Vidai

When I woke up that morning, I felt the summer before I realized I was up. I had been sleeping on our chhat, the terrace that joined other terraces, the neighbours’, the neighbours’ neighbours till it was all a vast network of terraces and we could believe if we wanted that we shared one giant roof, that boundaries were meant to be hopped over. It was still very early, the sun had not come out. The smells of the morning, a summer morning were all in the air though, slightly sweet, thick with promises of very hot days and uncomfortable nights.

I looked up at the sky. If one could always look up, there were no narrow alleys to be negotiated. But soon I will have to look around. Soon, the day will get hotter, people will start crowding into our house, dholaks will be brought out and the walls will ring with bannas. Ghanshyam Halwai and his troupe of fat men will set up the bhatti and giant kadhais will be put up. Tins and tins of desi ghee will be opened, my mausi will argue with Ghanshyam about the amount of food he is pilfering. Ghanshyam will declare that nobody has dared insult him thus in all the years of cooking. Mausi will concede defeat.

People, more people. Nieces and nephews, uncles and aunts, old people, young people, people who will make the journey in trains and rickety buses to get here, to this small, dirty little town. They will bring with them old VIP suitcases and fine silks, cheap perfumes and envelopes with money with my name on them.

The music will not stop. The dholak will give way to shehnai. My father has refused a DJ. Nobody has argued with him. Nobody but I has ever dared to do that. Already he looks defeated, his shoulders drooping just a little more these last few days. He will look at me impassively as he performs multiple poojas, his face giving away nothing of the struggle of the past few days. He will miss my mother.

I will miss my mother. I will miss her so much I will hate her for dying. People will remember her today and they will wipe their eyes as they rue how she could not be a part of my khushi, this elusive happiness that is finally to be mine.

Bechari Gayatri. Poor Gayatri.

My cousins will dance, their slim waists swinging in rhythm to the music. The boys will try to get a peak at them from half-open doors and careless windows before they are chased off. Many a romance will be ignited as long braids are swung over shoulders, dupattas are adjusted and dark eyelashes fluttered. The girls, some of them wearing saris for the first time will never look prettier and they will know it. The boys will strut about, their scrawny chests hiding desperate hearts full of unsaid words.

I will cast my eyes downwards sometime this morning and will not look up till I am asked to do so tonight by my husband.

All that is later. For now I can look skywards and imagine that I am free to soar where I please. I force myself to sit up on the mattress where I have spent the night and look at the supine figure next to me. Dadi, her giant form on its side, looking bigger than ever. I get up quietly and don’t bother to fold my sheets; it might wake Dadi. I make my way slowly through the sleeping forms of my family and relatives, all women who have slept out on the terrace after the tiring festivities of my engagement.

That was yesterday. He had looked at me without smiling, a stranger that I had known intimately for the last three years, had dodged the eagle eyes of my family and teachers and friends to meet at the ruins of the old fort at the edge of our town. Somewhere in the abandoned gardens of the old fort, some poor, unseeing tree was still holding aloft the carved proclamation of our undying love.

Deepak loves Suchitra. 12^th May.

I make my way downstairs and stop at the room on the first landing. No one is up yet, not even Baba who has woken up at five each morning for his unending morning walks for years and years. He walks in a circle at the park, round and round, chased by the memories of his dead wife. Round and round. Haunted and tired. Lonely and pensive. Round and round. I peak into his room. He is sleeping on his own bed. His room is untouched by the paraphernalia of the wedding. There are no bundles of silk sarees here, nor thaalis full of mithai, nor suit-pieces wrapped in colourful paper. He is asleep, my father and has been softened by sleep.

I swear on your dead mother I will kill you before I let you marry that lout, Suchi. What will I tell your mother when I see her?

Even then, it was she who looked askance at him from another world. Not the people of our mohalla, not his colleagues from the college, not Dadi. Just her.

