret Easton Ellis
Identity (Series of 10)
This is where the big guns of literature come out to bat. Or to talk.
KCRW’S Bookworm is a major literary podcast show. It features serious, detailed discussions on literary matters, featuring big-name authors.
One of their longest, most fascinating series was the recent 10-part series on Identity. Each episode of slightly less than 30 minutes focussed on one aspect of Identity. Hispanic identity, Asian identity, mixed-race identity, and so on.
Authors featured ranged from relative unknowns like Maxine Hong Kingston, Don Lee, Nina Marie Martinez, to heavy hitters like Camille Paglia, Alan Hollinghurst, Margaret Atwood, John Banville…
The discussions are always interesting, ‘provocate book-talk’ to quote their own tag line, and well worth the listening.
THE RADIO ADVENTURES OF DR. FLOYD
This one’s a bit more of an acquired taste.
I wouldn’t recommend it for everyone, and at times, if I’m not in the mood, even I press ‘next’ on my iPod, or remote, to bypass the latest episode.
But if you’re in the mood for some light, chatty, even whacky talk about Science Fiction, often without any definite point, then this pod show is reasonably good TP.
If you’re not interested in SF, though, you’re not going to like it.
THE SECRETS: THE PODCAST FOR WRITERS
Like Dr. Floyd above, but less irritating in tone and style, The Secrets is a series of under-15 minute episodes offering advice on various aspects of the writing craft.
It’s a great series if you’re a wannabe writer, or even just a blogger.
Nothing earth-shattering, mind you. But informative and entertaining.
And again, with special interest for writers (or editors, or publishers, or even just readers) of SFFH.
In fact, one of their feature podcasts is a special focus on SF/Fantasy news.
THE WEEK IN WHEDON
This is one I’m probably going to unsubscribe from soon. But since it’s still on my Podcasts Playlist…
Joss Whedon is best known as the writer-creator of TV serials like Buffy, The Vampire Slayer, and Angel. Though he’s also a highly paid screenwriter for blockbuster movies as well.
(Look up his IMDB page for more info if you’re interested.)
This pod show is a series of weekly updates on what’s happening in Whedon’s world, including his upcoming shows, scripts in production, syndication of older shows, etc.
I subscribed to find out if there was any truth to the rumour that he was going to start a spin-off show called Tales of The Watcher featuring characters from both his Buffy and Angel series.
(Apparently not.)
Or how close he was to the long-awaited Buffy movie starring Sarah Michelle Gellar.
(Nowhere in sight.)
Or whether it was true that his short-lived but highly popular SF show Firefly was being made into a big-screen movie.
(Yes, but still unsure of whether production is underway or only ‘green-lighted’.)
The trouble with the show is that it rambles on in such detail about such trivial things that only a hardcore Whedon fan would be interested.
It’s definitely not for you if, like me, you’re just a fan of his shows and not into hero-worship.
And worst of all, Whedon himself barely figures in the shows – this is almost entirely a fan enterprise.
Skip this one.
But I would still be eager to subscribe to a podcast featuring an author I’m more “into”, like, say, Stephen King.
Anybody know about anything like that?
Remember, file-sharing is caring!
That’s it for the pod shows for now. But keep looking. And keep in touch!
Invasion of the Pod People: The wonderful world of Podcasting and my current favourite Pod shows (Part 1)
A podcast, in case you didn’t know it already, is an audio recording intended to be broadcast over the internet, usually through an Apple store (check your iTunes program) and then downloaded onto your iPod, hence the name.
You don’t need to DL to an iPod only. You can simply DL to your comp, and listen to it right there, or burn it onto a CD and then listen to it in your car, on your home theatre system, wherever.
Basically, it’s an MP3 audio file.
The best thing about it is that it’s mostly free!
If you have iTunes on your comp, then you can find the latest podcasts by clicking on the Music Store icon in the main menu to the left, then browsing through the Podcast menu, or simply searching for the topic of your interest.
There will also be a number of other choices listed, such as Audio Books, News, Music, etc. Those will usually be charged at the usual iStore rates.
But almost all podcasts are completely free. No subscription, no joining fee, nada.
Just download and listen.
As with any other new medium, there’s a lot of amateur podcasting going on.
Because, like blogging, anybody and everybody can podcast.
Why, even I’m planning to take this blog and podcast it, starting early next year!
(At least, that’s the plan, let’s see how things actually work out once I finish the major home-office move I’m undergoing and once I have my new hardware equipment installed, set up and debugged.
Will post to the blog as and when it works out–and if it works out.
Hell, I may even consider vBlogging as well as Podcasting the blog!
But more about that in due course.)
I can’t claim to know everything that’s being podcast out there.
It’s a big Netiverse after all.
(And an even bigger Nutiverse, if you know what I mean.)
A lot of the podcasts seem to be news feeds from major as well as minor news channels in the US, something that doesn’t remotely interest me.
The last thing I want to do while driving to the gym, or taking my afternoon tea break, is listen to the destruction wrought by Hurricane Katrina.
Nor was I really interested in the scores of amateur writers eagerly (over-eagerly) offering their unpublished novels converted into podcasts.
But what I found after a bit of trial and error and searching and downloading a lot of junk, was that there is some really good stuff being podcast too.
Especially in the area of interviews and fact-based programming.
Here are some of my currently favourite Podcast shows and the episodes I really enjoyed listening to.
A few of them I haven’t actually got around to listening to yet, but they’re high on my “must-listen-next” list, so I’m listing them too.
I’m not going to comment much on each one, since they’re mostly quite self-explanatory.
But basically, the Podcasts I’ve picked all have good audio quality, pro level or near-pro level, are well produced, have intelligent insightful content, and are way better than if the same material were to be available in printed or html/xml form.
The reason being is that these are mostly interviews, or shows by talented audio artists.
And just as it is possible to read an interview, listening to it has a whole different charm.
For instance, Maya Angelou, the veteran African-American writer, has a style that’s wonderful to read, but actually listening to her speak is a whole different experience.
I think you know what I mean.
So that’s why most of my Current Fave Podcast choices are interviews or personality based stuff.
I’m always looking for new stuff though. So if you hear a Podcast, or hear of one, do let me know.
After all, the internet’s motto is, or should be, (File-)Sharing is Caring!
A WAY WITH WORDS
Food 2
Theater
Lexicography
Surfing
Dictionaries
This is a show about language, as the name suggests. Each episode is fairly long, a bit less than 50 minutes, which is a bit of a downside. But they pack a lot of learning into that time. Each episode focusses on a different subject. The episodes I’ve heard so far are listed above.
The one on surfing is particularly entertaining, but maybe because I just love that surfing lingo. It’s where we get most of our popular slang today – ‘dude’, ‘chill’, ‘hang loose’, etc. A great way to improve your language skills and learn a lot about the idiosyncracies of the English language.
BOOKBUFFET.COM
Interview with Julian Fellowes (9 parts)
Interview with Jack El-Hai (7 parts)
Interview with Kem Nunn
Interview with Tracy Quan (7 parts)
Interview with Sheila Hayman
Interview with Arthur Jeon
Interview with Edith Grossman
These are excellent interviews with authors. At first, I wondered if I really wanted to listen to an author I’d never heard of before (most of the above), let alone actually read anything by. But once I started listening, I was hooked. Well, not addicted maybe.
But you see, the thing about Bookbuffet podcasts is that they’re really short. Each one is no more than 5 minutes, often as short as 1 or 2 minutes.
(Hence the several parts of each interview.)
So they’re really just nuggets of wisdom or insight and I don’t mind spending a couple of minutes with a bunch of different writers and picking up something from it.
But if you’re not interested in the craft of writing or a serious student of literature, then perhaps even 1 minute might be a minute too long!
DRAGON PAGE COVER TO COVER
#181: Interview with Karl Schroeder and Bruce Taylor
#180: Interview with Jennifer Fallon and Marie Jackober
#169: Interview with Kevin J. Anderson and Gerard Readett
Interviews with authors and editors of science fiction and fantasy. I’ve just got these three issues, but there are plenty more out there.
These are much, much longer than the Bookbuffet interviews, but they’re also much more fun. At least, they were to me, a hardcore SFFH fan.
If you enjoy reading the works of these authors, or even the genre in general, you’ll probably find something to like in these chatty, insightful, but always entertaining and light interviews.
FUNNYINDIAN
The Brian & Joe Show
Second City
On Clubbing
The Podcaste System
Here’s a complete change of pace. Cincinnati, Ohio, USA-based stand-up comedian Rajiv Talwar is an ABCD with a sense of humour.
Anyone can enjoy his routine, and with each podcast running to anywhere from 12 to 18 minutes, it’s a nice way to spend a short drive, or a long coffee break.
What I like about Talwar is that his jokes are geared to Indian ears, like the first episode where he plays on the word ‘Podcast/e’ with and without the ‘e’. Get it? Get it.
GAMECAST ONLINE: A GAMING GUIDE
This one I haven’t actually been able to DL yet. Don’t know why. But I’m going to keep trying. For some reason, I have this fascination with tech stuff, especially the software side of IT. And though I’m not actually a gamer myself, my kids are majorly into it. So I enjoy reading through magazines like PS2 Gaming and passing on articles of interest to them.
If anyone’s actually heard any of these podcasts, let me know. Or if you have any suggestions for other Gaming podcasts, ditto.
HORROR READER
An interview with David Morrell
A Different Kind of Horror: Interview with Elizabeth Massie
This is one of my favourites.
I adore reading interviews with writers of SFFH. (That’s Science Fiction Fantasy and Horror, by the way.) I’ve got virtually every book of interviews with SFFH writers, and have read each one to bits.
Maybe it’s because I’m an SFFH writer too, and it was my lifelong dream to become one, so I hang on every word, hoping to pick up something, or just getting strength and inspiration from knowing there are people out there who are actually making a successful living telling stories about fantastic things and creatures. (I guess I now make a fairly successful living doing much the same thing, but learning is an eternal process, isn’t it?)
Horror Reader has a lot of episodes out there, each one about half an hour long. (As far as I’m concerned, they could be two hours long, and I’d still listen.)
I’d recommend these two strongly: David Morrell is a very entertaining author of thrillers (Burnt Sienna, one of his most recent, I liked very much) as well as supernatural horrors and espionage thrillers. He’s also the guy who created Rambo (but the book is way, way better, trust me). Here he speaks on the eve of the release of his new horror novel, his first in a long time, Creepers. Morrell is a fascinating personality because while his popular million-copy bestsellers are so pulpy, he himself is a professor of Literature, highly regarded in his field!
Elizabeth Massie, on the other hand, is a much lesser-known horror writer but she’s very talented. Read her Sineater, if you haven’t read her already. And the interview is interesting because it offers a flip side to Morrell’s bigbucks career success, with Massie talking about the joys and bittersweetness of being published by independent (small) publishers and writing horror at a time when everybody believes the genre is dead and gone.
(…to be concluded.)
Multiple worlds, many wars: ‘Master’ Harry Turtledove’s treasure trove of Alternate History war sagas (Part III)
The World at War series
The WorldWar series
The WarWorld series
The Colonization series
The American Flag series
The Videssos Legion series
etc
all by Harry Turtledove
He’s called the ‘master’ of Alternate History and rightfully so.
Harry Turtledove is an amazingly prolific, amazingly dependable author. He belies the notion that some readers have that once an author achieves great success, he stops delivering good books.
Turtledove is that rarest of rare creatures in the publishing biz. He delivered his best work *after* finding success.
His career-bestselling book was, as I mentioned earlier, Guns of the South.
Bouyed by its success (he’d written a lot of books before then, SF as well as Fantasy, with limited results), he went on to develop the same ‘world’ into a long sequence of novels that, as far as I can tell, are still continuing through multiple linked-series.
There’s an alternate-history retelling of World War I, called The Great War series.
There are three alt-hist retellings of WWII, called The WorldWar, Colonization, and Settling Accounts series.
There’s the American Empire series. The Crosstime Traffic series for young readers. The Videssos Legion if you’re tired of his 20th century retellings and want to go farther back, to the Roman age (but in a fantasy world).
The best thing about Turtledove is that, if you like his work, there’s lots of it waiting for you to read.
You’re not going to run out of Turtledove books for a long while, trust me.
I’ve been reading him for ages, and still can’t catch up! And I’m a voracious reader.
My personal favourite is the World at War series. Because it’s fantasy more than alt-hist.
That is, it can be read in its own right, without you needing to figure out, oh, this is so-and-so, or oh-that’s-winston-churchill and so on.
You can just read it, and enjoy the read.
(And if you’re wondering if maybe, I’m implying that in some alt-hist books you can get a headache trying to figure out who’s actually supposed to be who, and done what, and when, you might be right–that’s the one major downside of alt-hist, if you don’t know the history in the first place, or worse, don’t care much about it!
But in that case, why the hell are you reading this blogpost in the first place?!)
The World at War series is different from most alt-hist books, and most Turtledove books too, because it’s not SF really. In fact, it’s the other side of the river: fantasy. It’s in fact a fantasy retelling of the Second World War.
It postulates the question, ‘What if WWII took place in a world where, instead of technology and modern weaponry, magic and dragons and mages prevailed…”
There are six books as of this writing, of which I’ve read only three. All the titles have the word ‘Darkness’ in them, in case you’re looking them up…
Like all Turtledove novels (and indeed, like most Alt-Hist novels), the World At War series follows several major viewpoint characters–about 15 in each book–through the entire saga.
If you know your WWII history really well–if you’ve read the entire set of Winston Churchill’s histories of the war, for instance–then you’re really going to have a treat ahead.
But even if you’re not a total WWII buff (I’m not) you’ll still find a lot to enjoy.
For one thing, Turtledove isn’t as obsessed with the US-Versus-Them notion, which means he’s able to just tell a story well, with all characters weighed equally, and no inherent biases. On the contrary, he actually manages to bring out the humanity in every one of his characters, even the worst of them.
This being a war saga, there’s never a really dull moment. There’s always people dying, or under threat of death, or surviving impossible odds.
Nations are being overrun, transformed, taken over, wrested back…
Terrible things, shocking things…
But never a dull moment.
In terms of story, at least.
As far as style is concerned, though, that’s another story…
There are times when Turtledove’s methodical storytelling style can seem plodding. Like a perfectly well-bred horse insisting on trotting at precisely the right speed, no matter how much you want (or need) him to go faster.
Perhaps this pedantic prose is the result of the many plotlines and characters he’s juggling. With so many things happening, to so many people, he’s just trying to keep it simple.
He doesn’t try for fanciful descriptions or elegant turns of phrase. Like other prolific genre writers–Asimov is a good comparison–Turtledove’s goal is to tell us the whole story, nothing more.
He tells an excellent story. And he tells it well enough for his purposes.
The idea of dragons being used instead of planes–they drop eggs which explode just like bombs–and of magically charged ’sticks’ in place of guns, sorcerors casting spells to conceal (or expose) spies, ‘ley’ lines used to transport ships or trains across great distances quickly, and wizards and crystal balls being used by each side to enhance their chances of winning…these and many other thrilling ideas are explored in this fascinating series.
Turtledove’s fascination for history and his enormous output as a writer has led him to start using a pseudonym recently.
Under the byline H.N. Turtletaub, he writes straight historical fiction. You can look up the books on any online bookstore.
Somehow, these titles aren’t as interesting as his alt-hist. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because he’s bound by the historical record.
Although, he is smart enough to use minor, unknown historical characters rather than the high-profile kings and emperors we all know about, which gives him more freedom.
But mainly, I think, Turtledove’s biggest failing shines through in these books: Without an existing framework upon which to ‘grow’ his own ideas and diversions, he settles into a plodding, dull, story of his own making.
It’s not that his Turtletaub novels are boring (I’ve only read two but he’s hardly written three or four so far) but that they’re not that exciting as his alt-hist books.
Of course, this problem rears its head in his alt-hist books too. If you make the mistake of reading, say, an entire series of his in one go, you might end up reeling with boredom and dullness because of the methodical way he presents each episode, each character, then moves on to the next, with predictable regularity.
