You can’t take a goldfish for a walk
The car radio was tuned to 107.1 FM. The song playing was How Much Is That Doggie In The Window? (The line “you can’t take a goldfish for a walk” is from the same song.) The song after that was The Butterfly and The Dog, which I’m not familiar with but was nice too. I like listening to 107.1 FM in the mornings when I’m driving because it’s the last surviving FM channel that plays English music. I like Hindi music as much as the next person, but listening to the same dozen or two dozen Bollywood songs being replayed all day long on every FM channel, with endless ad breaks, is not my idea of listening to music. It’s just being used as a consumer, is all. The whole point of radio is the unpredictability of song choice, not knowing which track will come next, and of the simple pleasure of hearing an oldie but goldie, or a newbie but goodie, suddenly coming at you while you’re driving and thinking of other things. Good radio is what happens to you when you’re busy doing other things, like driving, or walking the dog, or just sitting in the car and looking out at a mangrove swamp on a rainy day in Mumbai.
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.
Everybody Wants To Have A Bath – singing in the Mumbai rains
Pouring here in Mumbai. Our driver’s gone to his home town to see to his mother who is seriously ill, possibly terminal. So I’m the designated morning driver for my wife and daughter, neither of whom drive even though they have their own cars. My son drives himself in his own car but he sleeps in late and I’m up early anyway, and I walk Willow anyway, so I like dropping Biki and Yashka off. Biki gets dropped to the pre-school where she works. She loves her job, brings it home and spends weekends and nights making up teacher’s aids and charts and stuff. The house is always full of clay models, piles and piles of coloured chart paper cut into a variety of shapes – stars, squares, circles, crescent moons seem to ‘top the charts’ so to speak – and it’s like living in a pre-school sometimes which is nice.
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.
Hamara Bajaj
An abandoned scooter on the pavement outside Jehangir Art Gallery. At least on that particular Sunday when my wife, son and I went on our usual tour of art galleries, this was the only genuine work of art we found.
Hamara Bajaj
An abandoned scooter on the pavement outside Jehangir Art Gallery. At least on that particular Sunday when my wife, son and I went on our usual tour of art galleries, this was the only genuine work of art we found.
Under a Mumbai Sky
Three more iPhone pics from my Under a Mumbai Sky series. You can see the whole set on my Flickr Photostream if you like.
Nothing extraordinary, just casual clicks on my iPhone while walking Willow, mostly on the back roads of Lokhandwala and Oshiwara.
I like shooting straight into the sun, which causes the in-built neutral density filter in the iPhone camera to create that scorched-sun effect, like a ‘night-for-day’ effect.
And yes, the title of the series, Under a Mumbai Sky also happens to be the title of a novel-in-progress.
History: A Work In Progress
(Note: This bio, like my life, is still a work-in-progress–AKB)
A Bombay Boy
Ashok Kumar Banker was born on 7th February 1964 in Mumbai. He grew up, lived in and continues to live in Mumbai. He does not possess a passport and has never felt the desire to travel outside India, although he has travelled extensively across India. He lives in the northern suburb of Lokhandwala, Andheri West. His wife is a montessori teacher, his son is in college, his daughter is in school. He works from home and spends almost all his waking hours reading, writing, or with his family. He never socializes and does not accept invitations to any social event, without exceptions. He is of mixed race, religion, and ethnicity, and considers himself simply ‘Indian’. He is 44 years old.
“Only Bad Books Need Promoting…”
The author of 19 published books to date, he has done a total of 5 PR appearances in his entire 20+year career, and does not intend to do any more in future, without exception. He no longer does media interviews, and does not believe in self-promotion or book promotion. (You won’t find a single page of information on this, his official website, about any of his books.) He has not promoted himself or his books since 2005 when he did a single bookstore appearance for the launch of Armies of Hanuman: Book Four of the Ramayana series, and the biggest PR event he has done in his life comprised a total of three bookstore appearances at the launch of Prince of Ayodhya: Book One of the Ramayana series in 2003. Before that, the previous media appearance he did was in 1994 for Byculla Boy.