I leave him sleeping and make my way down. My throat is hurting for some tea, tea the way Mami makes it, fragrant with cardamom and ginger, heavy and sweet and overcooked. Mami is still asleep on the terrace. It is too early. I wash my hands and face in the kitchen. The ring is a little too tight around my finger. Mami is the one who put the mehendi on my hands and feet, drawing intricate patterns freehand, weaving Deepak’s name into the endless loops of flowery vines. Mami had thrown her rolling pin at me when Mama had caught me with Deepak at the bangle shop and dragged me home.

I took your mother’s place, Suchi. I am the one who has brought you up. They will all say I didn’t do it right. They will say I would not have done the same had you been my own child. Think of that, Suchi.

The air in the kitchen, where Mami spends all her time cooking for our family is still wet with her regrets and recriminations. I make tea and make my way out of the dark kitchen, darkened by years of soot and not whitewashed even for the wedding. The doors are heavy. I release the old linked chain that binds the two doors together and step out, breathing in the air. There are marigold garlands hanging above the door.

I sit down at the first of the three steps that stand between the gulley and our house. It is quiet for a few minutes. Then a tall, slim figure comes out of the house three doors down. She is clad in a sweatshirt and jeans. She is carrying a backpack. I know her. Everyone calls her Gudiya though her real name is Manjushri. She sees me sitting there, on the morning of my wedding and hesitates. Then she walks over.

‘Good morning, didi. How are you?’ she asks in slightly accented Hindi. Already she is thinking in English. I ask about her college. She studies in Delhi, lives in a hostel.

‘Yes, it’s going well. I would have come for your wedding but we are going on a trip today, my classmates and I.’ I nod. I have never been out on a trip with my classmates. Gudiya leaves. We don’t have more than a minute’s worth of conversation left to us, this girl who used to unselfconsciously dance to Hindi film songs in my room, all those summers ago.

My tea is getting cold. I get up and turn to go.

‘Salaam alaikum,’ I hear a voice from behind me. I turn around.

I haven’t seen Syed in years. Gaunt and taller than I remember him. He is standing outside his house, the house opposite ours, his uncle's house. They, Syed and Mohsin used to visit often when we were children. Not anymore. Not since Mohsin ran away.

‘I hear you are getting married,’ he points vaguely at the flowers. I nod, invite him, insist he come.

‘Yes, yes, of course I will come. Bichde sabhi baari-baari, hain na?’ I don’t say anything to that. What is there to say?

‘Have you become a doctor yet?’ I finally ask him.

‘Not yet, not yet,’ he says with some dissatisfaction and takes out a cigarette from his pocket. ‘Don’t tell Mamu.’ He lights up, the end glowing in the reluctant dawn.

‘This is the last year. I have exams in a few days. I got back just two hours back. Couldn’t sleep,’ he says after a few drags. ‘So, why are you up so early? Get some sleep while you can.’ Both of us blush as the unintended meaning comes through.

‘What does your husband do?’ he asks hastily. He has been away too long. No one has told him.

‘He…he is in a family business,’ I answer, halting as the lie makes its way out of me.

‘Oh, I see, I see. Do I know him? What is his name?’

I look at him. There is no knowledge in his eyes, he is not testing me.

‘Deepu. Deepak. Deepak Tyagi.’

He drags on the cigarette again. He doesn’t want to believe it.

‘Love marriage?’ he asks unexpectedly. I look away. He cannot wait to leave now. He crushes the half-finished cigarette under his bathroom slipper. I want to ask him to stay, just like I had wanted Gudiya to stay. He goes back in.

I make my way inside and almost run into Baba. He is wearing his sneakers and his white kurta-pajama. He doesn’t say anything, leaves quietly.

The house is stirring now, preparing to get me married.

There is no turning back now.

I wish there was.

***

The enemy in the mirror

The mirror was an enemy these days. Had been one for a long time now. Nargis took one last look and averted her eyes. There was no point. She could turn this way and that for many more hours but the mirror, the enemy, would hide no flaws. It had ceased to do that a long time back. When she moved from that sickening state called pleasantly plump to being fat. No other descriptor to take away the edge these days. Nothing to hide the ugliness that hid in that one word. 

Fat.