But what drives you on through his alt-hist series is the over-arching storyline–ripped from the pages of history itself–and the underlying knowledge that ‘this really happened’ as well as the clever ‘what ifs’ he keeps posing, and then following through to its logical conclusion with rigorous intellectualism.
It’s true that Turtledove’s books can get somewhat predictable and reptititive. I wouldn’t recomend stacking a huge pile of them and reading through them all one by one.
On the other hand, if you read the books between other series, or as an alternative to other fiction, why, then they’re quite engaging. Even addictive in a way.
And ultimately, if you persevere, they grow on you. Even the characters that seemed least interesting at first, start to become more interesting, and in the end, turn out to be the ‘real’ heroes or heroines of the tale. Even more so than the famous personages out of the history books.
But then again, that’s only to be expected.
After all, don’t forget. This isn’t history. It’s alternate history.
And it’s best read as an alternative!
I know I haven’t mentioned so many classics–like Pavane, or A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court.
Or Alt-Hist in other form like movies (not so many to speak of actually, probably because it’s hard enough to make intelligent historical movies, let alone expect movie-going audiences to appreciate ‘alternate’ histories–”this isn’t really what happened, it’s what might have happened if…” “HUH?”)
Or graphic novels like Neil Gaiman’s excellent 1602. Or even new Alt-Hist novels that are well worth reading like Kim Stanley Robinson’s Years of Rice and Salt…
I guess there’s tons more to be written about the sub-genre, but I’m going to try and wind this series up before it becomes as long as a Harry Turtledove saga!
Just one last word of friendly advice: Don’t read Alt-hist for the ideas or the technology, or the action-adventure alone – although those may or may not be present in the best Alt-hist books.
Read it the way you would a good historical novel series.
For the people and their stories.
After all, there’s a reason why it’s called His-Story. (Although it should actually be Their-Story, don’t you think?)
And why this sub-genre is called Alternate History.
(Concluded.)
History was never such fun: S. M. Stirling’s Nantucket Trilogy and other must-read Alternate History thrillers (Part II)
One of my all-time favourite Alt-hist series is The Nantucket Trilogy by S.M. Stirling.
The Nantucket books are titled
Island in The Sea of Time
Against the Tide of Years
and
On the Oceans of Eternity
(As with all my blogposts, I’m not going to tell you every detail of the plot and describe every character. You can find all that on the Amazon or BN page for each book or on the author’s website.
Oh, and I won’t provide links either. Just my own rambling comments. This is a blog, after all, not a zine!)
The island of Nantucket, USA, is suddenly struck by a mysterious “Event” which separates it from its time and plunges it back, with its entire population of 5,000 citizens (which includes tourists and vacationeers) several thousands of years into the past. Specifically, the Bronze Age, or what’s popularly identified as the age of Troy, as in the recent film of the same name.
Like all Alt-Hist novels, Island in the Sea of Time doesn’t dwell on how the “Event” was caused or the scientific phenomenon behind it–even the Islanders never find out–but on the consequences of that “Event” and how the main characters deal with it.
And what fun it is!
First off, the Islanders are scared stiff at the challenges they’re faced with, bereft with all of the 20th century and its luxuries and comforts and support systems.
They’re geographically still in continental America (or to be precise, just off the coast of it, since they’re on an island–which is probably the reason why the “Event” cut them off) but the land is a wilderness overrun by the ancestors of what they know as Native Americans.
After a period of struggling to come to terms with their new situation, during which phase different Islanders react in widely different ways–some commit suicide, others become lawless criminals, still others rise to the occasion and take charge of the crisis and restore order and sanity–they start to realize that they’re here to stay.
And since this is now their world, they had better start preparing and planning for the future. This means building ships and exploring the world, seeking out potential allies (and potential enemies), trading for things they need but don’t possess, like certain crops and herbs and raw materials.
Inevitably, as in any end-of-the-world tale, two factions emerge, one faction the Good Guys, the other the Bad Guys.
(It is an American novel, after all.)
The Bad Guys are led by Walker, who sees the opportunity to rule the whole world, using his superior technological knowledge, and his knowledge of warfare, to build an Empire.
By the end of the first book, Walker and his team break away from the Islanders and start their own quest to build an Empire.
Over the next two books, this quest becomes a race to gain allies and conquer territories, using 20th century weaponry and technology (and helped along by a knowledge of the history of the period) to build not one but two separate American Empires across the otherwise barbaric world (boy, Bush would wet his pants in joy!).
S. M. Stirling uses brilliant research–the books are filled with piles of detail, yet the details never overwhelm or bore you–and amazing characterization to weave a story that’s exciting, suspenseful, action-packed (there are wars and battles galore), as well as profoundly moving and emotionally touching. He even weaves in philosophy and morality, raising the key questions of American empirical ambitions himself, and at times, the series offers fascinating insights into the mindset of the country that’s trying so hard to dominate the world by any means possible right here and now.
One of the most entertaining elements of the Nantucket books is the manner in which the Islanders shrewdly mingle with the various cultures of the time–all of which, to repeat, are thoroughly researched and portrayed with impressive accuracy–and manipulate, control, and motivate them, using whatever means necessary, be it trade, bribery, coercion, or, as a last resort, open warfare.
Sound familiar? That’s right. At times, it reads like a contemporary account of American ‘handling’ of various foreign situations, be it in the South Americas, South East Asia, Africa, or, as now, West Asia.
Stirling’s strength lies in his characters, all of which are not just credible, but interesting, whether they’re a tough-as-nails coastguard captain and her native consort, or Walker and his main associate, a devilish Dr Hong who is an upfront psychotic who loves to torture people as well as manage Walker’s medical and health governance…I can’t even begin to list all the characters here, but trust me, none are boring…
And these fascinating characters have lots of interesting things to do, crises to face. From lion hunts to charging elephants, to wild savages, to skirmishes, ambushes, outright battles–these last are most exciting because of the mixture of technology, bullets versus arrows, 20th c. tactics versus classic ancient-world strategies, intrigue and espionage, politicking and karma, and through it all, the constant theme of ‘controlling or being controlled’.
Stirling may not endorse his characters’ politics but the recurring theme in the books (and several of his other books as well) is that of US, joe-everyman, Mr Typical Red-Blooded American adrift in a hostile world filled with savage non-Americans.
As I said, if you can get past that…
Then, you’ll certainly find, as I did, that this is not just a hugely entertaining and informative trilogy, it’s a brilliant exercise of the intellect and imagination. A must-read.
After the success of the Nantucket trilogy, Stirling also wrote a one-off Alt-Hist book titled Conquistador.
Conquistador’s nowhere near as good as the Nantucket trilogy, because, although it has some exciting action sequences, it goes so heavily overboard on the US-Versus-Them imbalance that it gets too much to take at times.
Even though you know that Stirling obviously isn’t a racist bigot as some of his characters, the fact is that those racist bigots happen to be the protagonists of the story, and there’s only so much time you can spend in the mindset of such a person or persons.
If you read and like the Nantucket books, Conquistador is worth a dekho too.
Otherwise, I’d give it a smart miss.
Stirling’s other one-off Alt-Hist book is much better, especially for Indian readers or those interested in these climes: It’s titled The Peshawar Lancers.
This time he jumps forward in time, to a period some fifty years ahead, when the British empire still rules, but in a somewhat changed scenario.
I read it a while back (unlike the Nantucket books which I only recently finished) so the story isn’t very clear in my head but I remember that it was a fun read, with Stirling’s usual mix of exciting action, strong characters and interesting plot twists and turns.
But personally, if you like the Nantucket books, I’d recommend you try Stirling’s new series next.
That’s what I’m doing. And I’m loving it so far!
I’ve read only the first book of the new series, titled Dies the Fire, and the second is due to be published shortly as of this writing.
But I can recommend it as highly as the Nantucket novel. In this, Stirling does something truly ingenious and clever: He reverses his “camera” and shows us what happened to another community after the same “Event” that split Nantucket Island off from the 20th century.
Except that here it’s called the “Change” and the consquences are totally different.
Again, he explores the notions of survival and then, supremacy, recurring themes in all his work.
(They’re also the recurrent themes in most Alt-Hist books, as well as in, you guessed it, history itself.)
I’m waiting for the second book and when I’ve read it and the third (I assume it’s going to be a trilogy and not an endless series) which is due out next year, I’ll report back on them as well in more detail.
Right now, I’m going to take a break. But I’ll continue this tomorrow with a look at another Alt-Hist author who’s really well worth checking out.
It’s not for nothing that he’s called the ‘Master of Alternate History’…
(…to be continued)
“What if India & Pakistan Had Joined Forces To Fight A War Against The British Empire”: The thrilling sub-genre of Alternate History (Part I)
One of my favourite genres is ‘alt-hist’. Or, to spell it out, Alternate History.
It’s often considered a sub-genre of Science Fiction, or, as some people prefer to call it, Speculative Fiction.
That’s because, most of the early alternate history stories were first published under the SF genre, the theory being, I guess, that SF readers were more open to such flights of imagination.
What is alternate history? In case you don’t know already, it’s historical fiction with a key fact changed. That’s a very broad and general, um, generalization. But it’s close enough.
Imagine, for instance, a novel set in the American South, around the time of the Civil War. The South is fighting a losing battle.
Suddenly, a mysterious group of people appear and offer the Southern generals a strange, wonderous new kind of weapon: an automatic gun.
Compared to the weapons currently in use, this amazing device can rip any Civil War army to shreds. And these mystery people are offering to supply as many automatic guns as the Southern army requires, in order to help them win the war.
This is the basic story of Guns of the South, the most popular, widest known Alternate History novel in recent times.
Published almost fifteen years ago, it became a massive bestseller and its author, a struggling fantasy and science fiction writer named Harry Turtledove, has since then gone on to write several series of Alternate History novels.
So much so that he’s now considered to be the ‘master’ of Alternate History.
Now, as you must have observed, the automatic weapons in Guns of the South come from the future. So it’s also a time-travel novel, in a sense.
That’s common of many Alternate History novels. They mix some element of SF, or Fantasy.
But the primary thrust is always on the historical retelling.
They say SF is the ‘What If’ genre.
As in, most SF novels ask the question, ‘What if…’
And then follow that idea through to its logical, even not-so-logical, quite incredible, but scientifically possible conclusion.
By that measure, Alternate History is the genre of ‘What might have happened if…’
So, for instance, we could postulate a world wherein India and Pakistan were never Partitioned, and instead the people of both lands united to oust the British invaders in a bloody war, just like the American War of Independence.
(Just as an aside, notice how the British are quite willing to call the American War of Secession, as it was once known, a war of “Independence”, but turn purple and blue and other colours when you try to call our own Indian War of Independence by the same name? “It was a bloody mutiny,” they rail and rant, “because India was a colony of the British Empire.” Well, my dear Onion Jack, so was America, wasn’t it? Yet they called it a War of Independence. So, accept it and deal with it, move on, okay?)
Or you could have a world wherein Hitler and Nazi Germany succeeded and ruled the world.
Or you could have a story about what might have happened if Asia had dominated the world rather than the western nations.
The possibilites are endless.
Alternate History is by definition an intelligent reader’s genre.
Because you have to first be interested in history itself. And then, you have to be mature enough to appreciate and enjoy historical fiction.
(It’s commonly enough known that anybody can read and understand non-fiction–the genre in which your daily newspaper is written, but it takes a greater intelligence and sophistication to appreciate fiction; the more sophisticated the ideas and sub-genre of fiction, the more intelligence required to appreciate it.)
Then, you have to know enough history, at least in the outline and basic details, to appreciate the thrill of the ‘What might have happened if…’ question.
So, for example, someone who doesn’t know that India and Pakistan were once a single country that was Partitioned through the machinations of British politics on the eve of Britain’s departure from these shores would probably not find much thrill in the notion of India and Pakistan working together to reject the idea of Partition and fighting the British side by side.
While anyone from this part of the world would probably get a kick out of the whole idea.
Imagine Jinnah and Gandhi working together to beat the Brits!
Imagine waging pitched battles against the Brits, and rebelling against them not just on the subcontinent but across the world–don’t forget, the second world war was going on at the same time as the last throes of our independence struggle.
Maybe some of you think it would be impossible. But who knows. Stranger things have happened in history itself.
So why not?
There’s a lot of Alternate History out there. A lot of it’s good stuff.
But a lot of it’s not really identifiable to Indian readers.
Let’s face it, who gives a shit about whether the American South won or the American North won.
There were still 10 million African slaves left rootless when the war was over, right? Not to mention the harrowing terror of racism that followed the Civil War, which was by no means restricted to the South.
Not to mention the decimated American Indian populations of the American continent.
And while Hitler certainly needed to be stopped by any means possible, what did the Allies do to prevent their allies during WWII, the Russians, from launching their own pogroms, resulting in the dreaded gulag camps, worse than concentration camps, and responsible for the death of as many if not more innocent Russians as the unfortunate Jews who died in Nazi pogroms?
Or the millions of innocents who were massacred by the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia’s Killing Fields.
Or the millions being slaughtered today in the tribal wars in Africa’s central and western regions?
So, you’ll excuse me if I don’t buy into the American fantasy of their’s being the only Good and Right culture and everyone else being either outright Evil, or just plain too ignorant to come over to the American way of thinking.
The reason I mention this is because a lot of Alternate History fiction has this somewhat contentious US-centric viewpoint.
That’s because most Alternate History fiction is written by American authors.
And it’s written postulating ideas for stories set in worlds which are often thinly disguised ‘Us Versus Them’ stories.
Except that the US always stands for the USA, not US as in humankind in general.
And ‘Them’ always stands for any other culture that’s non-USA.
If you can overlook that pig-headed viewpoint, Alternate History novels can be pretty entertaining. In a way, they actually expose this Americancentric way of thinking and shine an interesting light on the current American megalomania, the Bush dream of a worldwide American Empire, underwritten by McDonalds and Ruffles Lays and Pepsi, and enforced by American-controlled World Bank aid and trade agreements and of course, well-timed wars in regions that control resources vital to American development, like, for instance, oil reserves.
But let’s put aside the politics for a moment (hard to do because most Alternate History, like most History, is about politics, but let’s try anyway) and look at some of the books in this sub-genre worth reading.
In the next part of this series, I’m going to list some of my favourite alt-hist authors and books.
(…to be continued)
My Wife’s Murdergascar: (Definitely Not) A Review of Ramu Picture wallah’s latest fiasco
One of my quirks is an unconscionable tendency to deliberately mispronounce words, especially titles of movies and books, names of celebs, and even song lyrics.
I do this so routinely that at home they’re used to deciphering my weird mispronunciations.
So, for instance, to give you some recent examples, Parineeta becomes Perinatal, My Wife’s Murder becomes My Wife’s Mother (or even, obscurely, Mother-in-Law), Iqbal becomes Ek-ball, and so on.
Sometimes, I even combine these weird mispronuncations to come up with oddities like MyWife’sMurdergascar (a combo of My Wife’s Murder and Madagascar).
I’ve been doing this ever since I was a kid. It’s the way I think, that’s all. As people close to me know, I’ve always been a bit of a cartoon, constantly making ‘pjs’ and sometimes even ‘gj’s’ (good jokes!), and coming up with smart alecky thoughts that I sometimes voice aloud.
It’s like there’s a switch in my head that automatically flips the moment I hear something corny, and instantly I get a response.
Whether I choose to voice that response or not depends on the circumstances, or just on my mood. But I almost always get that
smart-alecky response.
At times, when it’s in full flow, I can watch a really awful movie–which is almost any Bollywood movie these days–and ‘dub’ the dialogue with my own running soundtrack.
Those who’ve had the dubious honour of being subjected to this aural torture by me have sometimes survived and laughed to tell the tale!
But mostly I just do it to get by, to deal with all the marketing shit
that TV channels, advertisers, movie studios, publishers, etc, throw at us every minute of every day.
To thumb a nose back at all that marketing muscle, and tell, them Ah, Go Brush Your Mother’s Teeth.
