For those of you – “you few, you happy few!” – who’ve bought and read the exclusive limited signed AKB BOOKS edition of VoR and have ordered the exclusive limited signed AKB BOOKS edition of SoS, this may not be reason to jump up and down, which is bad for your joints anyway. But for the vast majority of Ramayana Series readers out there, I’m sure you will be happy to see why I chose to rescind my own earlier decision to end the series at six books and chose to continue it in these two additional volumes. I can’t promise that the answers I provide in these two books will please everyone. Indeed, they may please no one. Because the point of writing these books is not to please or displease, it’s simply to complete the mental journey I embarked upon when I began writing Prince of Ayodhya and finished that first book way back in the year 2000, long before any publisher was willing to even look at such a manuscript, let alone publish it. Today, I have journalists, readers, editors, booksellers, publishers and others who keep writing to me and telling me that I’m responsible for a wave of resurgence in Indian mythology. I really don’t give a damn about any resurgence or the commercial ramifications of making mythology “cool” as one editor put it. What I do care about is the wealth of great Indian literature that has been ignored by the world for so long in favour of other mythologies and legends of the western hemisphere and that deserves a wider readership and exposure.

As I’ve always said to anyone who praised me for the series: This is not about me. It’s not my story alone. It’s our story. Our history in fact. I’m proud and happy to have been the one to retell it in my humble and flawed attempt. But I’m not anyone special or talented for having done it, just a product of a great culture and people that share one of the world’s finest storytelling traditions. In my opinion, the finest.

The show has already passed beyond mere television excellence to become a cultural icon. After a slew of awards and near-iconic status for its principal creators and performers – Jon Hamm is like today’s Gregory Peck, a star and legend in his own right – Mad Men is now inspiring a slew of books on the era, all linked to the series. The best among them seems to be Mad Men Unbuttoned: A Romp Through 1960s America by Natasha Vargas-Cooper. The author was interviewed this week by New Yorker Magazine and I found her insights into the show as well as on the period to be fascinating. Here’s an excerpt:

“Mad Men,” which returns to AMC this Sunday night, is a television show that sometimes thinks it’s a novel—in particular, a John Cheever novel. Like Cheever, the Draper family lives in Ossining, New York, and their colorful address—42 Bullet Park Road—is an allusion to one of the author’s novels. The literary references don’t end with Cheever. The characters on “Mad Men” read almost as much as they smoke, drink, and cheat. Bert Cooper extols the virtues of Ayn Rand, Don Draper broods over Frank O’Hara’s poetry, and the secretaries at Sterling Cooper furtively pass around an “unexpurgated” copy of “Lady Chatterley’s Lover,” warning each other not to read it on the train because “it’ll attract the wrong element.”

Read the full interview with Natasha Vargas-Cooper at The New Yorker website.

And that’s the mangrove swamp in question. It’s pretty clean right now, thanks to the monsoons. You can’t see the ducks but they’re there somewhere, probably huddled under an overhanging tree. There are cranes and storks and kingfishers and birds I would need all my Salim Ali books to put a name to, though there seem to be a lot fewer each passing year and those that do appear deserve some kind of medal for braving the oil spills, oilfield blazes, and super-heat from the superweaponry ordnance deployed in all those wars against Terror. I’m just glad to see them, and to see the mangroves. Which, by the way, are also slowly losing the battle of attrition to the forces of forced urbanization. In this pic, for instance, I’m parked on a side road which should not be there and which leads to an electrical substation or distribution station or somesuch which as far as I know, ought not to be there either. It’s now got a small colony of squatters around it who presumably work for the substation but are nevertheless squatting on CRZ land. And there’s even a small mandir here, with loads and loads of trash around that never seems to get cleared. Oh, and right across the way is the local dump, where dump trucks dump trash by the hundreds of truckloads each day, right in the heart of the “protected” mangrove lands. I’m sure it’s all perfectly legal, but it’s not I who matter, it’s those birds and those ducks and I don’t think they’re interested in urbanization. Not much.