Nargis bent down and retrieved the weighing scale from under the bed. The scale spent all its life hiding under the bed like an undeclared pet. Hidden from the family's eyes with only Nargis for sympathy and comfort. Nargis touched the scale almost lovingly and then put it down. She realized she was holding her breath and forced herself to exhale deeply. She climbed on the scale. The needle moved rapidly, the different numbers flashing by as it tried to find the match for Nargis. It stopped. Nargis took a look and her face crumpled. She looked up and the mirror, the one that had ceased to be her friend, seemed to leer at her. Nargis stepped off the scale and in a sudden burst of rage, rage at that stupid number that the scale had declared for her that day, kicked it back under the bed. Like a helpless puppy, the scale slid inside without complaining. Nargis felt sorry for it and contemplated taking it out again but there was no time.

In a moment, Ammi would knock at her door, asking her to get ready because it was time to reach Dr Shetty's office. Dr Shetty was Nargis's therapist, the only man who possibly really believed that a person's weight, or appearance, or complexion did not matter. Dr Shetty was really nice but he was not the world. The world was made up of thin and beautiful girls and boys who admired them. These girls were tiny, their collarbones stuck out prettily from under their blouses. They moved about in packs, shopping for tiny clothes and drinking coffee from takeaway cups and knew that wonderful things were waiting to happen to them. All because they were thin.

Not like Nargis. She braved another look at the mirror. Her naked body was exposed to her eyes in that look. The first thing that struck her, yet again was her stomach. Soft and fleshy, as if it had known many babies when it had actually known none. Her eyes wandered up and down, taking in one flawed limb after another. None of them scarred, none of them marked and yet made unsightly by the abundance of flesh. The jiggling part under her upper arms, the part that made wearing fashionable sleeveless clothes an impossibility. The thick waist that rolled itself up into tyres when she sat down, making her look self-consciously at her navel. Not for the first time, Nargis wished she had a pump that she could insert in her body and suck out all the flesh, all the fat.

Ammi knocked at the door.

"Nargis, chalein kya beta?"

Her tone was affectionate and careful, guarded. As if she expected Nargis to throw up her hands one of these days and throw a tantrum, much like she did when she was a toddler and was denied shrikhand. Well, she had paid a steep price for the shrikhand, no one could deny that.

"You go on ahead, Ma, I will be out in a minute."

She could hear Ammi making her way down the staircase. The second and seventh step creaked under her weight. Of course all the steps creaked under her own.

She looked at the voluminous salwar-kameez that lay on the bed. It was blue, a colour that her mother said brought out her eyes. Mothers lied to their children. Nargis had a sudden desire to take a pair of scissors to the clothes. She sighed and slipped the two garments on. Then without taking another look at the mirror, she went downstairs to join her mother.

Dr Shetty was his usual self. Nothing ever changed inside his cabin. It was brown and wooden and warm. It was a relief to come here and stare at the massive clock that ticked away laboriously, possibly tired all the time. All that ticking.

Nargis lay on the couch and talked about all that happened since she had last come into this cabin. Dr Shetty listened carefully, inserting only a probing word here and there. He heard her as she described how she had felt every morning when the scales had gone against her, how even her largest clothes, like this ugly blue salwar-kameez scraped her skin and made it sting, how she was conscious of her girth every single moment of her life. It was dreadful, she said, that there was no way out and that she was trapped in this body till her dying day.

Then she talked about what a relief it would be to be rid of this body when she died.

Dr Shetty looked up from his white notepad at this.

An hour of this over, Nargis went out to the waiting area where her mother waited, flipping pages of unread magazines. She stood up expectantly when Dr Shetty followed Nargis out.

"So Nargis, that was a useful session. Why don't you go out and book the next session with Seema while I chat with your mother?"

Nargis knew what this was all about. Her little remark about dying had raised an alarm in Dr Shetty's mind. Well, she didn't think there was anything wrong in it. People made too much of dying, they did. She, Nargis was not afraid of death.

She went out to find Seema, the receptionist. Seema looked tired and sad. She smiled at Nargis and opened the familiar leather-bound case that held together Dr Shetty's appointments and much of his life. Nargis liked Seema. She wondered if Seema ever thought about her body. She guessed not. Seema penciled her in and Nargis went back to the waiting area to wait for her mother.