It’s my way of whistling in the wind.
Most recently, while watching My Wife’s Murder, I really wanted to do my ‘original soundtrack’ rendition.
The movie was that awful.
Now, you regular IE readers probably know by now that I actually like Ramu’s stuff a lot.
(That’s Ramu, short for Ram Gopal Varma, by the way, not Ramu Dosawalla, on Carter Road, Bandra, Bombay–although sometime I think Ramu Dosawalla makes better dosas than Ramu Picturewallah makes movies, but anyway…)
More than any individual movie (my fave RGV film is Ek Hasina Thi), I
like his attitude to Bollywood: Bakwaas bandh. Screw the songs, the sub-plots, the sidey character-plays, everything.
Just Tell The Story. Stylishly, elegantly, directly, brutally, simply. No naach-gaana (unless it’s a film about Naach-Gaana, and the distributors insist on naach-gaana).
If you want naach-gaana, you don’t go to see an RGV film, you go to a dance bar.
Or, since dance bars are closed now in Maharashtra, you go see a Karan Johar film instead.
Now, I know that MWM (My Wife’s Murder, or as I prefer to call it, My Wife’s Murdergascar) is not ‘really’ an RGV film.
In the sense that Ramu (picture wallah, not dosa walla) only produced the film, he didn’t direct it.
But then again, so many of RGV’s films are like that. I loved Ek Hasina Thi, which also he only produced.
I adored Ab Tak Chappan, Darna Mana Hai, and D, also ditto, ditto, ditto.
But MWM should have stayed unproduced, and undirected.
Actually, it was undirected, so what I mean is, it should have stayed unproduced.
Here’s the simple problem with the film: It doesn’t have a story.
You’ve seen the promos, you know more or less what the whole film is
about: A guy accidentally causes his wife’s death, then attempts to cover it up.
Now there’s a premise that could be developed into a full-length story, be it a novel, or a film.
Instead, it remains a premise. A premise with a promise. Which doesn’t deliver on that promise.
So the man gets nagged by the wife, loses his temper, slaps the wife, gets slapped back, and then she keels over, hits the bedstead and dies.
And then he tries to cover it up.
And he gets caught.
End of story, end of film.
Don’t worry, I didn’t spoil the suspense for you.
There is no suspense.
That’s the whole film.
He tries to cover it up, then gets caught.
Come on!
Now, if he got away with it, through an ingenious series of twists and turns, it would be a film.
If he fell into a vortex of ever-increasing complications, and then eventually, despite his best efforts, got caught, even that might work, although not as well. But it would be realistic and still interesting.
As it stands, though, it’s so simple, so one-line, it simply doesn’t work as a film.
See it for yourself, and you’ll see what I mean.
It’s not about the realism. All RGV’s films are realistic. The mundane details are captured as convincingly as always.
But it’s the story that doesn’t go anywhere, like a car in first gear trying to accelerate to 80 kmph.
Even Anil Kapoor’s performance, sincere though it is, requires him to do little more than look harried and promote cigarette smoking for video editors like he’s being personally sponsored by ITC.
The only moment when he shines through is in the end, when he’s captured by the police, and shouts out an explanation to his kids–that’s the closest he comes to acting, as against endorsing cigarette smoking for editors who have accidentally killed their wives.
(Oddly enough, since the film is about a video editor, I actually happen to know the film’s editor, a very nice talented young guy named Ajoy Verma, and he actually does smoke–now I just hope he doesn’t have a wife who nags him, and that he doesn’t slap that wife, and then…)
I almost think that Ramu went to sleep during the script discussions of the film.
Me: “Bahut bheja khaya, Ramu-ji. Ab mere goli khaa!”
Gun: “Dichang! Dichang! Dichang!”
Me: “Bachh gaya saala!”
Anyway, coming back to the film, the only way I can deal with non-starters like that and still keep my sanity (which is already very shaky to begin with as is your’s, my neurotic reader) is to come up with alternate ways the film could have gone.
So, for instance, the Anil Kapoor character, instead of running off with his two little kids and subjecting them to all that stress and food poisoning and highway traffic, should simply have taken his
in-laws and run with them instead.
Then they could have even changed the title to My Wife’s Mother.
Had the ma-in-law nagging him. Then he gets mad and tells his wife to
tell her mother to stop nagging him.
So she says something stupid back to him. He slaps her (the wife). The
mother-in-law gets angry and slaps him.
Then he slaps her (the mother-in-law)!
The mother-in-law keels over, strikes her head on the edge of the bed, and falls down dead. (See, it even rhymes!)
Then he takes the wife and they both start running.
And the mother-in-law, now become a zombie, gets up, picks up the belan (dough-roller) in one hand, and the pressure cooker in the other hand (never know when you need rice as well as chapatis) and starts running after them.
In the end, she catches them, but only after tearing through a couple of dozen extras, causing major traffic jams, blowing up buildings, ripping through 16-ton trailer trucks (belans and pressure cookers make
a deadly combination) and generally causing mayhem throughout the city, sort of the way that the recent floods caused mayhem.
She catches them in the end, kills them both (she’s pissed off with the daughter now for not serving lunch on time) and then turns to the camera and says, in a perfect imitation of Arnold Schwarzenegger (but
an Indian Arnold), “Aah’ll be back!”
Now, that’s a film that even Ramu dosa walla could have liked.
In the end, though, My Wife’s Murder as it stands now, serves only as a feature-length promo for cigarette smoking, a doubtful promo for Onida TV (the TV is bekaar, but the box is useful to transport dead bodies), and cautionary tale about the hazards of being a video editor (boring job, nagging wife, assistant who doesn’t put out), as well as the risks of a live-in relationship, and lastly, police officers like eating biryani better than solving murders.
Oh, and there should be a statutory warning issued with all double beds too: CAUTION: FALLING HARD ON EDGE OF BED MAY CAUSE HEAD INJURIES AND BAD FILM SCRIPTS.
I also have a theory for why the film turned out to be such a disappointment: The director and the script writer were arguing about the script. The scriptwriter said something nasty, the director slapped him, the writer slapped him back, the director slapped him back harder…the writer slapped him yet again…and they’re still slapping each other somewhere for collaborating on this disaster of a film!
“Never judge a book by its film”: Book reviews of two books on Mangal Pandey
This review appeared in HT.
Mangal Pandey: Brave Martyr or Accidental Hero?
By Rudranghsu Mukherjee
Penguin India; 110 pgs; Rs 150
Mangal Pandey: The true story of an Indian Revolutionary
by Amaresh Mishra
Rupa & Co.; 106 pgs; Rs 95
First of all, let’s breathe a sigh of relief. Neither of these two books belong to that accursed genre called ‘novelizations’. That is, neither is based on the film Mangal Pandey: The Rising, or has any connection with the movie, Unlike countless other novelizations of Hollywood (and now Bollywood) movies filling the shelves in bookstores–and the insides of trashcans, one hopes–each is an independently researched and written book that only happen to be published to coincide with the film’s release.
Both books are ‘quickies’, attempts by the authors and publishers to cash in on the possible success of the film. Their introductions admit as much, and for all the rush in getting these slim texts to publication, the speculation about what the film might be about is already obsolete, and unnecessary. It might have been better if the authors simply wrote the books and the publishers chose to publish them to coincide with the film’s release–or not. By pitching the books so close to the film’s potential viewership, they run the risk of seeming not just opportunistic, but half-baked.
In fact, at least one author, Amaresh Mishra, comes close to saying as much in his Introduction, when he admits that he was working on a much more ambitious history of the Mutiny in general–said book to be published sometime in 2006 by Rupa & Co.–when he heard about the film and decided it was vital to bring out this book to “answer the questions posed by the Mangal Pandey riddle”.
Sadly, with the film performing below expectations according to some trade and media pundits, that question doesn’t seem quite as urgent anymore. But those of us interested in more than just movie grosses might find it rewarding and insightful to glance through these two slender texts. If nothing else, they serve as valuable antidotes to the film, and for that reason alone, they’re well worth picking up.
Of the two books, the clear winner is Amaresh Mishra’s excellent volume. Mishra makes his motives clear at the very outset: to reclaim Indian history for Indians. Perhaps because of this, he is not content with merely recanting the incidents and circumstances that surrounded the little-recorded life of our “first freedom fighter”.
Instead, Mishra paints in admirably short yet detailed passages the milieu and culture of the period. The first chapter, ‘The North Indian Brahmin Ethos’ is itself worth the price of the book, effectively capturing in a few pages the mindset and conflicting influences of the time. Mishra then delves into a brief biographical reconstruction of Pandey’s life and history, boldly postulating his own conclusions about contentious details like the place of Pandey’s birth, the conflicting descriptions of Pandey’s famous ‘drugged’ attempt to rouse the sepoy guard at Barrackpore, and the very circumstances that led to the famous ‘rising’ itself. Mishra is proud to term the uprising ‘the first war of Indian Independence’ and offers succinct yet sufficient evidence to justify his choices.
All in all, Amaresh Mishra’s book on Mangal Pandey is an enjoyable read, providing much more detail and background than the film offered, while postulating a much larger web of events that rightfully deserves a place in the historical record. As even British historians like John Keay and Charles Allen admit today, there’s a pressing need to reclaim much of Indian history and revisit it through Indian sensibilities. Mishra’s excellent book is a minor yet vital part of that essential movement, and one looks forward to his larger book on the uprising next year.
In contrast, there’s really not much to say about Rudranghshu Mukherjee’s equally short but much less engaging book. Mukherjee’s introduction itself, rather than postulating an individual original theory of the subject matter, all but apologizes for producing the book itself, and admits that it’s based entirely on previous accounts. In fact, this lesser book is little more than a compilation of the historical records of court martials and other records. Where it does rise above the material is in the brief passages where Mukherjee analyses the recorded facts and offers his own conclusions and theories. But even these are marred by a tone of almost apologetic murmering. One expect much better from a historian and intellectual of Mukherjee’s level.
Still, if one has just seen the film and is wondering about how exactly certain incidents and events compare to the real, historical record, this book can provide an hour or two’s diversion.
In the end, both these books, like the film they’re attempting to cash in on, are nothing more than that–a couple of hours’ diversion–for about the same cost as a pair of multiplex tickets.
Six-gun Vixen and the Deadcoon Trashgang: A short story
This is a short story that I wrote some years ago.
It’s a hybrid between the science fiction, western, horror, fantasy, and mystery/private eye genres.
As you’ll find out when you start reading it, it’s set in an alternate world ravaged by nuclear holocaust generations earlier, where the US has regressed to the days of the Wild West, and hybrids – mutated mixtures of different species – are looked down on and despised.
The protagonist is an Indian. Not the “Red” kind, as she’s quick to clarify, but the Indian “Indian” kind.
She’s called Six-Gun Vixen for a very good reason – you’ll have to read the whole story to know why. And trust me, it’s not as obvious as it seems – not just because she carries revolvers that fire six bullets.
I don’t know if this is a good story, but I really loved writing it, if only because it broke all the rules and boundaries, wasn’t afraid to use elements of all the different genres, and just went ahead and said its piece and to hell with all the boundaries and borders and compartments.
You judge for yourself. But meanwhile, just enjoy reading it!
And as always, don’t copy any or all of it, for any reason whatsoever – not even to read later at your leisure.
You can link to it, though, and send the link to anyone else.
Now, enough talk. Slap that Halfie on its butt and git the hell outta here, pardner!
Ride, reader, ride!
Warning: The following story contains graphic descriptions, some intense violence, and strong language.
Six-gun Vixen and the Deadcoon Trashgang
by Ashok Banker
Dead Gulch lived up to its name. A two-bit hick town that was little more than a dirt track flanked by a couple dozen woodshacks. My beast growled low and mean as I started through and then reared up in yet another fool attempt to unseat me. I had to dig those rusty spurs in long and hard, twisting the boot heel like I was squishing a scorpion. My Halfie let out that familiar nerve-gnashing howl and settled down real quick.
I knew the twin wounds in his flanks must be pretty ugly by now, but felt no remorse. From time to time I had to remind him
who was boss or he’d eat you alive. Still, I’d rather ride a Halfie than a regular horse anyday. When the going got tough, at least you could count on the Halfie to do his own fighting, while the plain ole fillies and stallions just whinned and neighed and flashed their big white eyes. Speaking of which, it had been awhile since my Halfie had eaten anything, he was probably hungry enough to eat a horse by now! Probably the reason for his friskyness. I’d have to get some grub into him soon or he’d be munching on the first available animal in sight – or human.
The first couple of shacks claimed to be a Store and an Undertaker. A pair of old fogeys were sitting on the stoop of the Store, jawing baccy. One of them spat a mouthload of blood-red juice in my direction as I rode by. It hit the dirt and rolled into a neat little spitball. I felt my Halfie clench the bit between his jaws and jerk his head briefly; he was that hungry, poor sumbitch.
The Undertaker was a short thin type so pale he could have passed for one of his own clients. His black suit was frayed and threadbare at the seams. Even death didn’t profit none in Dead Gulch.
The third place was a saloon and I turned in there. My throat was parched drier than an old whore’s cunny and I’d forgotten what real whisky tasted like. I’d sipped a little snakejuice with some injuns back by the mesa but even that was a while back.
There were a bunch of horses tied up outside the saloon and a sullen-looking kid sitting by them, not caring that his left shoe was in my way and liable to be stomped on. His eyes widened at the sight of my Halfie and he stood up, swearing in Mexican.
“Watch it, pedro,� I said, dismounting. “He’s a live un.�
“My name is Juan,� he said with that puffed-up pride some kids develop when they’re forced to fend for theirselves. “And I have seen many Halfbreeds before.�
I handed him the reins, making sure to keep my hands well away from the beast’s chomping jaws.
“Yeah, well, you ain’t seen this one before. He’s a cross between a Texican red wolf alpha and an Arabian mare. Ate his own afterbirth, then started on his ma. By the time they dragged him off, she was down to the bone.�
Juan’s eyes goggled and he stepped back a couple of steps from my Halfie. I figured he’d treat the beast with a bit more respect now. If he didn’t, well, he’d end up as dinner and solve my feeding problem.
The saloon was a dusty smoke-filled place that was busier than I’d expected. The sleepy ghost-town feel of the main street belied the jumping-jack bustle in here. There was a poker game going back by the bar, and a dozen or so other tables were occupied by maybe twenty or more menfolk, every last one with a shot glass or beer-mug in hand. A couple of dull-eyed floozies lounged on barstools, their waist-high slits and flabby thighs advertising vacancies. A stairway led up to areas unknown. A piano was tinkling off to one side, played by a fey fellow in a hat half as tall as himself. Right up front was the bar. A long gleaming wood-and-glass showcase of liquor that made my mouth water with whisky-need. Damn, but those bottles looked good.
The minute I walked in, conversation died. The piano tinkled on for a couple seconds before the pansy thought to turn his head and cottoned on to the new entrant. The poker gang froze, their hands held in front of their faces like ladies at church fanning themselves.
The bartender, a big-bellied fellow with an ugly lightning-shaped scar on his bald scalp, reached below the counter and brought out a double-barrelled shotgun. He held it loosely, letting the barrel swing casually in my direction as I approached. The whores sidled away, their mouths scrunching up in disgust.
“We don’t let colored in here,� said the bartender. His name was Big Jim, I figured, because that’s what the sign on the front said, _Big Jim’s Saloon_.
“I ain’t colored,� I said. “I’m Indian. Not the kind from around here, the other kind. From India, you know. The country that Columbus first set out to find when he accidentally tripped over this floating pile o’ crap.�
Big Jim pumped the action of the shotgun and pointed it right at my head. “We don’t allow no other kind neither. That includes Chinamen and your breed, whatever you are. We don’t take kindly to foreigners here.�
“Especially no foreigner _wimmen_,� hissed one of the whores, looking me up and down like she’d like to strip me and flog me right here and now.
“Unless she’s a whore,� said an old coot across the saloon. “With a hankering for white cock and no charge for it either!�
That brought a big laugh from the house.