Ashok subscribes to the adage (his own) that “Only bad books need promoting. Good books have a way of finding their way into good hands–even if it takes a while.” He also rejects the contemporary publishing approach that entails aggressively promoting books to create ‘fastsellers’, preferring instead to let word-of-mouth and reader curiosity work their slow but dependable magic. Interestingly, his book sales are completely unaffected by his PR events–or their absence, and his books sell steadily month after month, with most readers ‘discovering’ him for the first time on their own. The most common reader email he receives even today, after more than half a million copies in print and an estimated 1 million+ readers worldwide is “I had never heard of you or your books until I happened to come across a copy of…”
He points to the immense success of Japanese authors, most of whom do not subscribe to the western capitalistic model of self-promotion, as an example of how genuine reader interest can drive sales far more effectively than short-lived marketing, advertising and PR. He is committed to resisting this trend as an individual and to pursuing a career built on genuine reader affection and support, rather than commercial exploitation and media hype.
This is why, while he eschews media and bookstore appearances and any form of self-promotion without exception, he remains completely accessible to readers. He is perhaps the most responsive author in India, perhaps even the world, replying to every single email from readers, often within minutes or seconds of receiving the email. He has replied to over 15,200 readers since 2003 (and counting). He continues to correspond regularly with several hundred readers even today. A sampling of recent reader feedback and his correspondence can be seen on the Readerswrite page of this website.
Early Years
Ashok grew up speaking only English fluently, and learned Hindi at school. He began reading and writing at a precociously early age, and when he discovered the section on Mythology in a set of encyclopaedias called The Book of Knowledge at age 9, he decided to become a writer. He broke into print at the age of 14 and published several hundred poems, short stories and articles in his teens in a variety of small press magazines, literary journals in India and abroad, and was invited to read his poetry on AIR (All India Radio) and interviewed on DD (Doordarshan, the national broadcaster) as well.
During his teens he worked as a door-to-door market research surveyor to help pay his school fees, and later, his college tuition, while caring for his alcohol-psychotic mother at the same time, events that he would later write about, very obliquely and fictionalized considerably, in the novels Vertigo, Byculla Boy, and the unpublished novels The Pasha of Pedder Road and Beautiful Ugly.
When he was 14, his biological father as well as his step-father, and his mother’s family, all began to distance themselves from Ashok and his extremely unstable mother Sheila, forcing Ashok to care for her financially as well as medically. He wrote his first four novels during this period, as well as several hundred short stories, plays, poems, editorial letters and articles, and even self-published a slim volume of poetry titled Ashes In The Dust of Time which was selected to represent ‘Young India’ at the Paris Book Exhibition in France. Around this same time, his mother, who was in a mutually abusive and alcohol-fuelled violent relationship with her second husband, a small-time Bollywood film actor, suffered a traumatic incident which changed her life and Ashok’s. She would later be forcibly admitted to nursing homes for psychiatric treatments on nine separate occasions, usually by her second husband and/or her mother, and subjected to electroshock therapy. After Ashok was old enough, he refused to have her committed again and took care of her himself.