Inside the cabin, the doctor spoke to the worried mother in a quiet tone.

"She seems to have taken a turn for the worse. Anything new at home? Any triggers that you can think of?"

Nargis' mother's brows furrowed.

"I can't think of anything. She just spends a lot of time in her room these days."

Dr Shetty thought for a moment. He was not given to asking questions to which he knew the answers. He knew she must have done everything to draw Nargis out of her shell in the last few days.

"Well, maybe its time to seek another opinion. She looks even thinner to me, do you know if she..?"

The middle-aged woman looked away.

"I know she weighs less than forty kilos now. All her bones are sticking out. It's there for everyone to see. I plead and plead but she refuses to eat..." Her composure gave way and sudden tears fell down her cheeks. Dr Shetty's years of training came to the fore and he spoke in a soothing tone.

"Mrs Khan, anorexia nervosa is a psychiatric disorder. We will take some time to get to results. In the meanwhile, we need to do everything we can."

Outside in the waiting room, Nargis averted her eyes from her reflection in the glass window. 

***

My first piece of fiction on this blog. Depending on feedback, I could make this a regular feature. So, yes, let me know. 

Interview with Kiran Manral, author of The Reluctant Detective

Kiran, a warm welcome from me and the readers of Radio Parul. Congratulations on your first book. I am looking forward to talking with you about the book, your inspiration and everything else. Let's warm up with a  few questions about our industry.

They say this is the best time in India to get published. Everyone knows at least one person who is writing or has written a book. What are your views on the subject? Some people say that a lot of this writing is strictly mediocre. What gives?
I think there is a growing segment of people who are interested in writing from India that they can relate to, which is not exoticised or romanticised. Also, there is an entire generation of people who have grown up with English as their primary language in education and who are more comfortable in this language, reading and writing than their mother tongue. Also 'being an author' seems to be a glamorous profession these days, and with authors from very diverse backgrounds, giving up day jobs to get into serious writing, it seems to be here to stay for a while. Apart from this, there is a demand for writing that spans the gamut from that which is easily read, to that which is, err, meatier. A lot of the writing might be mediocre, who am I to judge or comment on that, a lot of it might be in a language and syntax that the modern Indian reader is comfortable with, but I feel there will be a shake out, and eventually the spate to get published will abate and the wheat as they say will separate from the chaff.

 

A website published this photo-article recently. Would you have liked to feature in this? Why or why not? 

Oh. I would be very flattered if they had selected me to be featured in this. But simultaneously I would feel a trifle offended, you know. I would actually rather not be on a list which categorises me according to my appearance. The way one looks adds or detracts nothing from the work, just makes for pretty pictures at launches and in interviews. At the end of it all, the writing has to hold the reader and get him or her to read the book.

Some time back, this had made an appearance in Tehelka.com. What do you feel about this?  

Why? Why do writers have to be glamorous? Or sexy? It is an add on if they are, and if they consciously choose to project themselves as such, but I think it is grossly unfair to expect them to be so. Are we asking movie stars to start writing and reveal their intellectual side? I see this is a manifestation of the hyper-aestheticism that has taken over our society, where everything seems to be judged on the basis of appearance and externals. From people to things, we are in pursuit of external beauty, and demand that everyone and everything conform to the notion that beauty is goodness and desirability essential. 

 

A lot of people seem to revel in sending brickbats to Chetan Bhagat and Chetan-bashing is a sport almost at par with cricket. Your views?

That is unfortunate, because Mr Bhagat has completely redefined publishing in India and drawn in a completely new segment of reader which hitherto never touched an English fiction book ever in their lives. I travelled to Nainital, Almora a year or so ago, and visited a relative's home where his young, college going son had every book Mr Bhagat has ever written. I asked him if he had read any other author and was told that he found Chetan Bhagat the 'easiest' to read. And reading Chetan Bhagat had given him the confidence to start reading, and enjoying books in English. Which, for a young boy, with a shaky grasp of the language, was a huge positive. All said and done, Mr Bhagat's sales figures are the stuff writers get wet dreams about, so all those who bash him, write such best sellers and then do your
bashing.