“Red,� said a fat man with a reedy high voice near me. “You’d fuck a nun’s nose on Easter Sunday and still go to church, you would!�
“Hell,� Red replied. “I’d fuck anything that moves as long as it’s female and doesn’t have more than six limbs, though if it’s got a purty face on it, I’d make ‘ception there too!�
That brought the house down. My eyes swept the room quickly. I gauged the mood of the place and figured that about half or more didn’t really give a hoot if I drank there, and all of those were curious to see if I put out. The rest were indifferent.
They didn’t give a shit whether I got fucked or killed. I was just colored foreign cunt to them. Not human.
None of them looked like being any real trouble.
Except for the man over at the poker table. And Big Jim.
“Shut up, Red,� he said now, raising his gravelly voice to be heard about the drunken ruckus. “All of you shut up.� The laughter subsided somewhat. “I ain’t allowing no coloreds in here, be they hos or any other kind of wimmen. Now, you git, you brownskin. Git out of here. And if you’ve half a coon’s brain in that there skull, you’ll git back on your mule or whatever fool critter you rode in on and keep going till you’re out of town. We don’t need your kind here in Dead Gulch, you here me?�
My hands were at my hiop, where I always keep them. Ready for action. Although he was so big and slow, I could have taken him even if I had a whisky bottle in my right hand and the other hand up my ass.
“Whatsa matter, cunt, din you hear the man? Get your brown ass out of here now, or there’ll be hell to pay.�
This came from the poker table, from the man sitting facing me directly. He had a high pile of colored chips sitting before him and a shiny five starred badge pinned on his shirt, so I figured him for the town sheriff.
“Is that like an official warning, sheriff,� I asked innocently. “Or are you just saying it to air your bad breath?�
This time the silence was so acute you could hear the piano player sniggering in the corner, then cutting himself off abruptly with a sibillant self-admonishment: “Wilbur, _behave_ yourself!� That man had some strings loose in his under-damper.
The sheriff shoved back his chair and rose slowly to his feet. The four other men at the table rose too. Two of them backed away quickly, the better dressed ones, but the other two turned to face me, and they both had deputy’s badges on.
Big Jim’s face split into a wide grin. He lowered the shotgun slightly to aim at my chest now. I think he liked the view better; I’m what they call well-built in the chest department.
“Honey, you should of left while the going was good. Now, we’re going to see if your insides are as brown as that leather you call skin.�
He should have been shooting instead of shooting his mouth off. I took him with my first shot off the right. With my second right hand I took a deputy. My left hands took down the sheriff and the deputy. And my third pair of hands stayed on the rest of the patrons, but never needed to fire a shot.
It was over in about two seconds.
The only four shots fired were mine.
The silence continued so long, I could hear my hands rustling against the back of my shirt as they sidled back into their specially tailored pouches. I slid my Colts back into their holsters with a practised swivel, followed by my Remingtons next, but left the little pair of hands, the ones perched high on my back, pointing the Derringers at the rest of the crowd. You never knew who might be inclined to imitate the folly of his fellow men.
Nobody objected when I took the bottle on the bar, caught the cork between my teeth and pulled it out with a sucking pop. The whisky gurgled happily into my shot glass and then down my hatch. It burned real good on the way down. By the third shot, I began to feel almost human again. Figuratively speaking.
I turned and faced the rest of the room, leaning against the bar.
“Anybody else have a problem with Indians here?� I asked. “Or wimmen? Or any other kind?�
There was a loud rustling of clothes and clanking of glasses and bottles as everybody turned back to their drinking and cards without another word. The piano player was gaping at me as he scratched his high hat.
“Wilbur,� I said. “Play something.�
He saluted, almost knocking the hat off, and began to play some redneck shit. I didn’t care. All this whiteskin crap sounded the same anyway. I turned back to the bar and continued drinking. The mirror was good enough to give me fair warning if anybody tried to act funny behind my back. I guessed Big Jim had it installed for just that reason.
The whores were looking sideways at me as I drank. One of them sidled up to me real slow, acting coy-like. Same one made that bitchy coment about _wimmen_ when Big Jim had his big shotgun pointed at me.
“Goodness me,� she said. “You’re one of those Mixed Breeds, aren’t you? Six hands! And they all move like lightning, don’t they, Mona?�
Mona didn’t reply. She was busy rifling through Big Jim’s pockets behind the bar. When she finished, she started on the cash counter.
The bitchy whore reache dout cautiously and touched my back, around about the place where I stored my topmost pair of hands.
“Jesus, if I hadn’t seen it with my own bare eyes, I’d never of known they was there. How do you keep them tucked away so discreet-like?�
I turned and looked at her. “I have slits in my back. They go all the way into my flesh, to my ribcage. The hands fit right into them, so I can massage my own heart if I want to when I feel like it. You want to see it for yourself?�
She blanched. Then she swore and turned away. I saw her going over to the poker table and starting on the sheriff’s pockets. Nice friendly town.
The old fogey they called Red came over to the bar. He walked with a kind of limp that I knew wasn’t a limp.
“I hope you didn’t take no offense to my comment about fucking a thing with six limbs or more,� he said. “Seeing as how you got eight of them. Or eight that I can see!�
“No offense taken,� I said. “Especially from a man with an extra foot.�
His eyes grew wide. He drew closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. Nobody else heard us; they were all too busy trying hard to look busy.
“I was born with it,� he said. “My pa always said it was because my ma lay with one of your kind before she begat me. Beat her to death over it one day. Then threw my ass out of the house.�
I nodded. I had heard a hundred stories like it. But I spoke to him kindly: “Time’s coming, old man. When our kind won’t have to hide or pretend anymore. Not just half-breeds. But all manner of folk that happen to be different. Including Indians, both the kind over here and the ones in my country, Chinamen, and every other color in this world. Finally, beneath the paraphernalia, we’re all the same, aren’t we? Flesh and blood, bone and soul.�
He looked at me intently for a long time.
“You’re different, ain’t you?� he said at last.
I offered him a drink in lieu of a response. He hesitated, then shrugged and took it.
“You shot all the law in this town,� he said. “Not that it was very lawful-lik to tell you the truth. And ain’t nobody goin’ to mourn Big Jim either, except that he knew how to mix up a great evil-smelling batch of stuff to cure hangovers on Sunday mornings.�
He paused, scratching the swelling on his right leg, which was actually his third leg tied tight to the side beneath the cuff of the trousers to look like a club foot.
He went on.
“But the Dead Coon Trashgang will be out in force now. Sheriff Dolan had a kind of working arrangement with them, so they sort of stayed under control. But now that he’s gone, they’ll be free to do as they please. Which is no skin off your nose, but it means the few half-decent folks in this shitty town will be hard-pressed to stay alive and in one piece.�
I thought about that for a while. For about the time it took me to finish the bottle. He waited patiently while I drank, barely finishing his first. I figured him for one of those temperate folk.
When I had enough whisky in my belly to make me feel like life was worth living again, I said: “So you’d like me to take out these Dead Coons or whatever they call themselves? Is that what you’re saying? Rid the town of some trouble-making varmints?�
He nodded. “Seeing as how handy your are with a gun and all.” He frowned. “With six of them actually. What do you call yourself anyway?â€?
I opened a fresh bottle. “Six-gun Vixen.�
He smiled at that. “That’s rich, that’s mighty rich. Six-gun, hey? Well, you got six of them all right!� he guffawed, slapping his thigh with pleasure.
“And what’s in it for me if I do clear up this Trashgang for you folks?� I asked.
He didn’t answer. He was still shivering with laughter over that last one. He lapped his double thigh again and launched into another series of guffaws. “Six-gun Vixen! Mighty rich! Six-gun! Haw Haw Haw Haw!�
I drank some bourbon and waited. The saloon had gone back to normal-like, almost. A few men had dragged the dead lawmen out back, leaving large scarlet trails in the sawdust-strewn floor. Nobody seemed to miss ‘em much, I noticed.
When the old fogey had finished having his funnies, he resumed.
“Well,� he said, wiping the tears from his eyes and looking like he could be set off with a feather. “Seeing as how you’re so handy with a gun – with all six o’ them, matterfact!� He coughed and managed to control himself. “Mayhaps the town’s merchantfolk would be able to rustle up some kind of compensation for your cleaning up them varmints.�
“How much?� I asked, glancing around. This bunch didn’t look like they had two whole dollars between them, but then again, who was I to argue with people if they wanted to throw their money away? Besides, maybe these dead coons were bad enough for honest folks to want to pay to be rid of them.
He worked his jaw for a moment. “Seven silver ones. One for each o’em. Leastaways, there was seven last we heard. Could be more by now, they multiply like vermin.�
I sipped a little more bourbon. “Gold ones,� I said. “And one for each one I kill, seven or more.�
He sputtered. That wasn’t very funny, evidently.
“You’re out of your head! That’s half a year’s earnings for this town!�
“Way I see it, old-timer, is if you don’t flush out these dead coons or whatever, you won’t have any earnings. So you put it to your people and ask them which is better, paying up my fee or paying the piper. Either way, it’s the same to me. I ride on tomorrow, coons or no coons. And oh yeah, I’d need at least three of those gold ones up front. Way I see it I already did you people a favour by offing those no-good lawmen. Them was free, so I’ll adjust it against any coons I kill. But you tell those merchants that’s my final offer. Take it or leave it.�
He blustered and fumed a bit. Then he went away for a spell, leaving the saloon. I watched him shuffle out on that folded leg of his and didn’t think he’d be coming back. Before I was halfway through the second bottle, there he was by my side again. He seemed sulky now.
“Awright,� he said, grumbling. “But they’re only paying two up front. Rest on delivery. And they want the job done today.
Before the coons learn about the dead lawmen and come calling. Means you got to sundown to bust the gang.�
I took the large gold sovereigns he gave me and examined them both, first with my teeth and then with my eyes. They had Lincoln on the front and good old Sam Eagle on the back, and they was both real. One thing about Dead Gulch: at least their gold was good.
“So what are these Dead Coons anyway? And where can I find them?�
“Down by the old mill house. By the river.� After a moment he added: “They’re nightbirds. Better get the job done before sundown, or you won’t get out o’ there alive, six-guns or no six-guns.�
The millhouse looked abandoned from the rise, and as I rode down toward it, not a soul moved nearby. The river was little more than a piss-trickle, and the area looked blasted and seared by more than just desert sun.
“Easy, boy,� I said, controlling my beast’s nervousness as he smelt the familiar stench of his most natural rival. He had eaten well. A calf I’d bought from one of the steadlers Red introduced me to. I’d taken first blood, biting the neck of the calf with one quick motion and shutting my eyes in something near ecstasy as I tasted hot, living blood and quivering flesh. It had taken all my self-control to keep from finishing the whole steer meself. But I’d left more than three-fourths for Halfie and he’d gorged himself fat and sated. I could feel him grumbling as he carried my weight beneath this blazing afternoon heat. He’d hoped to rest a good two days and nights. And he would, just as soon as I finished with this little business here.
As I reached the outskirts of the property, I got off and whispered to him to be silent. I moved real quiet, not letting even my spurs jangle. I should of tied him up but he might get attacked and wouldn’t be able to defend himself. So I left him loose, even though I was taking a chance that way. There was nothing to stop him from taking to the hoof and hightailing it. But I didn’t think he’d do it. Not with that steer’s worth o’ meat inside his belly.
Boards creaked underfoot as I walked up the back stoop. I sniffed and caught the odor of a hundred different things, all mixed up together like a bag of sweaty rattlesnakers. There was wolverine in there, and dead flesh, and milk, and–
Milk?
What in Ram Hill wree a bunch of vampires doing with milk?
I shrugged that one aside and stepped slowly over a warped board. The place was in pretty bad shape. If these deadcoons or whatever they called theirselves had a human familiar who cared for them by day, he wasn’t doing his job. There was all sorts of nasty stains and spills around. I stepped carefully to avoid getting my boots all gummy: nothing sticks like dried vampire blood, except maybe an elephant-zombie’s eye-mucus. Trust me, I know.
The door was ajar. Which was an invitation to disaster. No bunch of fangers leaves their door unlocked unless they _want_ you to hie on in. I flicked up my hairy ears as far as they’d go, which is about four inches over the top o’ my head, and listened real carefully. My wolf-sharp hearing was good enough to pick up an iguana crunching on a sand-beetle a mile away. I heard nothing else except the dry wind blowing sandy dust against the walls of the shack, a sandsnake scrabbling with a rat somewhere in the dirt behind me, my Halfie’s stomach groaning as it processed that bucketload of meat, a rusty hinge creaking in the wind. The house sounded empty, but it also sounded like it was meant to sound empty. Like it was waiting for me to step in and WHAM!
I went in anyway. I’d been WHAMMED! Before. At least this time there was gold for my pains.
The first room was a kitchen, since I’d come into the place ass-backwards. It looked like a slaughter-house. Either the gang had laid out a buffet right here or there had been one ugly bust-up in here. Severed limbs and other assorted organs, in-ternal as well as ex-, lay in stinking pools of decay. This was where most of the smells I had caught were coming from. I flicked my eyes across the place, figuring that maybe a dozen or more bodies had bought their tickets to the great abattoir in the sky right here. Mostly human, but some halfies mixed in too.
The second room was so much worse, I had to stop and take a moment. Not to refer to my pocket Gita, but because this was a bit rich, even for my omnivorous digestion. I’ve seen some bad scenes in my time and will probably see several more before I eventually become part of one meself, but this was… well, it was plain ugly. This wasn’t the remains of a fight. It was the debris after a massacre. Judging by the entrails and stuff lying splattered all around, humans had mixed it in pretty good with a bunch of Halfies of different breeds, and not all on a single occasion either. This was an ongoing campaign that had taken place over several encounters in as many days.
The only thing I couldn’t tell for sure was who had massacred who. As for the why, that’s one question I never ask, for fear I might actually get an honest answer. I don’t know about Humans, but we Halfies don’t gel with the concept of killing for killing’s sake, or for any other reason except feeding. Like the motto above a Halfie Slaughterhouse in the Kansas outback: ‘We Waste No Part of the Humanimal.’
Standing there in that large empty room, I felt like I could be in that Slaughterhouse again, except that these hunks of flesh and stuff were way past saleable. There were more maggots and flesh flies around than in most graveyards.
Barely a second after I’d stopped, I heard a whisper of sound from further inside the house. I moved in, my hands at the ready, two guns already out and cocked. The whisper came again, and I knew without a doubt now: There was somebody here. Somebody alive.
I came through a hallway with three doors leading off it. I went to the middle door and went through it. I was real careful and full-alert, ready for anything. I didn’t want to add to the body count in this slaughterhouse. So when I saw a figure move in the shadows by the far wall, I shot first and thought later.
The echoes died down like the wind in a gulley before a storm. My Halfie snickered outside, recognizing the sound of my Colts. A scorpion perched on the windowsill fell onto its back, dislodged by the reverberations of my double discharge.
I was across the room before the scorpion hit the floor, my Colts pointed straight ahead, the Derringers at the sides, and the Remingtons watching my back.
There was a bloody pile of bones and rags that might have once been a living thing, slumped against the wall. Two fist-sized splatters of blood low-down on the wall marked the results of my gunmanship.
I used my boot to kick the thing over onto its back, ready in case it was playin’ possum.
It was a kid. That was the first thing I saw and the thing that got me straightaway like a horse-kick to the temple. A kid.
I holstered the Colts and scrunched down. The kid was still stirring as I pulled off the rags wrapped around its face and arms. The stench that it gave off was worse than the ones in the other rooms; dead rotten flesh is ugly, but live rotting flesh is gut-cutting.
It made a mewling sort of sound and I knew then that it was catbreed, a werecat of some sort. Too mixed to be tell the species, but a cat for sure. No mistaking those whispers, furry ears and the feline eyes.
And it was female and fully grown, I realized with a shock. A mature adult, but so scrawny she looked no bigger than a kid.
By sniffing the hormonal soup of its sweat and groin secretions, I could also tell she was dying. Not just from my shots — those had been the last nails in a coffin long closed – but from hunger and thirst. She was starved.