Willow. A little wet but no worse for wear. Missing her walk. But also content to sit and listen to the radio – which incidentally happens to be playing How Much Is That Doggie In The Window at the exact moment this pic was taken on my iPhone, and enjoy the cool a/c air. But the window stays open always, no matter what. Oh well. Calf leather is replaceable. Willow isn’t.

And when the rain let up a little, she did get to walk a bit. Just around the car, which is good too, because what she really enjoys is sniffing and snuffling. The walking is only a means to the end, and the end that matters is the end of her long nose. She’s too busy sniffing in this pic to pose properly which is fine because she’s definitely not a Page 3 dog. Thank dog for that. The bench appears to have been sponsored by an industrialist in memory of his late wife or maybe it was his mother, I forget which. Interestingly, I’ve actually met the industrialist in question a long time ago – he was a client for an ad agency I used to work with back then in another life. His industrial complex was near Kochi and I flew down several times in the mid and late 80s to get briefed on brochures, corporate campaigns, vacancy ads – and even the ads commemorating the person to whom the bench in the pic is dedicated. Small world. Nice bench. Next time I’ll try pressing it a few times just so I can tell my trainer at the gym that I’ve already done my bench-presses that day. If he doesn’t believe me, I’ll show him this picture. Oh wait. I don’t have a trainer. Just the bench.

An hour later they were on The Road, an Oprah’s Book Club selection. He pushed the cart and both he and the boy carried knapsacks in case they had to make a run for it. Cannibal rapists, roving bloodcults. Greenpeace volunteers. In the knapsacks were essential things: tins of food, metal utensils, a broken Slinky, a canopener, three bullets, a picture of ham. He looked out over the barren waste, the scorpled remain. The road was empty, as was its wont. Quiet, moveless. Are you okay? he said, quotation marks dead as the reeds. The boy nodded. Then they started down the road, humming a sprightly tune. The tune was silent, and unsprightly.

Read the complete spoof of Cormac McCarthy’s The Road at The Millions.

Spent most of last evening reading this – it’s got everything in equal measure to make it a blockbuster! It’s simply unputdownable (probably also because I am at the end of the KAMSA edits) and I can see you’ll probably lead a whole new generation of readers into mythologies but in a cool, contemporary way. Also, on the other hand, I feel SLAYER will in many ways bring back a lot of AB (not the grand oldman of Bollywood!) lovers – it’s a perfect first book for a series like KRISHNA…there’s hardly much I can do to enhance the readability of the book, since it is quite beautifully written.

This happened in the Harriet Wasserman case in the USA. And due to this very closed-circuit approach in publishing and the media, it took its time coming out in the open. But in the end, it was too big a scandal and too blatant a crime to be covered up. There was also the fact that the victims weren’t mid-level employees like Lisa Rundle, they were well-known authors. And there was a fair amount of money involved.

So what was the Harriet Wasserman scandal about? Well, there are a couple of things about the case that didn’t come out – or were not permitted to come out fully – such as a drug habit and the fact that such pilfering by literary agents in the USA is not unknown or unheard-of, especially during recessionary times. But the blatant misuse of funds, the unprofessional attraction to a client, and the thriller-like ‘disappearance’ all made the case just too juicy to cover up completely. To quote the literary news aggregating blog The Daily Beast, a prestigious site run by former Vanity Fair and New Yorker editor Tina Brown:

Most infamously, Wasserman also represented Saul Bellow, whom she was madly in love with, as she wrote in her tragically confessional 1997 memoir, Handsome Is (the title refers to Bellow). Bellow had other plans with other agents; he left Wasserman for Andrew Wylie in 1993. That, thinks Mooney, is when Wasserman began a long decline, one that her other clients would not realize until it was too late.