 

It is being said that it is not sufficient to be a writer anymore. One needs to be actively and intensely involved in marketing and publicizing. What do you feel about this trend? Do you think it takes away the time that writers should be spending on improving their craft?

No. Let's be realistic. Marketing a book takes around a couple of months away from the rest of the year one has to write, and at the end of the day one has to make people aware of the product, ergo, the book. People will buy if they are curious about it, and they can be curious if they read a bit about it. But yes, I do feel, things have got a little too aggressive these days, authors are every where and at all times. But then that is a personal choice they do make, as to how much time and effort are they willing to devote to promoting their books. And yes, the days when the readers were content to have the authors as a jacket cover photograph are long gone. Readers want to interact with authors, see them as flesh and blood people and be able to relate with them. And if an author wants their work to sell, it seems to be the norm to do the promotions that go with the territory.

 

About the book 

 

How did it feel to hold your first book in your hands?

You've been there before me, Parul. You know the feeling. It's like holding one's child in one's hands. Inexplicable joy, pride and an overwhelming sense of responsibility about what one has put out there
in the world.

 

For the ones who haven't read it, could you describe the book in a tweet?

A curious suburban housewife gets down to snooping about two murders in her neighbourhood & becomes 'The Reluctant Detective."  (Ah well, use deckly long post for this tweet).

 

So it's not a detective novel, is it?

Nah. Not at all.

 

How do you feel about the cover? Who did the design? How has the response been?

 

 

It was designed by Mishta Roy. I was ambivalent about it initially. It looked lovely, and I am a shoe-aholic, so I did love it visually. So far, people seemed to have loved it. It has earned the moniker of 'Woh Jootey wali kitaab' at bookstores as the wondrous Aneela Babar of www.golkamra.blogspot.com tells us.

What do you want the reader to feel when they turn the last page of the book?

A sense of sadness that it is over. And a hope that there is another Kay story out soon.

 

Tell us about something about your central character that has not been covered in the book. Will Kanan Mehra make a comeback or are you done and dusted with her?

Something about Kanan Mehra that has not been covered in the book? Perhaps the fact that while she enjoys the life of leisure she leads, within herself there is this niggling fear that she should be doing something more with her time. Kanan Mehra should make a comeback. I can't be done and dusted with her.

 

So many books these days inspire movies? Have you dreamt about the same happening to the Reluctant Detective? Tell us about what this movie would be like. Which books do you feel have been successfully turned into movies?

I haven't actually. Not when I wrote it. But now that many people have read it they seem to think it would be great as a movie. And who am I to dissuade their train of thought. I am of the old school of thought that believes that few books can translate into a movie successfully. Amongst the classics are of course, Satyajit Ray's movies based on Tagore's works. Rebecca, Gone With The Wind, and more recently The Lord Of The Rings series, The Bridget Jones series and One Day. A lot many more elements need to come together for books to make the successful jump to the screen, than a regular screenplay does, to start with there is the reader's perception of a character who is described--and the actor chosen to play that character needs to fit in with that perception in order for that entire movie to work for the reader.

 

How do you feel when your book is classified as chick-lit?

Strangely enough, I haven't read much chicklit. One book of the Shopaholic series. The Devil Wears Prada. And a couple of Indian authors I read in the course of my professional reviewing. As for my book being classified chicklit, hah. It cuts away half my potential readers immediately so from a purely mercenary point of view that hurts. But other than that, if whoever reads it, enjoys it, I really don't have an issue with any label given to it.

 

About the author 

 

You are almost forty, aren't you and have written for newspapers and magazines for many, many years. Why did it take this long for a full-length novel to arrive?

I am over forty. Yes. I have written for a while. Why did I not write a full length novel all these years. Simple. I never thought I could. Also, I was too busy trying to meet deadlines and ensure that the
business of living was taken care of.