Its eyes…her eyes…were opening and closing slowly, as if the life-light was flickering like a lantern on a windy prairie. I started to get up to go outside and get my water canteen, but then her dusty lids flickered open and I swear I was looking down into the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen, ‘fore or since. They were green as jade, like a carving of a little Chinese laughing buddha I’d once seen in Hunan city, but flecked with gold speckles. Green and gold, sparkling, and if they could sparkle so bright now, I don’t know how good they’d of looked in the right light. Like gemstones, I guess. Flawless gemstones.
She would have been a purty thing, if she’d lived and taken some decent nourishment. But from the looks of those wounds and the way her breath was starting to wheeze, her living days were done. She looked up at me, and for a moment I thought she was going to snarl or lash out one last time ‘fore dying, like catbreed mostly do. She could see I was wolfbreed and we’re natural sworn enemies, species-wise.
But she didn’t do none of that. Instead, she sort of stared at me as if memorizing my face. Somehow, I could tell by the way she looked at me that she wasn’t afraid of me none. Should have been: I had just shot her guts out and a chunk of her liver and I still had six guns ready to blow more holes in her wasted carcass. But there was a sense of connection. I swear I could almost feel her thinking that she was so glad I was female. That’s what I saw in those eyes.
“Cubs,� she said. Just that single word. And rolled her eyes downwards, as if pointing. I looked, but there was nothing there except floorboads. “Cubs,� she said again, and coughed a low, feeble cougar-like cough. And died.
Slimy brackish blood oozed out of her mouth like a large snail, spreading over her chest, which was barely covered by a holey poncho. And I saw the bumps on her chest and the tiny circles of wetness around about the place where her nipples were.
That’s when I remembered the milk-smell. The only one I couldn’t figure out in this place of death and decay. She was lactating. Which meant there were young uns nearby. Cubs, she had said.
I found the trapdoor right beneath my feet. Cleverly concealed beneath a layer of grime and sawdust. She had died guarding the way to her cubs. I don’t know how long she had been up here, but it was too long. She’d probably been checking on the cubs from time to time, and from their condition, I’d say she had been giving them milk until they were all but drinking her blood. Mayhap she had given them some of that too: catbreed were said to do it when unable to feed their cubs otherwise. But these were no vampires, deadcoons, they were plain ordinary catbreed cubs.
There were eight in the original litter. Two were dead a long time, three more had died recently. Painfully, from the rictus of pain their little cat mouths were screwed up into. The three surviving ones were the toughest of the lot, but even they had turned to biting one another and themselves out of sheer desperation. Still, they snarled as I leaped down the trapdoor onto the dirt-floor of the cellar. One of them got to his haunches and showed me his little cat fangs, protecting his little brother and sister. He was the first-born, I could tell. We first-borns tend to recognize one another.
He was a tough little tyke. It took him a while to accept the fact that his mother was dead; he kept licking at her whiskers and face as if trying to wake her up, or wash her. Catbreed are big on washing each other up. His smallest sibling, the other male, was a scrawny bunch o’ bones, and he seemed heartbroken at his mother’s stillness. He sniffed the ichor that had oozed out of her jaws and lay down, mewling. I didn’t think he’d make it. Their little sister was quiet and calm. She was weak from hunger and was conserving her strength. Her little belly, swollen with gases, heaved and fell, fighting the good fight to keep breathing and stay alive. She panted silently as I picked her up in one hand, then scratched me a deep short gash on the back of my hand.
I smiled at her. She had her mama’s eyes.
When I rode back into town, the late afternoon sun was just starting to slant across the deserted street. I had made just one stop, at the same farmer’s place where I’d bought the steer for lunch. He wasn’t around, but there was a cow on the place, and I got enough milk out of her to give the cubs the best goddamn meal they’d had for weeks. The little male puked his out after a few licks, and I could see a little blackish red in the puke: he was hurt inside and wouldn’t last the night. But the other two looked at me like I was their longlost aunt Matty come home for Christmas with a whole wagonload of goodies.
I knew there was something odd about the fact that there was nobody in sight on the main street – hell, the only street, and that shoulda warned me; but I figured that Dead Gulch was one of those towns that are big on siestas.
I went to the saloon, thinking there had to be someone there. And I was right.
The whole town was there, waiting.
And this time they were ready for me.
They had the old man Red trussed up real good against the bar, spread-eagled with ropes going around him and around the bar. He was bloodied up and his extra foot had been exposed and was flailing helplessly. Rope bites had bit through his skin and though I couldn’t see much blood or harm, his eyes were rolled up and he seemed to be in a bad way.
That was what got me. I wasn’t expecting it, and when I looked in over the swinging half-doors of the saloon and saw him trussed up that way, I just walked straight on in without a second thought.
Right into the ambush.
There were two of them beside the door, waiting. I don’t know what they hit me with, but it felt like a ton of iron. I staggered, my guns starting to come out, but the other one hit me on the side of the head and I just crashed out clean.
When I came to I was the one tied up on the bar, and Red was washing off the pig’s blood with a sponge and bucket. I knew it was pig’s blood now ‘cause I could smell it. If I’d just trusted my animal sense instead of my fool human instincts, I’d have known that straight off. He and the other boys looked mighty pleased about their little circus act.
“Ah,� he said, seeing I was stirring. “The boys here thought that they’d done bashed your brains to mush.� He chuckled. “I told them that Halfbreeds like you only have half a brain to start with. And since you’ve got foreign blood mixed up too, you prolly don’t know how to use even the half-brain you got!�
There were guffaws and grins all around at that. The saloon was back to normal again. Everyone drinking and carousing as before; even the piano player was tinkling, his high hat swaying as he tapped out the beat. The whole siesta-time charade had been just for my benefit. I didn’t feel to appreciative though. My head bled like a leaking coconut, and the ropes really were cutting into my flesh real cruel-like. The pain in my head kept rhythm with Up On Old Smokey.
Red got up and came over to me. Crouching, he half-squatted and leered in my face. “Took these back,� he said, showing me the gold coins he ha dtaken from my pocket while I was out cold. “Figured you wouldn’t be needing them no more.�
He pocketed them.
I tried to ignore the throbbing in my skull. “You sent me there to flush out the rest of the catbreed. You had lost too many men already trying to get rid of them, so you figured I stood a better chance, being a Halfie myself.�
He grinned, turning to look at his back-up players.
“Hey, boys, looks like she might have a little sense in her skull after all. Maybe a little rubbed off from the humans she spread her legs for, hey?!�
They roared raucously in response.
“But you’re a Halfie too,â€? I said. “Your leg–.â€?
He struck me so hard and sudden, I didn’t have time to even clench my stomach muscles. It felt like the front of my stomach met my spine. Spread out like I was, it took me moments before I could start breathing again.
“I’m no Halfbreed,� he said, his eyes flashing with an anger and vigor that belied his age. He pointed to his leg, now strapped up and tucked out of sight inside his trousers again. “This is a birth defect, you hear? A birth defect!�
I didn’t say anything. I was too busy trying to hold in my digested lunch.
He took out a long ugly knife. A Bowie. The serrated edge gleamed like it had been polished for hours. He hadn’t been using it to carve woodchips, for sure.
“You creatures are a curse on the land,� he said. “Sent by the Lord to remind us of our sins.�
I sighed. Another Bible thumper. I should have known when I first laid eyes on him; he had that fanatic gleam in his eyes. And a love of violence. The two made a combination deadlier than a poison-filled rattle and fangs.
“But now the time of the plague is done. The day of redemption draws nigh.�
He was loud enough to be heard across the room. Everybody kept on with their business, like they’d heard him make this speech a hundred times afore; but as he went on, they chipped in with “Hear ye, hear ye,� and “Amen,� at just the right moments, never stopped their card games and whisky swigging and whore-nuzzling. This was prolly what passed for Sunday school in Dead Gulch.
“We, the promised children, shall take the land back from the cursed ones. Death to the mutants and halfbreeds and all other filthy verminous abominations!�
“Amen!�
“We shall cleanse the land with their blood, and feed their carcasses to the jackals and vultures and hogs, and shall wipe their damned kind off the face of the earth.�
“Amen!�
“And then the Lord shall look down on us and say, ‘This is good,’ and he shall reward us with life eternal and paradise on Earth again. Eden shall be our land, and we the children of Adam will rise again to take our rightful place among the angels of the Lord.�
“Amen!�
I had a feeling he’d mixed up his Bible lesson somewhat, but it didn’t seem like a good time to correct him. I was busy trying to work on the ropes that bound me. His men had taken away all six of my guns, but they forgot that a Vixen’s greatest weapons are her fangs and claws. I kept my claws retracted mostly; the guns were quicker and cleaner most of the time. But I protracted them now and began to saw through my ropes discreetly. Fortunately, Red was shielding me from the eyes of the others, and he himself had his back to me as he played preacher-preacher. Some of the men were getting that glaze-eyed look I’d seen before, and that less from the whisky than from the preachin’. I figured that he was rousing them up to something. With me hogtied up here, it didn’t take a genius to figure out what that might be.
He droned on some more about the Apocalypase and the Day of the Slaughter and stuff like that, until I got tired of listening.
But I heard him loud and clear when he called for them tob bring in the cubs.
The men were slow-witted from the religious spell he’d put them under and he had to repeat himself.
Red hit one of them upside the face. “Bring them in,� he said again.
I stopped sawing as the room grew quiet. I had left the cubs in a haybarn at the farmer’s place, a mile or so out of town, so they could digest their milk and sleep on a full stomach for a bit. But of course, the farmer was one of them. They all were taken up by Red’s madness.
My blood ran cold when one of the towheads that had ambushed me came in with the cubs in his paws.
I had a rough time as a yearling. A really rough time. Nothing I’d care to talk of under suchlike circumstances, but let’s just say that I got mad if I saw anyone mishandling young uns. Spittin’, cursin’, slicin’, bitin’, fightin’ mad. Even killin’ mad at times.
When I saw what these human bastards were going to do to the cus, I felt the anger rise up in me like bile in a pig’s gullet.
Old Red had the Bowie to the little male’s belly when I slashed through the last of my ropes and broke free. He looked up as I leaped to my feet and I saw his eyes flash that same grin he’d first greeted me with. He hadn’t just been sayin’ it; he really was the sort who would fuck anything with legs, two or more or less, except that he was also the sort that would kill it once he was done having his way with it.
He grinned widely and raised his right hand so’s I could see clearly.
And then he impaled the cub on the point of his Bowie, digging it in with a manic, religious glee.
Half a dozen men had their guns out and were on their feet. This time, it wasn’t just the Sheriff and Big Jim and those slow-witted deputies: Red had been right about one thing, they had been the only things keeping the Deadcoons safe in town.
Except that the real Deadcoons were right here in this saloon, walking on two legs, and the citizens Sheriff Dolan and his badge had been protecting were the catbreed clan out there in the millhouse – if you can call turning the occasional blind eye to a massacre or two _protection_.
I could have taken all of them with just my fangs and claws, but I’d have a dozen bullets in me before I was halfway across the room. And though we Wolfbreed do heal fast, we can be killed.
But Red had twisted that Bowie in that little half-starved tyke, and it was dying right there in the sawdust, and he had the other two lined up for slaughter as well, like some crazy sacrifices to his cause. And I would rather die than stand by and see three cubs get butchered. Bad enough, I had shot their mother dead. True, it was this human bastard that had tricked me into going out there but it was my bullets that orphaned them.
We stood there for a second or two in a mexican stand-off. Then Red called it. I could see from the look on his face that he wanted to put more than just his Bowie inside me, and maybe all the other men in the saloon were also hankering for a taste of the same apple pie. But I was free now and conscious, and there was only one way this stand-off could end.
“Shoot her,� he said quietly. Smart enough to know they couldn’t take me alive or in one big enough piece. And turned his attention to the next cub, the female. She mewled softly as the Bowie rose above her big as a guillotine to her scrawny little neck.
The sound of the saloon picture window exploding was deafening. You never heard glass crash that loud before. Because when my Halfie came throug, he didn’t just charge in, he roared. And you have to hear a well-fed healthy wolf-horse mixbreed roar to know what it’s like. Blood curdles instantly at the sound, and then turns to cheese.
He burst through the window at my whistle, which I’d given out the moment I burst free of the ropes. Landing straight on a large card table. The table legs collapsed under his weight, and the four men sitting there were pinned like flies under a swat. The sound of their thigh bones crunching was like gravel under hooves. My Halfie was in full fighting mode, his claws lashing and slashing in four directions at once, decapitating two man with a single swipe, turning the faces of another three to red mush in an instant.
Before he hit the floor, I was on my way. Leaping in an arc that took me from one end of the saloon to the other. As I went, lunging and leaping like an acrobat in a show – or a wolf in the middle of a horse herd – I cut open bellies and slit throats with vicous force. I had six hands to do it with and my Halfie had four and between the two of us, we were like fire and brimstone to that group of misguided drunken Bible thumpers.
Reaching the far end, I rolled over, and when I came up on my feet, I had all my six guns back in my fists. They’d slung them onto the piano, and as I took them, my claws slicked the piano player’s tall hat into shreds. He howled and fell to the floor, cowering and wetting his pants.
Then I snarled at Red, who was still holding the Bowie raised over the female cub, stunned into inaction by the suddenness of the violence we had wreaked on his world.
“You were right, Red,� I snarled. “The Day of Slaughter is at hand.�
And I filled him with bullets before he could even start to turn around. He went down in a blur of blood and gristle.
It didn’t take more than another minute or so to clean up the rest of the place.
By the time my Halfie and I were done, there were only two humans left alive in Dead Gulch: The pianoplayer. And Juan, the little horse-minder.
He was sitting on the porch outside when I emerged with the two cubs in two of my hands. He was sitting like it was just another sunny day and he was just minding the horses as always. But I saw from the way he flicked his brown eyes up at me and then down again that the killing inside had rattled him and he feared for his life too. I didn’t blame him; I had just wiped out the entire population of Dead Gulch.
“Don’t fret, son,� I told him as I calmed my Halfie down. “I don’t have nothin’ to do with hurtin’ young un, and I don’t parlay with those that do neither.�
I got on to my Halfie who groaned with satisfaction, still chewing on someone’s leg. I realized it was Red’s. It had a double joint and two feet. That beast will anything anytime.
I flicked the horse boy one of the gold coins I’d taken from Red. He’d had a little cache. Not a lot, but more than he’d let on at first when pretending to negotiate ‘on behalf of’ the townsfolk.
“Here you go, Pedro,� I said. “Take a horse and ride on somewhere else where the people ain’t prejudiced. World’s got enough killing and hatin’ in it without adding more.�
He pocketed the coin and spat a mouthful of baccy on the dusty street. “My name is Juan,� he called out to my back as I rode off. “I’ll be seeing you again someday, Six-gun.�
I grinned as I rode out of town, the two cubs peeking out of the pockets of my saddlebag. Juan. Sounded like a good name to give a spirited catbreed first-born. Now all I had to do was think of one for the female. Juanita maybe. Yeah, why the hell not.
Any darn handle would be better than Six-gun Vixen.
Movieblogging: A non-profit approach to independent individualistic film making under the Creative Commons License
A number of you have written in asking about my proposed film Beautiful Ugly as well as other film projects I’ve said I wish to pursue.
A common question most have, or misunderstand, is regarding the kind of film/s I’m interesting in making.
Let’s be clear about this: I’m not at all interested in commercial Bollywood-type song-and-dance extravaganzas.
There are enough David Dhawans and Sajid Nadiadwalas around to cater to that market and to keep the cliche image of “Indian film” dead-alive and toxic for several decades.
Nor am I interested in the so-called ‘multiplex cinema’ which is touted about these days. Yes, there are good alternate films being made and with multiplexes offering alternative screening choices, it’s possible to make a low-budget film without stars or naach-gaana-tamasha and even recover one’s money.
But there are more than enough Onirvans and Nagesh Kukunoors and other talented young (or even not-so-young) filmmakers making those kind of alternate cinema.