“When Saul, whom she just adored, left her for Wylie, she thought, f— it,” says Mooney, trying to make heads or tails of what happened next. Several people contacted for this article gave the same story: over the coming years, Wasserman’s clients, in increasing numbers, began to question her stability, and the attention being paid to their works being pushed out into the world. Aggressive representation and vigorous attention, it seems, were exactly what Mooney had needed those other times.

Click here to read the complete article at The Daily Beast.

The above came to me with gifts of free books, including a lovely limited edition hardcover of a Murakami novel, from my Editor at Random House India, Chiki Sarkar, on completion of the editing of my first major non-fiction book The Valmiki Syndrome. I guess this means she likes it!

Dear Ashok,

A small gift to show my appreciation. It’s been a really great experience working with you and you’ve been a dream to edit.

Wish best wishes,

Chiki

July 10, New Delhi

Apparently it’s gotten so bad that most editors don’t have the time to edit anymore – their days are spent trying to buy books they want to publish, overseeing books they’ve bought earlier through the complex process of corporate publishing, making sure the books get promoted right, promoted well, distributed well, get shelved right, etc, etc. Everything but actual editing, in short.

You can see from the comments on the New Yorker page that authors in the US have actually begun to live with the fact and even edit one another’s manuscripts now – at least that way, there’s continuity in the editing process.

Fortunately for us, it’s not like that in India – at least not yet. Here, editors at most publishing houses (though not all, mind you) still edit manuscripts, talk to authors about their books in progress and actually play an active part in the process of creating a published work. However, it’s rapidly changing here as well, particularly at the multinational publishing houses where quantity is winning out over quality and foreign authors (even those from neighbouring nations) are given disproportionate amounts of time, attention, promotional spending and other support. Most Indian authors have virtually no say at any stage of the publication process – and many are not even informed when their books are published. The first (and only) inkling many authors get that they’ve been published is when they receive a few complimentary copies of their own book. That is also often the last they hear from the publisher.

Sadly, that remains the same for authors everywhere.

This is a true story:
My first book was acquired by two people I will call Editor A and Editor B, who ran a small imprint at a big publishing house. We had a great lunch to celebrate. A few months later, Editor A left book publishing to become a newspaper writer. Editor B became my primary editor. She and I had a nice lunch to talk about my book.
A few months after that, Editor B was promoted to publisher of the larger house—let us call it Publisher W—that owned the small imprint. Because Editor B—that is, Editor/Publisher B—now had too many duties to edit my book, I was assigned to Editor C.
Editor C and I had lunch. A few months later, he got a new job at another publishing house. I was assigned to Editor D.
Editor D and I had lunch. It was a pleasant-enough lunch, but Editor D had no actual interest in my book or me; he was just taking it on because Editor/Publisher B, now his boss, had asked him to.
A few months later, Editor/Publisher B was fired.

Click here to read Susan Orlean’s column in New Yorker this week.

Anyway, back to the rain. It was pouring lawyers and engineers today. That’s my way of describing it, because somehow the image of cats and dogs falling from the sky doesn’t appeal to me. I love cats and dogs – all animals in fact. They seem to love me too. I constantly get mobbed by strays, partly because Willow’s smell is all over me, I guess, but also because I’m gentle to a fault and they seem to sense that. A strange thing happens when I drive. Dogs and cats tend to cross the street in front of my car, often so slowly and leisurely that if it were anyone else driving, they would surely get run over, or at least get their tails squished. I always stop, slow down, or honk if there’s no alternative. Cats in particular tend to swish their tails, waggle their furry asses, and stroll aaram se across the front of my car like they’re VVIPs and I’m at a red signal. I can’t tell you how often this happens to me.