Do you have an Ideal Reader in mind when you write? Tell us a little bit about inspiration, muse and the process of developing the story. 
I don't actually. I just write. Inspiration for this particular story came from the demographic I come from, the mid thirties woman, who has been a career woman but, post marriage and babies, has given it all up to be a homemaker. And finds nothing to occupy herself with. I find this all around me, a huge pool of manpower, trained, efficient manpower that is out of the workforce because we have such terrible childcare in this country. So a lot of it was drawn from real life and the people around me, and I placed the protagonist in a situation that was close to home, and yet something that shook her daily routine. Nothing that was radical enough to shake her too much out of her comfort zone.

 

Which authors have inspired and influenced your writing? Which books are timeless reads for you? Which book was the pick of 2011?

Authors who have inspired me are as the cliche goes, too many to name. P G Wodehouse, Jerome K Jerome are my gods. After them Douglas Adams, Terry Pratchett, Roald Dahl, Stephen King, J R R Tolkein. In some way, I think they've influenced my writing. Authors I enjoy going back to over and over again, strangely are the classics, Tolstoy, Charlotte Bronte, Hemingway, Steinbeck and the
like. My book for 2011 would be 11/22/63 by Stephen King and the Steve Jobs biography, oh yes, I finally finished it.

What else do you do other than writing up a storm?
I am bonded slave to my eight year old, I run a house (and that's a full time job), I write freelance articles, I look after the creative aspects of an advertising agency business I co-own with my husband and I do work for India Helps, a volunteer network I initiated that looks to provide long support and rehabilitation to disaster victims. We've worked with 26/11 CST victims as well as 13/7 blast victims.

 

Tell us about the facets of popular culture that fascinate you.

Movies. Surely. I love to see how the 'Bollywood' still exists and there is a breakaway movement within Bollywood for themes and movies which go contrary to the formula, which are very different in terms of treatment and narrative and still reach out to an audience.

Which is the strongest female voice you have ever heard in a book? Do you ever feel that is missing these days in books? Why is that happening?
The strongest female voice I have ever read in a book. That needs much narrowing down, I would say Toni Morrison's Beloved, Daphne Du Maurier's Rebecca and Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre. From the male authors, Tolstoy's Anna Karenina and Flaubert's Madame Bovary. In recent times, Sarita Mandanna's Tiger Hills had a fabulous female protagonist and a strong voice. There are strong female voices out there, but not as strong as any of these. I have wondered on this too. We don't have the kind of female characters in our books these days which could haunt you. I wonder why too, there are enough and more women out there writing.

 

Does your son read? Do children read enough these days? What can a parent do to get their children interested in reading? Which books are the best gifts to give to children?

My son, alas, is a non reader. I have done everything in my power to get him attracted to books but alas he doesn't take to the written word that easily. It is only now that he can be induced to sit down with a Roald Dahl or a Superhero book. I wish I had the answers to the next two questions. Of course, I blame this lack of interest in reading completely on the Y chromosome.

 

Could you share some interesting bits and pieces about you?

Hmm. My shelves have to be stacked colour coded. My primary uniform is black tee shirt and denims. I will die before being caught in public with a chipped manicure and no lipstick. I was an ideal student in school, terribly boring and well behaved, the nerd so to say. I cannot read one book at a time, I skip between two or three books. I also am ruthless with books I cannot read through and put them away forever. I cannot cannot bear the smell of raw onion and run the minute mile if it is in the vicinity. And yes, I am the world's official expert on horror movies.

What's next? What's on the wish-list? What themes would you like to explore for your future books?
More books with Kay. I think she can go on bumbling through various wierd situations. And I am writing something that is rather dark and grim, which I've been grappling with for a while. I don't think we have much horror writing in this country, and am putting down my name to rectify it. Mine, of course, wont be out and out horror. But perhaps more in the realm of Dahl and Poe, slightly macabre and haunting.

 

Given a choice, what would you take, popular success or critical acclaim? Why is that?

Both would be ideal but that never happens. But I'd go with popular success, it will pay the bills.

Anything else that you'd like to add?
BUY MY BOOK. EVERYONE. That's it.

Thank you, Kiran. That was fun!

***

Curious about The Reluctant Detective? Visit the blog. Yes, that's normally the answer.