The Working Writer
He studied a year of college (English Literature and History) at St. Xavier’s College, Mumbai, before extreme privation and personal circumstances made it impossible for him to afford further education. At the age of 19, he accepted a job offer from HTA (Hindustan Thompson Advertising) as an advertising copywriter, and wrote his first published advertisements on the very first day on the job. Around this time, he and his mother were forced to live separately from the rest of the family at their Khar (W) flat in suburban Mumbai, as neither her family nor her two ex-husbands would support her or Ashok. The copywriting job with HTA paid Rs 800/- of which Ashok received Rs 721/- in hand, to cover his travel, food, clothing, and living expenses, and his mother’s care. His biological father refused to pay any money towards his mother’s care or even for Ashok’s education. Ashok was compelled to take on freelance part-time jobs, at one time working seven jobs simultaneously in order to make ends meet. These years are also portrayed, albeit very obliquely and in fragments and fictionalized, in the above-mentioned novels. However, most of the less palatable details of those years–including the way he and his mother were ostracized by their family, friends, neighbours, etc–have never been written about and perhaps never will be. There are things too terrible for even fiction to sugar-coat, and reality is a hard language to translate. Ashok has consistently refused to write his autobiography, preferring instead to focus his energies on stories that help him deal with and understand ways of dealing with issues that he faced in his life rather than dwelling on them morbidly.
Rising Out of The Rubble
Despite his numerous jobs and the demands of caring for a psychotic mother whom even professional psychiatrists now refused to treat, Ashok continued to write, producing reams of stories, unfinished novels, screenplays for friends, TV serial scripts, etc. Passionately interested in studying Literature and Indian History, his attempts to continue his graduate studies met with failure when the University of Mumbai refused him admission in their Distance Learning (Correspondence) course on the grounds that Literature could not be studied independently. He remains an under-Graduate to this day, but somehow succeeded in educating himself despite the skepticism of the authorities. Ironically, he himself is now the author of 19 books (and counting) and was even invited to deliver guest lectures at the same Department of English Literature at the University of Mumbai. Thus he found himself, a famous author, lecturing about literature to the very English department that had considered him ineligible as a student only a decade or so earlier! He was also awarded a Post-Graduate Diploma by the Xavier Institute of Communication despite being an under-Graduate at the time–he topped the class.
As his mother’s mental and physical health deteriorated further and her family as well as his father and step-father continued to refuse help or financial aid, the pressure on Ashok increased considerably. His mother began suffering violent oubursts, often directed at Ashok himself, or at neighbours, family members, strangers, etc. She was arrested twice, attacked a police inspector on one occasion, and on both occasions, the police discreetly offered to have her locked away for her own good. Ashok refused, and continued to care for her as best as he could until her eventual death in 1990. Meanwhile, he continued to work in Advertising, where he won multiple awards for his work and was considered one of the most talented creative minds of his time, then later as a freelance journalist breaking front-page news stories for Times of India and Outlook, among many other publications, going on to write feature stories, book reviews, essays, toting up a total of 2,000 published bylines. The few short stories he was able to submit internationally also found publication in a variety of science fiction and horror magazines over the years. But his real ambition lay in writing epic novels, a dream which he could not realize due to the need to work multiple jobs and/or assignments in order to support himself, his mother, and later, his wife and first child. He married his school sweetheart in 1987, and their first child Ayush Yoda Banker was born in 1989, their second Yashka Banker in 1993.
First Breakthrough
In 1990, after his mother died–an event which is described exactly as it occurred in Vertigo, he inherited her flat in Bandra, and some debts. He was forced to sell off a room of the flat in order to repay some of the debts, and found himself unwilling to continue working in advertising and journalism full-time thereafter. He stayed home and began work on several new novels, completing his first novel-length work after almost a decade. It was in this period that he wrote the books Ten Dead Admen, The Iron Bra, Murder & Champagne, Vertigo, Byculla Boy, The Pasha of Pedder Road (unpublished), Beautiful Ugly (unpublished), and several other unfinished manuscripts. In 1992, he received an acceptance letter for his novel Vertigo which later became his fourth-published (but first-accepted) novel. He received an advance of Rs 50,000/- for the novel, the highest advance ever received by an Indian author in the country at the time–it would later be topped by the Rs 1 lakh advance received by Vikram Seth for his novel A Suitable Boy. However, this fact was never publicized and in fact, this is the first time it is being mentioned publicly.