I’m not interested in those either.
What I’m interested in is a kind of film that’s easier to make than to describe.
Not a low-budget digital short, or even a handheld documentary.
What I’m talking about is more along the lines of a blog, or a vblog.
Except that the camera is turned outwards, not on the subject or blogger.
I’m talking about films that are video essays, commentary, a combination of reportage, poem, editorialization, fiction, and just plain individual commentary.
I told you it’s tough to explain.
Hopefully, I’ll have a sample of what I’m talking about soon – well, not ’soon’, but “soon”. Maybe in about six months.
Not because it takes time to make the film itself, but because I’m a full-time novelist and have existing commitments to be fulfilled first.
And I’m also in the process of a house-move. Which involves (obviously) house-hunting first, already on as we ’speak’, and is a long laborious process, as you probably know.
But once I complete my first film – or rather, the first one I’m willing to share publicly, since I’ve already made several for my own experimentation and learning process – then hopefully things will be clearer.
Meanwhile, I just want to say a bit about the second question most of you have had: Which concerns the profitability of this ‘venture’ or ‘hobby’ or as I prefer to call it, Creative TP.
To be blunt, there is none.
Not a paisa to be made from this. Not a rupee, cent, dollar, pound, mark, bhat, rupaya, kroner, yen…
In fact, once made and put up on the Net, or burned on a DVD and handed out, the finished work (call it film, essay, whatever) will be under a Creative Commons License.
What’s that, you ask?
Click on the heading of this post if you like, it’ll take you to creativecommons.org, and to a page which spells out in a few simple lines what the Creative Commons License entails.
There’s also a link to a full, comprehensive, legal-bhaasha version of the same License.
But if you want me to summarize it, then basically a Creative Commons License means that the work is Free to distribute and pass on, so long as it is attributed correctly to the creator (which means, it must be attributed exactly as the creator wished, not as you choose), and as long as you do not charge anything for it either.
Clear?
My goal is not just to express myself through these kind of ‘films’, but to snook a thumb at Bollywood and Hollywood.
To prove that it’s possible to make involving, interesting, even entertaining (funny is good too!) films that don’t involve a commercial profit motive.
That are free to view, free to share, free to pass on.
And that are individualistic (although there’s no reason why a bunch of people can’t get together and collaborate either) and express a point of view that comes from a real person, an ordinary person like you or me, not some fat-fisted Bollywood/Hollywood moneybags with a ring on every finger and the other hand busy stroking his…ahem, bank passbook.
It’s like the film equivalent of blogging.
And I don’t claim to be the first one to come up with the idea. Nor the last.
Hope that explains things.
“Dharma is that precept that tells us that Bush is not just wrong, he is evil. And so is any nation that wages war upon others, with or without cause”
Ashok Banker interviewed by Richard Marcus on blogcritics.org: Part 2
This is the second part of a two part interview I conducted via email with Indian author Ashok Banker. Ashok is best known currently for his adaptation of the classic Indian epic The Ramayana. In this part of the interview he discusses some of what motivates him, reactions to his work, future plans, and a little about the culture of India. Part one can be read here. [See previous post, below--Ashok.]
You’ve mentioned in comments we’ve exchanged and in some of your postings that you want to reclaim Indian history for Indians. Can you elaborate on that and explain how your version of The Ramayana fits into that motivation.
Would Americans be willing to have Vietnamese, or Burmese, or Germans, or Russians, write their history, their textbooks, govern them, and force their language, script, customs, religion, system of governance, legal system, etc, etc, upon them for four hundred years, and then expect them to continue those traditions unquestioned?
Would any country or culture, for that matter, accept another culture that invades and occupies them by force, be the only judge and narrator of their cultural myths and traditions and legends? Yes, of course, I wish to reclaim Indian history.
Not only for Indians, but for all to read.
Wouldn’t you rather know how an Indian writer perceives the Ramayana, or the Mahabharata, or various tales of Indian legend and history? Rather than, say, an English writer, or a French author? Or even a Canadian? Besides, I don’t deny those people the right. I’m merely staking my claim to a right which has unjustly been denied me and other Indians ever since the East India Company banned the translation of Sanskrit and other edicts and scriptures into English two hundred years ago. (And surreptiously permitted only translations which erroneously showed Western superiority in everything from timelines to civilization development. Read the work of John Keay and many other British and Indian historians to learn more about this.)
I’m stating what should be an obvious right, and yet, I am the first Indian to tell the Ramayana in its full form, in an original individual voice ever since the original Sanskrit poem was composed, some four thousand years ago! Isn’t that incredible?
And what does that tell you about how much we were oppressed and suppressed, both culturally and politically?
In North America we have had our view of life in India formed by media images of poverty and overcrowding, Hari Krishna temples, Hollywood clichés, and the Beatles. The Ramayana deals with a variety of real concepts, but in particular dharma. Can you elaborate on that concept and explain why it is so important?
Oh, let’s not pretend those are false. They’re not. We certainly do have poverty, overcrowding, Hare Krishnas, and all the clichés are indeed true. But the clichés are simply realities portrayed in a negative light, or for humorous, or worse, melodramatic effect. The reality of India is probably too complex for the western mind to comprehend easily and quickly.
That’s why those westerners who visit here, invariably stay on, fascinated and ‘hooked’ to the difference of our cultural milieu.
The first thing to understand is that India is a multiplicity, not a singularity. That is to say, everyone worships and believes in One God, because Hinduism is monotheistic, but the forms or avatars of that One God can be as many as there are worshippers.
It’s an uniquely individualistic self-willed faith and culture. So dharma too is left to each person to decide. The Buddhist concept of Dhamma (spelt differently too) is quite different from the Hindu concept. And even among Hindus – not just sects, but individuals – dharma can mean many things. But mostly it is ‘what is right’. And judging ‘what is right’ is left entirely to you.
Dharma is that precept that tells us that Bush is not just wrong, he is evil. And so is any nation that wages war upon others, with or without cause. Dharma is not always pleasant or nice, as in the Mahabharata, where it is used as Lord Krishna’s justification for waging war upon one’s family, or for committing murder. But it is ‘what is right’.
It is the cornerstone of Indian life, not just Hindu, but Muslim, Parsi, Catholic, Sikh, everyone. It is in the water, air, our blood.
Dharma is the reason why Indians have never ventured out of this subcontinent and invaded another nation in ten thousand years of unbroken civilization. Or built armada or sent armies to explore and conquer other lands. At best, wars have been waged against invaders, or amongst neighbours.
As you know, humans are unique from other creatures in one respect: We are the only species that control the males. (We have company as warmongers, since ants also wage war on each other.) In India, the males are controlled not by the females or other males, but by Dharma itself. That is why we do not hesitate to bow or prostrate ourselves on the ground, flat out, and kiss the feet of a living priest or sacred person. Whereas in western society, people hesitate to bow the head let alone kneel to anybody short of God Himself.
Also, while western society has the tradition of killing their saints and saviors, India is exceptional to that as well. We are quick to believe, and slow to lose faith. This is dharma, greater than religion, community, nationality, sex.
What has the reaction in India been to the release of The Ramayana? How about countries abroad? Have some countries been more open than others to “foreign ideas”?
Fantastic. At first, things were up in the air as nobody really knew what to make of it, it being the first of its kind. Also, some sections of the media arrogantly dismissed the series outright, with an otherwise well-respected magazine Outlook claiming that it was a “sexed-up” fantasy. You’ve read it and you know just how much sex there is, if at all! None!
Other English media were quite scathing and bitchy, praising the books and the writing to the skies, using words like “milestone,” “historic achievement,” “epic labour of love”, and so on, while taking potshots at me. The irony is that nobody had ever written anything based on Hindu mythology before and made a critical and commercial success of it before, but once I did, I was instantly criticized for having done it to make money! But even through all the bitchiness and carping, they were still praising the books to the skies.
You have to remember that in the Indian media’s version of the caste system, writers are at the bottom of the ladder. Films stars are way at the top, because the media depends on them for regular interviews and features to keep selling their publications, while writers don’t really command any circulation, so it’s easy to take potshots at them.
Then there’s the fact that most Indian journalists are wannabe writers and so they’re hugely jealous of any successful author.
Lastly, I’ve been a successful journalist and columnist, and I’ve crossed over to high profile success as a novelist, so that increases their envy tenfold.
But readers have been overwhelming. You have to remember that I was writing the first English-language Ramayana ever attempted. Most English-speaking Indians don’t want to read the Ramayana because it’s like reading the Bible, or the Koran.
But once people started reading the books, they loved them! And word of mouth spread so fast, that the books quickly became bestsellers.
In fact, there’s so much talk of US being a big market for books. But India is just as big a market, provided you have the right book. My Ramayana was evidently that kind of book, because my royalty statements clearly show the books selling out their first editions on publication.
Worldwide too, the response has been tremendous. People clearly love the books, as you can see from reader’s responses on my website and critics have praised them highly too.
There’s been some nastiness from bigots and racists in the US in particular, where I’ve been criticized for absurd things like using Indian words and not altering the books to suit American tastes, whatever those are.
On some forums like sffworld.com they seem to enjoy making up nasty little lies about me and the books, and claiming ridiculous things based on no evidence at all. But despite these American bigots, the series has caught on in the US and these days the most new ‘converts’ I hear from are US-based.
Overall, my audience seems to be pretty wide, from Germany to Japan, France to Malaysia, Canada to Israel, you name it.But there’s also no question that the majority are Indians or people of Indian origin. As even my UK and US publishers Time Warner realized when they had to change the covers of the books to make them appear more “Indian” rather than typical “fantasy”.
In the overseas edition you’ve included a glossary of Sanskrit words and their meanings within the context the particular usage in the book. What is the status of Sanskrit as a language? Like Latin and ancient Greek, something scholars learn to read old texts, a language of religion like Hebrew used to be, or is it still in common use?
Actually, that was at the request of my UK and UK publishers. I disagreed with the inclusion of a glossary, and that’s why you won’t find it in the Indian editions, even though most Indians are as unfamiliar with Sanskrit as readers anywhere else.
Sanskrit, in case you didn’t know this, is a dead language, even in India. It’s used by brahmin pundits (ritual priests) for ceremonies and rituals, but not generally spoken, written, or heard.
However, most Indian languages, Tamil in particular, are derived from Sanskrit and bear a close affinity. Sanskrit was never a language of religion, like Pali which became the medium for Buddhists, or Awadhi which was common speak for many North Indian Hindus.
This is a general question about Indian writing. Do you think there is such a thing as a distinctive voice in Indian writing? Would it depend on the language the story is written in?
This is a question best answered by readers rather than writers. I think yes, there is such a thing as a distinctive Indian voice, and it’s heard most often in the ethnic Indian languages.
But in English? I don’t know about others but speaking for myself, I don’t think I write Queen’s English, and certainly not Anglo-Saxon as the Americans like it written. One of the major criticisms I’ve had from American critics and readers was my ‘voice’ and my style.
One critic in Locus magazine complained that I even used an Indian word ‘dhobi’ when I could simply have used ‘washer man’ instead. In fact, I couldn’t have used ‘washer man’ for the same reason that you can’t generalize policemen, fire officers, army personnel, nurses, etc, all as ‘uniformed people’.
In India we use a specific kind of language, a combination of Indian words and English, what we call Hinglish or Indian English (the title of my blog), and frankly, we’re quite proud of it. It’s the same ’style’ that Salman Rushdie famously took from us and which made him so unique.
You’ve assembled quite a list of projects that you want to tackle in your attempts to retell the history of India from an Indian perspective. I doubt there are many people who have heard of the majority of titles on the list, excluding the Ramayana could you offer a brief summery for each: The Mahabharata – nine books The Krishna Coriolis – three books The Ganesa Palindrome – six books Tales of Devi – at least three books Epic India – over 20 volumes Indus Saga – five books related titles – five or six books
I’d rather write the books and let people find out about them in due course when they’re published, than talk about them now. The best way to know what’s next on my plate is to keep in touch with my blog.
You have a film project in the works as well. I believe the title is Beautiful Ugly and is based on your childhood. Can you tell me how you came up with the title and its significance? Can we assume this will not be filled with Bollywood type musical numbers?
This is actually a book named Beautiful Ugly. But as usual, the media has focussed only on my plan to also produce a docu-feature based on the events described in the book. The documentary is a personal comment on the events and an attempt to place them in their social context and is really more of an audiovisual essay rather than a film. I plan to release copies of the documentary with the book when it’s published.
No, this will definitely not be filled with musical or dance numbers – I’m sorry but to associate any Indian film with Bollywood musical dance numbers is one of the saddest developments of recent times. I particularly dislike Bollywood and those musical dance numbers as many other Indians do. It’s like asking a Canadian author whether the film based on his book will have Mounties in it!
One final question before I let you go, what do you hope the average non Indian reader will get from reading these books? How about Indian readers?
If I could be frank, I’d say “nothing”. That is, I wouldn’t really advise the average non-Indian reader to read my books at all. That’s harsh I know, but my books, the Ramayana series in particular, does require some understanding of Indian culture, if not a whole-hearted willingness to immerse yourself in a culture that predates Christianity, western culture and history, and even western mythology to some extent!
On the other hand, intelligent non-Indian readers who are eager to know more about Indian culture and the roots of world civilization in general, would certainly enjoy my books as entertaining and sometimes insightful glimpses into a great ancient culture.
Of course, I strongly recommend my books to Asian readers, because the whole continent shares affinities in myth and culture.
Well that concludes the interview. As usual, when dealing with the Internet, and technology nothing went as planed. We had hoped to be able to do this as a direct “conversation” exchange of emails. But due to server problems and real life on both sides of the world plans changed.
Ashok ended up receiving two emails containing the final six questions. He in turn sent me back answers in bulk form, which allowed me to cobble this interview together. I have done nothing to change or edit the sequence in which the questions were asked, and hopefully, there is some kind of flow.
I had a great time preparing for this interview, our emails in the run-up to setting a time were a wonder, as I tried to figure out when Thursday would be for both of us. By leaving it his hands we were able to pull this off. My deepest thanks go out to Ashok Banker for making his time available to me to conduct this interview.
“I could be a fictional construct you made up and posed questions to for this interview, and then answered yourself”
Whew. It’s great to be back in the blogosphere.
I’ve got tons of catching up to do, loads of reviews on new movies, DVDs, music, books, etc I want to post.
Also lots of new reviews of my Ramayana books in general, and Armies of Hanuman in particular, both from readers and critics around the world.
But first, I must start by reproducing the text of this interview I did last week with Canadian Richard Marcus.
Richard blogs prolifically at several places, including:
http://www.blogcritics.org
http://www.pippensqueak.blogspot.com
http://www.leapinthedark.homestead.com/home.html
http://www.lulu.com/leapinthedark
Last week, he interviewed me for blogcritics.org. The interview was split into two parts. This is the first part.
It’s one of the frankest interviews with me ever published.
Not because I’m not as frank with other interviewers – I’m the same with everyone – but because most journalists don’t have the integrity and the courage to print half of what I say.
Because of the small-mindedness and lack of ethics of most journalists, especially Indian journalists, my interviews vacillate between utterly trivial trash-pieces like the Indian Express interview with Sulakshana Gupta, published in Express Newsline on the day of the launch of Armies of Hanuman in India – the interview managed to avoid mentioning any details about the book, the Ramayana series in general, my other work, my writing, myself, you name it, and focussed instead on film stars and politicians (!!!).
At the other extreme there’s the rare interview like the one with Sonia Faleiro for Tehelka, which is also reproduced elsewhere on this blog. Just search for the keyword “tehelka” and you should find the link.
Now, onto this interview. As I said, one of the most honest ones ever published, with almost nothing I said edited out (even the Tehelka one was heavily edited, so what you see there is only about half of all I said).
Needless to say, the interview is courtesy blogcritics.org and Richard Marcus.
Hold on to your hats…
Interview with Ashok K. Banker, author of the new Ramayana
by Richard Marcus
I never believed the hype about how the Internet would be able to bring people from different points around the world
together. Well it’s really nice to report on how wrong I was.