Ek pyaali chai

A cup of tea, let's just put it this way, gets the attention it deserves in this household. We have been struggling with the prefect brand of chai-patti for the longest time and the discussion has been on-going long before chai latte became de rigeur in cafe parlance. Bhai, Taj Mahal used to taste different back in the day, my mother claims. I normally pipe in with increased pesticide levels as an explanation for this moodiness on the part of Taj Mahal. We should try Tata Tea, muses the husband. Sometimes we succumb to the organic promise of goodness and buy the brown packets of Darjeeling and Assam tea sold in Fab India. Do you remember the Society Tea ads, the husband and I, memories still firmly rooted in the eighties, ask each other. A quick trip down memory lane comes free, even if chai patti does not. I'd like to try the tea the pavement chaiwallah sells, it smells divine, says my mother, gentility struggling with the taste-buds. They use Wagh Bakri, says Mahesh knowledgeably, the source of this information a mystery. They boil it over and over again, the levels of caffeine would be through the roof, I observe. We all look at each other in silence, hoping that one of us will lead the charge to drink this lovely sounding beverage.

Pramod overhears this discussion in the car one day. Oho, didi, he looks at me in the rear-view mirror, you should try the tea we drivers drink. The chaiwallah brings it to us at four sharp, it will wake you up alright! I am not the one sleeping at four, I want to remind Pramod but I am too distracted by the promise of good tea. Really, do you think I could, err, get a cup, I ask hopefully. He goes silent at this. Clearly, the memsahib perched on top of a car, sharing a cup of tea with the driver-folk is not the done thing. I sigh and look away. False propriety equals the loss of a perfect cuppa.

And all this before we arrive at the actual making of the tea. We have had an unnatural level of turnover with cooks and I have come around to the point of view that part of the reason is the premium this family places on their cup of tea. The cooks are not too bad to begin with. Sure they put in too much sugar or milk but those are minor problems which we hasten to put right. Don't boil the water so much, you have to steep the chai-patti, not scald it to death, someone will offer. Always cover the chai ka bhagona and let it brew, brew, brew, someone else will poetically add. Arrey suno, boil the milk separately and then add it to the chai, I will shout in the general direction of the kitchen. And make sure you remember that some like it hot! The result is normally undrinkable and fed up with our endless instructions and their inability to please, the cooks wave goodbye and never return.

There is just so much that can go wrong with tea that it is a miracle that there are people who can make the perfect cup at all. Brew it too little and it lacks flavour. Too much and the customers are complaining about the bitterness. My mother often gives up and blames the water in Mumbai for all that goes wrong in the kitchen. Paani hi kharaab hai, she throws up her hands and well, how does one beat that? The kharaab paani does not good tea make. There are other issues to be mulled over. To add ginger or not to add ginger. Ditto elaichi. What about sugar? One could always serve it separately, I suppose but that's not how masala chai is made, the purists clamour. The milk of course deserves a chapter of its own. Full fat means the ghee will float on top, making everyone screw their collective nose in disgust and return the cup to the kitchen. Fat-free is also not acceptable, given how watery that renders the end-product nectar. I wistfully look at the tea advertisements where the family is happily united over a cup of tea, marital alliances are being made, women are coming unto their own, mothers-in-law are being pleased, husbands are proclaiming their undying devotion to their wives. Needless to say, that is not really the case when chai is served in this household.

It is no surprise then that filter kaapi has made inroads into a kitchen that is home to the UP-centric kashiphal ki subzi and boondi ka raita. The first jolt to the heart in the morning is now provided by perfectly-brewed coffee. But come four in the evening and everyone's favourite discussion is back in the house. Thoda zyaada pakk gayi, nahin?  

There we go again.

By The Water Cooler - Preview

A little late in the day to be doing this but while trawling the internet for reviews of By The Water Cooler, I realized that Google Books offers a pretty good preview of the book. If you haven't had the chance to read it yet, and what a misfortune that is really, you should at once proceed to this link and read some for free. 