Despite having purchased Vertigo first, his publishers wished to launch Ashok’s career with the three crime novels. And so he was published and heralded by the media as “India’s first crime novelist in English” receiving widespread critical acclaim but only moderate sales. All three books were published simultaneously in January 2003. Vertigo was published shortly therafter, in July of the same year, but apart from a few critically admiring reviews, was generally assumed to be a crime novel too, and therefore not given much notice. Only later would it acquire a small but dedicated set of followers who would consider it one of the most intense, moving portayals of working life in urban India. It later earned Ashok inclusions in the prestigious literary anthology The Picador Book of Modern Indian Literature as well as The Vintage Anthology of Indian Literature. Today, it is regarded by several critics as being a seminal book in the history of Indian English literature and one of the few books to capture the realities of urban India in such gritty detail.
Desi Writers, English Praise
Fiction publishing in India in the Nineties was divided between the high-profile ‘stars’ whose books were published as literature but who topped bestseller lists, and the so-called ‘bestselling’ authors like Ashok who were roundly ignored by the literati and enjoyed only moderate sales to a limited number of readers who appreciated contemporary Indian writing. The severe western-oriented bias against Indian contemporary writers was exemplified by statements made to Ashok by a well-known publisher: “Indian authors will never be able to write as well as firang authors,” and an influential critic on the boards of several literary award juries: “Of course we’re going to award authors who are published first in the West and who are known and personally respected by us (the jury members).” Authors were often paid a flat lumpsum on publication of as low as Rs 1500/- in exchange for which they signed away world rights to their work in perpetuity. Even those authors who were lucky enough to sign with the more scrupulous publishers were lucky if they received an advance of Rs 10,000/- to Rs 20,000/- for world rights for a book, while their editors wined and dined at five star hotels, publicists spent several times that amount on publicity for the same books, and bookstore chains took as much as 60% of a book’s MRP while the author herself could earn as little as 5% royalty–royalty which rarely, if ever, reached the author’s hands. Much of this inequity has been removed now, but a great deal still remains.
Ashok’s struggles with the inequities of the Indian publishing system found an outlet when he was offered an opportunity to create and write the screenplays for what would later be “India’s first television series in English” for the National Network’s DD Metro Channel. Previously familiar with writing screenplays from his numerous advertising commercials and award-winning documentaries and corporate films, Ashok then spent the next few years writing over 400 produced TV shows. He also resumed writing freelance journalism for his own satisfaction. He turned down offers to write books on various subjects that his publishers felt would be commercial rewarding, or returned advance payments to contracts he did not wish to fulfil, including a contract to write a biography of Sanjay Dutt, a biography of Bal Thackeray, and a non-fiction book on the Kargil War, among several others. He began to face the possibility that perhaps the only way he could earn a living by writing books alone was not by writing books he wished to write, but by taking on such contracts that publishers were offering.
The Television Years
Sadly, as Ashok soon learned, writers were not treated much better in the television and film field. As Ashok experienced first-hand when a producer once told him he had bought the rights to one of his novels: “Ha, bhai, I got the rights to your book just yesterday only. For Rs 250/- from Crossword!” Even producers like Ekta Kapoor admitted publicly in numerous interviews that she was inspired by two works to pursue a career in telling stories through the medium of television: her father’s social dramas (films) of the Sixties, and “Ashok Banker’s Vertigo,” which she claimed was the first novel she had ever read. She credited the book as being her ‘bible’ for how to tell a story about relationships and the basis for her television empire. But even adulation and the cult following that Vertigo and his other work had garnered by that time was insufficient to earn Ashok a respectable living by writing books. What was worse, by this time, no publisher was willing to read a manuscript submitted by him because most automatically assumed it would be a crime novel, even though he hadn’t written a crime novel for several years.