Birds tend to hang around my windows. I do have a sort of ability to whistle in imitation of bird sounds – not too many, just a couple. But that can’t be the only reason. Yet, you will find several species of bird hanging around on my window grilles, tweeting, chirping or issuing bird songs in full throttle. Willow doesn’t like that much; I think she gets jealous. She gets hugely jealous of cats purring and rubbing up to me, and she only tolerates other dogs doing it because I make sure to include her in the petting and talking, and because she’s such a friendly soul herself. She’s never bitten nor will ever bite anyone in her life; though she’s been bitten once by a stray and been threatened or come under attack any number of times. It’s the downside of being a gentle person or animal – you get attacked a lot. How to deal with it? Run away? Well, yes, sometimes. At other times, it helps to just stand your ground and let them know you will not be bullied. If that means having a chunk or two bitten out of you, so be it. But we shall not bite back. (We do bark a lot though, both Willow and I.)

There were no dogs attacking us today. In fact, the dead end lane where we walked this morning, after dropping Bithika to her pre-school and before dropping Yashka to the station, was deserted. We left the car and walked to the end of the lane – and of course, it picked that time to start pouring. Really pouring. Willow continued to wander around. The rain doesn’t bother her much. But I had to take shelter under a tree though I got soaked anyway. She got soaked too and after realizing I wasn’t perambulating with her as usual, she wanted to come stand by me as well. We stood there under the tree, watching the rain fall for a while. It was very nice. There’s a Mumbai Metro development going on over there in that lane and it used to be a big open lot before where we used to play. We miss it a lot. There’s a tree which I’ve clicked on several occasions and which figures prominently in some of my favourite pics in my series titled ‘Under A Mumbai Sky’. The tree is still there but the lot is fenced off and closed to the public. Now only big machines live there, grinding and groaning and gnashing all day long as they continue the business of turning the city into a metropolis. I wonder if Willow misses that patch of open ground and open sky – so rare in this city, as it is. I think she does. But she accepts it for what it is: change. Progress. The way of the world. Perhaps I should accept it too. I’ll try.

We stood beneath the tree in the rain for a while – I took a couple of pictures which I’ve posted here, though they don’t really capture the sheer quantum of fluid being deposited, and then we mutually decided to make a dash for the car. Willow loved it. Running in the rain – and me running? It made her day. As a hound, she has a tendency to ‘bell’. That’s when a dog weaves in and out of your feet, brushes against your legs, and follows an irregular pattern that keeps her (or him) moving forward but also in constant touch with the human, or with other dogs. It basically amounts to bumping against one another while running. It’s difficult to coordinate for most people and you can get knocked down or worse if you’re not prepared for it. I am. I was. And we ran well together. Me with my overweight flat-footed thumping and she with her graceful weaving leap, red fur rippling. Reaching the car was a kind of reward. She rubbed herself madly all over the calf leather seats trying to dry herself. I turned the a/c to the heating mode and she liked that a little though it unnerved her a bit because she’s terrified of hair dryers and a car heater is a lot like a hair dryer. But she liked the warmth. We were cold and soaking wet and the song playing on 107.1 AIR FM was Tears For Fears’ “Everybody Wants To Rule The World”. Except I don’t like the capitalist imperialistic subtext of that statement, so I changed the words to “Everybody Wants To Have a Bath”. Which was much more appropriate. I wished I’d carried Willow’s medicated shampoo. She was due for a bath anyday anyway. Oh well. Maybe tomorrow.

That was my early morning. It’s almost 9 now and I’m at my desk about to start writing for the day. How was your morning? As good as mine, I hope. Work well. Be well. Have a great day.

PS: The pics are terrible. The iPhone was wet and slippery and I didn’t want to get wetter to get better angles (there’s an awkward sentence construction). But then again, I’m no photographer nor do I aspire to be one.

Some of you have been writing in asking me about The Kali Quartet. Some have assumed it’s another mythological epic like my Ramayana Series. I thought I would set your minds at rest and tell you a little about this upcoming project.

For one thing, The Kali Quartet has nothing to do with the Ramayana Series or mythology. The ‘Kali’ reference is just that, a reference. The story is completely contemporary.

So without further ado, here’s a short note on The Kali Quartet and the first book in the four-ology, A BLOOD RED SAREE.