About six months ago I was wandering through a book store, and picked up a book on a whim: Prince Of Ayodhya book one, Ashok Banker’s modern adaptation of the 3,000 year old Indian epic, the Ramayana. I was immediately hooked. Thankfully for me the next two volumes had already been published, so I was able to read volume two, and three, Demons of Chitrkut, without delay.
Having never heard of the writer I decided to do a quick Google search and found that not only did Mr. Banker have a web site but also a blog. (By the way, if you were ever looking to blame anyone for my presence in the blog universe you could lay it at Mr. Banker’s feet. It was through his blog that I discovered Blogger’s free spaces.) The truly amazing thing about Mr. Banker was that he took the time to answer people’s letters at his web site.
It was in this manner that I began communicating with him. When the fourth volume of the Ramayana was published, Armies of Hanuman, I sent him a copy of a review I had written for my blog and Blogcritics. Since that time we have exchanged thoughts through the comment section of his blog, and the web discussion group he founded, Epic India, dedicated to talking about the stories of India and related material.
It was only a couple of weeks ago that I thought of the idea of suggesting an interview with him. I knew he had been reading my work at Blogcritics, and had liked it, so I thought he might be open to the suggestion. Unfortunately, my timing couldn’t have been worse.
Ashok lives in Bombay, and if you have been following the news, you know they have had the worst monsoon season there in years, with horrendous flooding and mudslides claiming over a hundred lives. Things still aren’t back to normal there, as they now face the problems of combating water-borne diseases. Last reports have over a hundred people already dead.
In spite of all this, and hours spent swimming in six feet of water, when I suggested the idea of the interview, he responded with enthusiasm. We decided that the best solution to the problems of distance and time differences was to pick a time when we could just email questions and answers back and forth from our computers. Since I wake at an obscenely early time in the morning, this seemed like the ideal plan.
So what you will be reading are his unedited email responses to my questions. Enjoy.
(This is part one of a two part interview. Look for part two tomorrow.)
There are few people in North America who know anything about you. Could you fill you in some of your biographical details, where you are from, why you write. You are pretty open about your less than ideal childhood, could you tell us how that influenced your writing?
I was born and brought up in Bombay, now Mumbai, lived here all my life. My mother was an Anglo-Indian (please don’t use the term “East Indian”) and her mother, my grandmother, was Dutch-Irish-Scots. My grandma, in addition to being of foreign descent, was brought up by nuns in a convent school in Sri Lanka, and came to India in her twenties, first staying at Chennai (then called Madras) and later Mumbai (Bombay). She met and married a Goan Catholic, and had three kids in Byculla, a very central area of the city then, a kind of Brooklyn with a very mixed immigrant population of over 300,000 Jews (who came here escaping the Nazis during WWII), Muslims, Parsis, American Methodists, Episcopalians, Baptists, and of course, Goan Catholics, Chinese immigrants, and a few Hindus too.
My mother grew up there and was a very precocious girl, quitting school, rebelling, modeling (quite successfully), and generally being a much talked-about young woman of the time. She met my biological father, a US-and-Canada returned Gujarati Hindu who drove a Jaguar (brought back from the US), the son of rich parents, and they married three months later, when she was still only 16. It was a disaster; they split up, and she came back to Byculla to live with her mother, where she had me.
My mother’s life was ruined after the divorce, and she as well as my grandmother largely brought me up, mostly in Byculla as well as a number of homes in and around Bombay. I went to nine different schools, was sexually abused at a boarding school, and had a number of “adventures” as a young boy, none of them pleasant, mostly violent, and involving family members engaged in drugs, alcohol, and petty crimes. I read a lot, wrote a lot, and descended into writing as a means of survival, not escape. I wanted to record what I was going through because I never thought I would make it out alive.
When I was 12, my mother was drugged and gang-raped at a party, and fell apart completely thereafter. From there on, she became my responsibility. Her second husband, my foster-father, dumped us, the family turned against us, and it was basically me and my mom from there on. So, with a sick psychotic and alcoholic mother to support, I had to drop out of college at 16, and started working. My dreams of becoming a novelist (I’d already written three novels and published several poems and articles by then, and was already gaining a name, was interviewed on national TV, radio, and had a self-published book of poems, represented India at a book fair in Paris) went on hold, and I took a job as an advertising copywriter.
My mother died in 1990, when I was 26, and I immediately quit my ad job and went back to writing full-time. By then, I was married with one kid (I had a second child later in 93), to my childhood sweetheart whom I met at 16 and who’s still with me, my wife Bithika.
From the very outset, I was hugely ambitious. I wanted not to change the world or win the Nobel Prize but to connect with as many people as possible emotionally, to write great sweeping epic sagas about Indian myth and legend—like the sagas and novels I read about western myth and legend—and to show the world what great ideas and stories we had to tell.
I meandered for a long time, struggling to deal with the detritus of my childhood, my mother’s demolished life, my father’s abandonment of us, my foster-father and my mother’s family’s neglect of us, and generally life was hard as hell. Financially, I was in a huge hole, and in a sense, have barely climbed out of that hole and begun to walk on my own feet financially. But finally I’m writing what I want to write, and reaching out to some people and telling some of those stories that have been in me for so long.
Vertigo was your first novel that received recognition throughout India. In it you write about a young man supporting his mother in similar circumstances as your own. Was that part of the chronicling as a means of survival, or was it more of a purging? Can you tell us a little about that novel and what it meant to you?
Actually, my first books to get attention were three short crime novels—The Iron Bra, Murder & Champagne, and Ten Dead Admen—also hailed as ‘the first crime novels in English’ by an Indian author. Vertigo was written first and sold first, but published fourth. The crime novels got a fair bit of nationwide attention and gave me a label that was tough to shrug off later. Even Vertigo was mistaken for a crime novel, and as recently as 2003, journalists were still assuming that my Ramayana series was some kind of a modern-day thriller reworking of the epic!
Frankly, Vertigo was a novel. The fact that it was autobiographical in parts, and intensely so—the title refers to the sensation that reading the novel evokes in the reader, by the way—is incidental. There’s as much fiction as fact in it, and even my Ramayana books are very autobiographical, although only I know where and how. To me, it was my first successful attempt at capturing the kind of realistic detailed quasi-journalistic style that I regard as the most important literary effect of late 20th-century literature. Is that too pompous?
Sorry, but I’m just trying to tell you that I take my clues from journalism and non-fiction, and to me, something is fiction or non-fiction only in terms of labels. In reading terms, it simply is what it is, a story. The fact that it’s based on truth, or not, is irrelevant to me.
For instance, I could be a fictional construct you made up and posed questions to for this interview, and then answered yourself. What does it matter that I’m a real person? It doesn’t to me.
Bizarre as it sounds, it’s at heart of my philosophy of writing. To blur the lines between reality and fiction.
You started out as a journalist, do you want to describe what that was like? You have some pretty strong opinions on the state of journalism in India right now, did that play a part in your deciding to focus more on novel writing? Or was the timing just right?
I started out writing everything: poetry, essays, fiction; but it was the poetry and essays that found publication first. Also, I realized early on that while journalism didn’t pay much, there was a great need for writers who could comment on contemporary issues—or report on them. And I loved reporting, much more than commenting. To me, even fiction is reporting—except that one is reporting on things taking place in an imaginary place inside oneself, not out there in the real world.
I think that journalism in India right now, like elsewhere, is reduced to entertainment. There’s more trash in the media today than in the bins of Bombay’s streets. What we call the Page 3 culture here—party news, pics, gossip—and film and show biz celebrity coverage has taken over real journalism completely. The emphasis is on what makes the most interesting news.
I don’t believe this is reader-driven; it’s a conscious decision by publishers to appeal to a certain section of readership—the most illiterate and least-intelligent section. In India at least, there are many intellectually alive, educated, well-read people to sustain a newspaper, and the massive circulation of a Delhi newspaper like Hindustan Times, proves this point. It’s entirely a choice here to publish (or to write or report on) party lifestyles and the rich and famous, rather than report honestly and comment incisively, and that’s the saddest thing: that it’s not even a business necessity.
For instance, Times of India’s Bombay edition is entirely a Page 3 rag, yet Hindustan Times, which came in only a month ago, is already hitting almost as much circulation as Times, while following a much more sensible kind of journalism.
In my opinion, blogging is the future: with individuals across the world reporting directly on things they’ve seen and heard first-hand, reporting one-on-one to people everywhere. Cut out the systems, the politicking, the petty rivalries of newspaper and media groups and professionals, the self-conceited journalists and editors. I can report, you can too. Let’s do it. I think sites like Blogcritics are doing a great service and very soon we’ll see blogs being read for news and features, and even comment, much more than traditional news vendors in print or TV. And I’m all for that.
I’d like to follow up on something from a previous answer, the meeting of truth and fiction. When you start a project do you set out with an intent to make some point or other, or is the story the intent and points about life and society come out as it progresses? Rama’s occasional comments on the caste system for example: the story is not about the caste system, but since they are Indian that’s a fact of life, so they comment on it.
I write from within a story, that is, I don’t plan externally or even know what I’m doing overall. I simply “see” a point of view, Rama’s for instance, and am transported there to that moment in time and space, in that very room (or forest or wherever) and see and smell and hear etc. every detail. In fact, it’s then a challenge to me how much I can describe and what to leave out, and to try to convey to the reader everything I’m “experiencing.” In fact, to come back to the journalism connection, I consider writing fiction to be reportage too. Except that I’m reporting from “another world,” or “another time,” and so on.
About things like politics, caste system, prejudices, etc, I’d like to believe I’m so broad-minded I can tolerate anything—except intolerance. The caste system is a reality even today in India, but back then it was a fairly benign and transferable form of division of labour. You’re quite right in saying that I simply write about it because it was there in that time period. To leave it out would be to lie. And how can I lie when I “see” and “hear” everything so vividly?
The same goes for present-day biases and ugliness, like war, which I am dead against. I will not stand by and watch warmongers like Bush and his administration (and the people of USA who support them, which is most of the population) wreak terror on the world. For instance, we speak so much about Islamic terrorism, but what about the people who really invented terrorism, the Christians? Have we forgotten Ireland? Bosnia? Lebanon? The Spanish Inquisition? The Crusades? The aggressors in all those cases were Christians—which actually defies the very definition of Christianity itself!
(End of part one)
Edited: PC
BANKER’S BACK!
Well, it happened.
Thanks to the intrepid team at Blogger Support, led by one Eric, who were hugely supportive and helpful, the problem with my blog is finally fixed.
Apparently, I was exceeding the space limit on archived posts on a given page.
The limit is 1 MB. If the posts archived on that page exceed 1 MB, you get an error message every time you try to publish.
It’s a rare thing, because most people barely touch 1 MB, let alone exceed it.
But I being a prolific blogger, and loading short stories and long posts by the bushelful, went way over that limit.
The moment Eric and his team identified the problem, and I changed the relevant archive settings, everything started working fine again.
Sab theek-thaak hai abhi, bhai!
So you can count on seeing me post again from later today.
Good to be back.
Still Trying, Almost Crying…but never say Dying
Still trying to lick the blog-tech thingie.
Meanwhile, am listening to Bare Naked Ladies, Sloan, Keene, The Yeah Yeahs, The Ramones, Rod Stewart (huh?), Kate Bush, Cranberries, Def Leppard, and Fiona Apple. More about the best of those later.
Watching The L Word on DVD. Amazing! More about this later too, along with a whole bunch of other great TV Shows on DVD.
Reading a bunch of thrillers, including some by Chris Mooney (very good), G. M. Ford (nah, not my type), Stephen J. Cannell (corny but entertaining), Gayle Lynds (the new Ludlum, she even collaborated with the great spymeister before he died, the new Greg Iles (one of my favourite thriller authors). More about them all later.
And I’m not even scratching the tip of the iceberg here. All the above is just what I’ve been watching, listening to, and reading…the past two days. That’s right! That’s two days worth of books, music and movies for me.
And it doesn’t cover the movies I saw out in theatres, the stuff I listen to on the radio, the podcasts I download and play back on my iPod, the audio books, the magazines, the comics, the online comics…
And of course, I’m writing like houses on fire, sometimes ten, twenty pages a day. Twenty seven was the peak (yesterday).
So, please Blogger Deva, please get my blog back up and running smoothly the way it was before. Let it accept all my posts gracefully and graciously, without hiccups or glitches.
Let there be posts, and reviews, and comments…
Go forth and Blogofy!
Adventures in Blogosetting: Checking the tech
Excuse me if you’re reading this same (or similar) post again.
This one’s from my usual browser (Safari) and with the same ISP (Sify) and same comp (Mac OS X).
I’m trying to see if it goes up as well, since the post from Netscape went up without no problemo.
This is at the suggestion of Blogger Support – yes, they got back to me yesterday (US time, India time differences) and were very helpful.
More importantly, they reassured me that under no circumstances has INDIAN ENGLISH been banned, blocked or otherwise censored, whether through misuse of the new Flag feature or otherwise.
Whew.
So that only leaves tech problems.
Hence the current experiment to see if using a different browser/comp/ISP makes a difference.
If you’re reading this, then apparently that was the issue. If not, I’ll try again, and again…
Either way, I’m not moving from the blogosphere unless you carry me out kicking and screaming, preferably dead.
It’s an issue known as freedom of speech. In India, it’s a fundamental right written into our Constituition.
And we take it pretty darn seriously.
Checking the tech: Adventures in Blogosettings
Here goes another attempt.
This one’s from another browser (Netscape instead of my usual Safari) but with the same ISP (Sify) and same comp (Mac OS X).
This is at the suggestion of Blogger Support – yes, they got back to me yesterday (US time, India time differences) and were very helpful.
More importantly, they reassured me that under no circumstances has INDIAN ENGLISH been banned, blocked or otherwise censored, whether through misuse of the new Flag feature or otherwise.
Whew.
So that only leaves tech problems.
Hence the current experiment to see if using a different browser/comp/ISP makes a difference.
If you’re reading this, then apparently that was the issue. If not, I’ll try again, and again…
Either way, I’m not moving from the blogosphere unless you carry me out kicking and screaming, preferably dead.
It’s an issue known as freedom of speech. In India, it’s a fundamental right written into our Constituition.
And we take it pretty darn seriously.
Same Post, Different Day: Still battling the blogobhoots
This is further to the post I blogged (below) yesterday – though it actually only came up today…
Am still not able to blog as before, and can’t for the life of me figure out why. Have read every page of Blogger Help twice or thrice, as thoroughly as proofing a novel, and found nothing related to my problem.
Basically, when I try to publish a post, it gives me the message Done (with errors).
I’ve emailed Blogger Support thrice in as many days, with no response yet. I’m hoping that’s because it was the weekend, so will give them a couple days more.
Meanwhile, it’s touch and go. An attempt to post a short story failed.
Let’s see if this short message goes through…
Is there a space limit on blogs? Could I have exceeded it? I checked and found I’ve posted a little over 110 posts. They’re almost entirely text, with maybe five or six pics in all. Surely that’s not too big a blog at all, I see much bigger ones out there on the blogosphere.
Unless it’s some powerful US internet ‘Uncle’ who was offended by some of the frank comments I made about Bush’s warmongering in my interview with Richard Marcus on blogcritics.org.
Which would be weird, because the interview appeared on the premiere bloggers site itself. So if they had to censor something, that would be it.
Maybe I’m just being paranoid.
Maybe it’s just a tech glitch which will get sorted out once the full force of Blogger Support returns from their weekend clubbing, or whatever it is they do when they’re not keeping the blogosphere running smoothly.
(Although most of the time it runs pretty damn smoothly – heck, I love the blogosphere!)
Fingers crossed. Hoping things will be back to normal…
And that this post goes up!
Trouble in the blogosphere: Unable to blog (hope this post gets through)
Hi all.
Am having some kind of problem with blogging lately. I think it’s a tech problem, so hopefully it’ll be solved soon.