Once done, you should then hop over to flipkart or infibeam or indiaplaza or kindle as the case may be and make me richer by...alright, let's not get into that. My depression medication is running a little low. 

Keep a struggling writer in business, kind reader-folk.

No, it's not them

It's not Kiran and it's not Y. They, in fact are the friends that I didn't want to drag into all the murkiness. Even so, best to clarify. My apologies to both these dear friends in whom I take immense pride.

An open letter to the plagiarist of my voice

Dear Plagiarist,

I must admit, at first encounter I was misled, fooled. When you wrote in to express your admiration of my blog and my books, I was flattered. When you asked for my advice I told you what I knew in good faith. I did not read your blog. I hardly ever add new subscriptions to my Google Reader, preferring to stick with the old dozen or so, keeping their links warm even when they go on breaks. And so, I did not know what tricks you were up to. You were even less popular than me - there was not much chance of anyone figuring out what the hell was happening, that you were indeed the thief of my voice.

I am no stranger to plagiarism. It is rampant on the web. I have seen friends fall prey to it when entire blog posts have been lifted and passed off as the thief's own. I have bristled in indignation. We have all come down on such people in herds, criticizing them vociferously. In most cases, such people tuck tails between legs and slink off, only to resurface again somewhere else later.

But you, you don't lift passages. You lift my style. I wouldn't have known this had this eagle-eyed friend not pointed it out. It piqued my curiousity enough to read your blog and honestly, my heart sank. Just a random phrase here, a certain turn of phrase there and you were running a diluted Radio Parul of sorts. I tried to be flattered about it at first but the nauseating feeling continued. You see, inspiration needs to be credited. Had your banner declared in a bold font that your blog is nothing but a tribute to me - a fan-blog, if you please - it would have completely taken the edge off but now, I only feel robbed of my words.

Everyone knows what a tricky thing the writer's voice is. If we read and admire any author, we tend to get influenced by them. I have shouted about my own love for PG Wodehouse from the rooftops and every time a 'What, ho?' leaves my mouth or my pen, it is a tribute to that master of wit. But I am no Wodehouse, I am just a small-time writer with barely two books under my belt, none of them astounding successes. When you get inspired by me and pass it off as your own, you are doing me a great disservice.

It is easy to call someone out when direct lifts are being made. How do you call someone out when they take your life - your easy-going husband that contrasts your own hyper self, sleepless children, adventures in resorts, hotels, planes, your childhood and how you want it to influence your children, your difficulties with the help, your everlasting affair with books - and write about it in a strikingly similar style and show no remorse? Perhaps you, dear plagiarist, justify it to yourself saying that these are common themes and anyone could talk about them. The only problem is that you would be lying and you know it. Had it been a little less subtle, I would have had no qualms in reporting you and believe me, I know what I am talking about. I am a writer and understanding copyright laws is important for me. But you, you are copying themes, making a mish-mash and then reflecting in stolen glory.

I know there are bloggers out there who lead lives uncannily similar to ours. I don't want to name my friends in this letter (which is all about you, really) who could be my long-lost twins, so similar are our attitudes and values and yes, even lives. The only difference is - their voices are their own. And so, when they get book-deals and publish articles, I rejoice and revel in their success. When you do the same, it's a direct hit on my own creative process. If you need me to jog your memory, although I suspect there is no need for that, perhaps you should read this post once again and remember how you lifted it. And this. And this. And this. And Chapter 14, page 135-138 of Bringing Up Vasu - That First Year too. I know I am not the only one you copy from. It is only a matter of time before the others figure it out too. Do consider that.

So do me a favour - get real, get original and get a life. You cannot borrow from someone for all your life. Do the decent thing by me, by you and your family - I'm sure they can take no pride in someone who is swelling up like a toad (a completely original phrase that you will not find even on Google) in work that is only a derivation of the original. Derivation, without credit is also plagiarism, my friend. Plus don't you want to be the real thing for once in your life? Try it, it feels great.

Right then -ouch- we have reached the end. I have no doubt in my mind that you will read this, just like you do every word I ever write. I also have no doubt in my mind that you know who you are.

I wish you well, provided you stop your stealing ways.

Parul