The Kali Quartet by Ashok Banker
A BLOOD RED SAREE
THE BURNING SAFFRON SKY
THE AGE OF KALI
THE COLOUR OF RAIN

A Blood Red Saree

Synopsis

Three abused women unite under the guidance of a mysterious American benefactor to battle a powerful conglomerate profiting from the trafficking of women and children.

An international conglomerate of financial masterminds is secretly funding human trafficking and passing off the multi-billion dollar profits as a legitimate international investment opportunity.

Can three ordinary women stop this barbaric conspiracy of profit? They are not alone in their fight for justice. A powerful caucus of wealthy high-placed women in Washington DC led by the First Lady herself meet in the White House to pledge to end this despicable business. With financial aid and secret information from these anonymous benefactors, the three women form a Trimurti, a sacred troika.

Now, the battle is on as each of them uses her considerable skills and determination to attack on a number of fronts: legal, financial, and when all else fails, through violent confrontation.

One will not survive, the other two will face brutal opposition and immense challenges. Like three aspects of the Eternal Goddess KALI herself, they risk their lives and loves in a struggle to the death.

Each volume of THE KALI QUARTET is complete in itself, while forming a section of the larger story. Read consecutively, this is one epic thriller in four volumes.

Series Synopsis

Sheila Ray: daughter of a disgraced dead police officer, she’s finally put her traumatic childhood behind her to establish the first successful women’s gym in Kolkata. When she protects a pair of persecuted lesbian Olympic women boxers from a vengeful politician, she finds herself literally under fire and on the run both from the powerful forces running the Maoist insurgency in India, as well as the Government and police.

Nachiketa Shroff: her ex-husband and his family’s attempt to kill her for not bringing a dowry for her arranged marriage put her in a wheelchair for life; after using the law to destroy them financially, she now runs her own NGO offering free legal representation to battered Indian women. But when her office burns down, destroying a decade’s work and almost killing her (again), she knows it’s time to step up the activism and go after the people at the top of the pyramid of exploitation.

Anita B: The first Indian woman private investigator, unabashed lesbian and LTBG activist, she returns home to Kerala to attend the funeral of her childhood best friend and runs smack into a cobra’s nest of trouble. Not only was her friend murdered for opposing the development of a major five star tourist resort but Anita’s own misogynist brothers are part of a ring of child traffickers using a Christian mission and orphanage as a cover.

Three women, each of whom has been abused by men in different ways and has built a life and reputation designed to help other women from similar abuse, are unwittingly drawn into a web of international human traffickers. Working alone at first, each discovers a different face of the hydra-headed monster that is modern-day slavery. Their individual quests for justice and survival lead them up to the top of the pyramid of power, where they discover a terrible secret. An international conglomerate of financial masterminds – bankers, insurance executives, fund managers – who are secretly funding illegitimate activities such as the enslaving of women and children in the third world, drug trafficking and even terrorism, and then whitewashing the multi-billion dollar profits under the guise of a legitimate international investment opportunity!

The stakes are phenomenally high, the parties involved are the Who’s Who of the financial and political world, and their resources immensely powerful. What can three women do to stop this barbaric conspiracy of profit?

But they are not alone in their fight for justice. An equally powerful caucus of wealthy high-placed women in Washington, DC, led by the First Lady herself, meet in the White House to pledge to end this despicable business. With financial aid and secret information from these anonymous benefactors, the three women are able to form a Trimurti, a sacred troika, and unite together.

Now, the battle is on as each of them uses her considerable skills and determination to fight the forces of unbridled profit by attacking on a number of fronts: legal, financial, and when all else fails, through violent confrontation.

Like three aspects of the Eternal Goddess KALI herself, they risk their lives and loves in a struggle to the finish. One will not survive, the other two will face brutal opposition and immense challenges. But at the end, they will triumph and succeed in substantially crippling the enterprise and as importantly, exposing it to the world at large.