Finally, around the year 2000, he found himself facing a life crisis. He was fiercely unhappy with the work he was doing, disillusioned with the raw treatment meted out to writers in the film and television industries, the corruption and politicization of the media, and the oddity of a book publishing trade in India wherein everybody was achieving financial success and growth except for the authors of the books themselves. At this point, he also faced a crisis of faith. Never having been a religious person, and having grown up with a variety of religious exposures, being of conflicting ideoligical and ethnic influences himself, Ashok began to explore his own inner belief systems and his roots as a writer. After much self-searching, he found himself fascinated by his early childhood obsession with mythology once more. This led him over the next several months to re-reading and researching ancient Indian epics, puranas, history, etc.
A chance meeting with a visiting British author en route to Varanasi encouraged him to begin writing a complex narrative that would encompass all of Indian myth, legend and history in one massive inter-connected series of tales. But even the longest story cycle in the world must have a beginning, and so, he later focussed on a starting point and decided that the ‘adi kavya’ was surely the place to begin. Thus began his writing experiment that later took shape as the Ramayana series, an attempt to retell the ancient purana of Valmiki in a contemporary voice, as one contemporary Indian speaking to others in his own natural idiom.
The first person he sent the manuscript of the first book, tentatively titled “Prince of Dharma” allegedly dumped the pages into a wastebin, unread. That was his own editor at Penguin Books India. No other editor in India would even agree to read the manuscript. The publishing industry being what it was then, and remains even today, most editors didn’t even have to read a manuscript in order to reject it. It was enough to say that they “don’t publish your kind of books”. The assumption, presumably, was that Ashok was trying to submit a crime novel.
An Epic, not Epic Fantasy
Around this time, the same British novelist he had met and helped while in India offered to introduce him to her agent. He wrote to the agent in question, who said that she only handled science fiction and fantasy books. When Ashok showed her his manuscript, she expressed optimism in selling it to US publishers, provided it could be sold as ‘fantasy’, since there was no publishing ‘slot’ for mythology or epics. (Ashok has always maintained that his Ramayana was a retelling of an epic, and should therefore be classified simply as ‘Epic’.) Her approach to the work would later prove to be highly prejudicial and biased, and Ashok was soon compelled to part ways with her. But she was instrumental in getting his work read by and secured a publishing contract with a US fantasy publisher–against Ashok’s explicit wishes, as Ashok actually wished to wait for another publisher to respond with a possible offer. Using a power of attorney, the agent then signed Ashok to contracts whose specific contents he had no knowledge of until months later, a practise that is considered universally acceptable for ‘foreign’ writers in the US and UK publishing industry. As the international rights sub-agent told Ashok in one memorable conversation, “This advance (xx amount) must be quite a sum in your currency.” The obvious implication was that as long as the author was getting paid well, what did it matter how the books were marketed and sold.
Sweet Success
Later, when the packaging of Prince of Ayodhya as a ‘fantasy’ novel backfired in every country where it was marketed as such, Ashok was proven right. Today, his Ramayana series is primarily bought and read by readers who understand that it is a retelling of the ancient Sanskrit epic and read it for that reason, not as just another fat fantasy series. Ashok parted ways with the agent as well as the US publisher of the first book soon after publication of Prince of Ayodhya. Even today, the series has never been published fully in the USA and only limited number of copies of the UK edition are available in select stores there, yet the number of people actually reading the books has continued to swell rather than fade. And in India, the series found its own historic niche as the first ‘series’ to be published in the country to such widespread acclaim and sales. In fact, the books continue to find new readers at a faster rate today than when they were first published in 2003. At a conservative estimate, over one million people (mainly Indians) have read one or more of the books, most of them discovering the series in the past two years alone. Ashok has received film offers from seven different major international production houses and studios, offering US $ amounts in eight figures for the film and media rights to the series. They are currently optioned and a major feature film adaptation is in development.
(To be Expanded and Continued)
SLAYER OF KAMSA: Book 1 of The Krishna Coriolis will be out next month (October). Written in a pacier style than my Ramayana Series, this short impactful book details the rise to power of the monstrous Kamsa and his brutal campaign to thwart the birth of the prophesied 8th Child. 