This is my tenth, or twelfth, attempt to blog in the past several days. Somehow, one post got through – the one about the first part of my interview with Richard Marcus (the second part has also gone up, but of course, you already knew that by now), but that’s it. After that, nada, zip, shunya.
In case this one goes through, just bear with me awhile. I’ve got tons of new books I want to talk about, movies galore – watched a truckful during the rained-out flood week in Mumbai (once the power came back on) and lots of great new music too.
As the liquid-metal cyborg said to the floppy-haired teenage future-hero: “Aah’ll be bahck.”
Or as we non-cyborg types say in apna India:
Kabhi alvida na kehna…
No Holds Barred: Richard Marcus gets one of my most honest interviews
Yesterday, a fan, a friend really now, conducted a longish interview
with me.
The first part is already up today. The second part will be up
tomorrow. (It’s a longish interview.)
Now, I’ve done a lot of interviews.
In fact, for the nonce, I’m actually not supposed to be doing any more.
But in this case, his questions were so ‘important’ I couldn’t resist.
Richard Marcus, a Canadian, whose blog I’ve just posted a link to in
the Index panel to the right over here, is an intelligent, caring,
liberal humanist – for want of a better term.
I’ve been reading his posts at blogcritics.org and they’re insightful,
genial and often quite accurately hit the intended mark.
And I think he managed to get me to answer some of the most personal
questions I’ve been asked, and give some of the personal answers I’ve
ever given in an interview before.
You can read it and see for yourself.
Unlike most journalists, who invariably edit (or say ‘my editor cut it
out’) parts of my interviews, especially the parts where I get too
scathing or too close for comfort, Richard let my answers stay as they
were unedited and spontaneous.
So the interview you’ll read on the link below is my strongest one
ever, and my most honest.
But if it gives you some insight into me as a person, and as a writer,
I think it’s done its job.
This is what I am, take it or leave it.
The books are what they are, take them or leave them too.
And the interview is a damn fine piece of work.
Thank Richard Marcus for that.
You can go to the interview by clicking on the title of this blogpost
(above), or by copying and pasting the URL below.
http://blogcritics.org/archives/2005/08/18/191718.php
And finally a Ramayana that’s also fun to watch!
Talk about different versions of the Ramayana – it’s about time we had a version that was also fun to view!
On the same Sepia Mutiny discussion page I blogged about (below), I discovered a link to a series of short animated films made by an American artist named Nina Paley.
The original title of the animated film she set out to make is ‘Sitayana’ but apparently, it’s since been changed to ‘Sita Sings the Blues’ or perhaps that’s only the title of one segment.
Anyway, I’ve checked out a couple of the ‘in-progress’ short episodes.
And they’re absolutely hilarious, darling, and great fun to watch!
Whoever this Nina Paley is, she deserves a big hand of applause for dusting off the saffron cobwebs and shaking Sita’s and Rama’s tail feathers with this delightful, and deliciously cute little creation.
You’ll find a link to Sitayana – or “Sita Sings the Blues” as it’s also called, on the same Sepia Mutiny page. Or just Google it.
Trust me, it’s a blast!
So Many Ramayanas: Sepia Mutiny’s online discussion group
Another useful link from a fellow Epic Indian.
http://www.sepiamutiny.com/sepia/archives/002046.html
This one takes you to a discussion on different versions of the Ramayana.
Much of it is ‘know-that’, ‘heard-that’, or ‘read-that-one’ before stuff.
But it’s still interesting to know how little most people, even Indians, actually know about the Ramayana.
Right now, as a debate rages in New Delhi about the new education policy and the proposed measures to revamp it, some Left scholars are demanding that the focus should be on ‘de-Saffronizing’ textbooks.
They’re referring to the public and municipal school textbooks revised by the BJP Government to reflect a more ‘Hindu’ view of Indian history.
Now, in my opinion, the Ramayana is not a Hindu work at all.
It’s an Indian work.
Someone on the discussion board at Sepia Mutiny mentions an excellent book (they also mention my Ramayana series, but I’ll just let that pass, smiling :~) ) called So Many Ramayanas.
I’d recommend the book to anyone who wants to know just how many versions of the epic there are, and how different some of them are from your, or mine, or any one person’s notion of what the Ramayana “really” is.
Several others chip in with interesting observations, the most useful one being, in my opinion, that since the Ramayana is essentially an oral tradition, each one of us has the right to adapt, revise and even alter it as we like, within reason, of course.
…Head on over to Sepia Mutiny and join the discussion. Or just browse through it, if you like.
And of course, if you enjoy such discussions, you’re welcome to apply for membership to the Epic India group.
Although I can’t promise that you’ll be accepted: it’s a pretty exclusive club.
But if you’re interested in such things, it’s the place to be.
That’s why I’m there. :~)
HIS STORY in his own words: Thoughts on a chronology of Indian history and on western bias in Indological studies
Banwari Lal Sharma of the Epic India Group sent me this link today. It leads to a Microsoft Excel spreadsheet file on what seems to be the Kent University, UK, website.
http://www.cs.kent.edu/~jchitali/history/Royal_Chronology_of_India.xls
The spreadsheet presents a chronology of major persona and events in Indian history, starting from the earliest times down to the present time-period.
If I understand it correctly, it depicts historical personages, based on archaelogical and anecdotal evidence, including characters from the epics.
There’s even a listing of kings in the Solar (Ikswaku/Suryavansha) Dynasty and Lunar (Chandravansha) Dynasty.
Now, I’m no expert on the subject.
But in the course of my research into the Ramayana, Mahabharata and other Indian myths and legends, as well as actual historical records, I’ve grown a bit weary and tired of all the western indophile assumptions that underlie most historical writings: Like the assumption that since eastern civilization could not possibly have developed before western civilization, therefore any timeline of Indian history must start after the western timeline…
An assumption, like so many others by western scholars and historians, that has no basis in fact.
Like the Aryan invasion myth.
In case you aren’t aware of this, there is no hard evidence supporting the assumption that the Aryans were a North European race that invaded these parts of the world.
In fact, the available facts can as well be interpreted to prove that the Aryans were merely our ancestors some of whom later migrated to Northern Europe, accounting for the similarities in language, mythology, culture, etc.
Now, I’m neither a Hindutva supporter nor a leftist reactionary.
I’m just an Indian who asks that Indian history and mythology be studied without bias or prejudice, something that even modern British historians like John Keay and Charles Allen have admitted their predecessors did not do.
In fact, Keay has written some brilliant books showing how wrong some of his Brit predecessors were and correcting major errors while revealing other facts that were hitherto hidden or deliberately ignored.
So when I come across something like this XL file, gathering together in a single spreadsheet file ten thousand years of Indian history, arranged in a marvelous comparitive chronological scheme, I’m left breathless.
I’m overwhelmed.
From what I can tell, this is the single most comprehensive and well-researched chronology of India, especially ancient India, I’ve ever seen. It’s brilliant and invaluable.
I’ve already thanked Banwari Lal Sharma for pointing me (and all of us EpicIndians) to this excellent piece of research.
And I thought I must share it with anyone and everyone who’s interested in India or history in general as well.
I am completely in agreement, and in awe, of the chronology of the Ikswaku/Solar Dynasty and Ramayana events shown here.
As with all else. The cross-referencing in particular is fantastic.
I have some reservations about whether the Ravana shown in the Tamil timeline is the same as the Ravana of the Ramayana (just as there were several Ramas in history, even in the Solar Dynasty, so also there were several Vyasas, Vashishtas, Ravanas, etc) as I don’t buy the whole European Indophile argument that the Ramayana saga was a war between the Aryans and Dasas.
But I have no argument with the overall historical timelines and the entire work is amazing.
I recommend it highly to everyone. I’m going to refer to this extensively from now on.
I had in mind a series of appendices listing the major dynasties (Solar and Lunar) and other chronologies, to be published with the hardcover collector’s edition of my Ramayana series which Penguin India will publish next year.
I’m definitely going to refer to this chart in preparing those appendices now.
And as always, I welcome all comment, including dissent, on this file as well as the underlying facts.
Pangs of New York: Book Review of Elizabeth Gaffney’s Metropolis
This review first appeared in HT.
Pangs of New York
Metropolis by Elizabeth Gaffney
William Heinemann
trade paperback; 474 pp; L 7.25
If you’ve fallen under the spell of Caleb Carr in his brilliant novel, The Alienist and its sequel The Angel of Darkness, then you might pick this one up believing it to be another atmospheric novel set in turn-of-the-20th-century New York City.
After all, Carr turned the detritus of historical detail, research insights, and even the most apparently irrelevant of factoids into a superbly textured and fascinating historical mystery.
The Advisory Editor of the prestigious NY literary zine Paris Review, author Elizabeth Gaffney has almost certainly read Carr before embarking on her ambitious debut.
She’s also read Herbert Asbury’s Gangs of New York, on which the Martin Scorcese film of the same name was based.
And there’s more than a whif of E.L. Doctorow as well, whose Ragtime remains perhaps the single most evocative and moving portrait of New York city of that time period. She’s also done her research well.
Unfortunately, all the reading and research in the world can’t make up for a lacklustre book.
The problem starts almost at once. Metropolis opens with a beautifully drawn map and a series of richly detailed passages of life on the streets in that lost era. You can almost conjure images from Scorcese’s brilliantly designed Gangs to go with the passages here.
But a few dozen pages in, the descriptions start to wear you down, the introspective monologues get tedious, and the pace doesn’t really pick up.
Even that might be acceptable; after all, one of the most brilliant authors of historical literary novels, John Banville, often doesn’t have very much happening in his books, which doesn’t make them any less than goddamn bloody brilliant – his latest nomination to the Booker only confirms his towering literary talent.
Elizabeth Gaffney is far from being a writer of Banville’s prodigious talents. After a few chapters you start to notice the workmanlike prose peeping through the piled-up historical detail, and once the offbeat love story gets going – that’s right, it’s a historical and a mystery and a romance – you begin to wonder just where this book is heading.
It’s heading for the romance section, in my opinion. Because if viewed as a historical romance, it’s far above the average Regency or even the spate of hardcover romances that have overtaken the traditional bodice-ripper on the bestseller lists. But as a literary novel, or even a literary mystery, it falls far short of the bar.
For one thing, it’s quite often just plain boring. Not only does nothing much happen – apart from the romance between the name-switching immigrant and the tough Cameron Diaz-like Irish maiden – but the occasional whiffs of Gangs turn into fullblown stenches, with the plot taking faux-Dickensian Asbury-like twists.
At times, the backdrop threatens to become more interesting than the main plot itself: the story of a city being built, the raising of the Brooklyn Bridge, the paving of streets and laying of sewers…these are fascinating stories in themselves, and could well have become the material for a different, superior historical novel, something like Ken Follett’s masterful The Pillars of The Earth.
But Gaffney seems unable to decide whether to turn out a tribute to Gangs, an immigrant-makes-good saga a la Jeffrey Archer or Henry Denker, nor a straightforward romance, nor even a gripping period mystery. A Caleb Carr she certainly isn’t – for that matter, even Carr has not yet been able to climb out of the shadow of his impressive New York historical thrillers even now, over a decade after the fact – nor is she a Doctorow in literary terms.
Perhaps the opposite of this book would be Michael Chabon’s brilliant The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Klay which gets everything right that Gaffney gets wrong: a pair of protagonists you care about intensely, an involving story, and effective but not overwhelming evocation of the period and atmosphere.
And most of all, Chabon weaves his own fictional world, rising above not only the research but above the sub-genre of historical novels set in New York as well, to create his own minor masterpiece.
In the end, only read this one for the romance and if you’re a big fan of Gangs of New York.
Otherwise, watch it crumble like a badly constructed Brooklyn Bridge of cards. All the meticulous research and all the queen’s English can’t save this ambitious but ultimately disappointing debut.
Mangal Pandey at the US Club: Review of The Rising and a brief word on our “independence”
Saw Mangal Pandey: The Rising at Inox yesterday with my wife and two friends.
I loved the film. No two ways about it. Loved it from start to finish.
I know the history of the period reasonably well, since I’ve researched it extensively for a while, for my “Epic India” series of historical fiction books, which I intend to start writing next year.
Mangal Pandey’s story actually ends before the revolution begins. Which is why it’s a tough subject to adapt to a big-screen adaptation, because in a sense, Pandey didn’t really get to do very much before he was executed.
But the film manages to take this severe limitation and turn it into a beautifully made, gripping, and emotionally involving film.
Aamir Khan, of course, is the heart and soul of the movie, and rightly so, with his intense eyes, realistically achieved ‘look’, moustache and all, and his heartfelt performance. There’s no question that he’s now the most committed, talented and mature actor of his generation, and he deserves all the acclaim and awards and commercial rewards that are due him.
I thought Toby Stephens was brilliant too. What a performance the man gives, despite his Angrezi Hindi and difficult role – torn between being one of the villains and the hero’s best friend.
It was a performance that reminded me of the great turn that Stephen Boyd did in Ben Hur, playing the Roman friend of the hero. That dynamic was very similar to the one shown between Toby and Aamir’s characters in Mangal Pandey and it’s credit to these two fine actors that they were able to create a screen relationship with the resonance and depth of that legendary one, with much less dramatic material.
Thirdly, Rani Mukherjee was magnificent in a tiny, almost irrelevant role. I didn’t care much for the natchnewalli mujra scenes, where she has to play the usual seductive sultry siren, but in her more realistic moments, as at the auction in the mela, or when she’s brought before Kiron Kher (also very good in a very tiny part) at the kotha, and in her brief scene with Aamir at the temple, she shows a fiery depth that makes me long for some film maker to take this gifted actress and cast her in an author-backed role like Rani of Jhansi that would display her huge range of talents.
Rani is a hero in her own right, and can carry any film on her shoulders, without even the benefit of a Bachchan (as in Black) to prop up the film commercially.
I liked Ketan Mehta’s direction too. He was suitably epic when needed, yet knew when to rein in the grandiose and capture the human emotions too.
A. R. Rehman’s music, as he himself has commented, was not used as effectively as it could have been. Partly because Mangal Pandey is a hybrid product, somewhere between a Devdas kind of film (rich, sumptous, period drama) and a Lagaan (intense, involving, offbeat but entertaining period drama) with glamour as well as grit, patriotism (a tough subject to convey on screen without becoming ridiculous or jingoistic like Manoj Kumar), friendship, romance, and most of all, a powerful sense of the bonds that unite and divide us all.
In a sense, the bond between the Angrezi captain and the sepoy Mangal Pandey is the core of the film. View it as such and you will see the film in its true light.
As for the critics and naysayers, let them go see Dus and bite their popcorn. I’d rather have one Mangal Pandey every four years than a Dus every Friday.
And to the media, who hypes up films like this needlessly, then condemn it for being “overhyped”, well, why don’t you shut up and let people decide for themselves.
On a footnote, an interesting incident happened on the same day I saw the film.
My friends and I decided to go to the US Club at Colaba, Mumbai, for tea and pakoras after the movie. (One of us was a member.)
When we reached there, we were told that because one of us, my friend, was wearing Indian garb, it violated the dress code of the club and so we would have to leave.
(My other friend, who was a member, had forgotten about the dress code, and apologized profusely for it.)
It didn’t bother us much, since we just upped and went to another place and had our tea and a lovely chat for the next few hours, and quite forgot about the incident.
But it did make me think later how curious it was that even today, so many years after Independence, we still have places in our own country where Indian dress is not allowed, whereas casual western dress of any kind – I was wearing jeans and a tee shirt and sneakers (and I saw kids in shorts and tee shirts) – is quite welcome.
It makes you wonder: How independent are we really from western rule even today?
Having said that, let me take a moment – or an entire day – to wish you a very happy 58th Indian Independence Day, today, August 15th 2005.
Even if you’re not an Indian.
Which is unlikely, because 1/5th of the world population is Indian-born.
And most of the remaining 4/5ths are influenced by Indian culture in some fashion, whether you realize it or not!
Vandemataram…
Mera Bharata mahaan…
Jai Hind!
Sold out on pre-order! 
Available only from me directly. 
Available only from me directly. 
Available only from me directly. 