Shobhaa De | Why time for ‘maun vrat’ is over: Silence not an option
I am on a self-imposed “maun vrat” (acute laryingitis). Not at all sure what I am protesting against. But I’m not liking the unfamiliar Vinoba Bhave vibe. Agreed, being “voiceless” in India is the new normal and has several advantages, but it’s not for me. Remaining silent when all around there is chaos and disruption, makes one feel intellectually impotent. I am re-reading The Buddha of Suburbia, a brilliant book written in 1990 by one of my favourite writers, Hanif Kureshi, which won the prestigious Whitbread Award for best first novel. It was translated into 20 languages and made into a drama series by the BBC. The title is a reference to the first sermon of the Buddha, in which he talked about the Four Noble Truths. Critics described the novel as a “high spirited comedy of sexual manners and social turmoil”. It dealt with racism, identity and violence. Ironically, Kureishi’s most searing work is being written as we speak, as a hospital diary. Kureishi collapsed on a street in Rome on Boxing Day and has been recuperating in a hospital in the vicinity ever since, dictating his chronicles to his wife (who he says saved his life when he collapsed) and others. “I believed I had three breaths left… It seemed like a miserable and ignoble way to die…” he writes, in a series of messages posted on Twitter. He added: “At the moment it’s unclear whether I will ever be able to walk again or whether I’ll ever be able to hold a pen…”
Now those very tweets, dictated to family members, have been applauded by followers who post the most amazing messages, filled with love and admiration. His friend Salman Rushdie writes to him every single day, encouraging patience. Hanif added cryptically: “He should know…”
No “maun vrat” for writers. Silence is never an option.
Meanwhile, Salman Rushdie’s latest book, Victory City, is creating mega waves in the literary world, with critics describing it as a “metafictional romp…” Others are even more effusive: “Rushdie returns undefeated…” So he does. So is Hanif. Courageous writers… nothing and no one can silence. “Words are the only victors…” is the telling last line of Rushdie’s novel, which narrates the story of a young orphan girl, Pampa Kampana, endowed by a goddess with magical powers. Rushdie, 75 (same pinch!), will not be promoting his 15th novel which released six months after a brutal knife attack which cost him an eye and the use of his right arm. Victory City is a deeply political work about a 14th century woman who defies a patriarchal world to rule a city. Rushdie, considered as an icon of free speech, retains his unchallenged global position as the foremost defender of the power of words. “In the face of danger, even in the face of death, he manages to say that storytelling is one currency we all have”, stated US author Colum McCann. Rushdie’s novels have been described as “miracles”.
When I hailed the announcement of Victory City with a tweet, I was promptly attacked online within minutes, and called -- what else -- a “Pakistani agent”. Guys, call me something else, please! This is so monotonous, predictable and unimaginative. Why can’t I be upgraded to, say, a Russian agent out to destabilise Ukraine? At the moment, having returned from a crazy rollercoaster ride of back-to-back lit fests across India, I kept looking around for a worthy successor to Rushdie… to Kureishi… the next startlingly original voice in the over-crowded literary landscape. Zilch. Sure, Tanzanian-British Nobel laureate Abdulrazak Gurnah was the star at all the recent lit fests he attended, but in Thiruvananthapuram, it was Shashi Tharoor, the undisputed darling of his constituency, three-time MP and chief patron of MBILF, the lit fest founded in 2018 by the Mathrubhumi Group, headed by M.V. Shreyams Kumar (a Malayalee Jain), who hogged all the attention. Mathrubhumi, Kerala’s second-largest publishing group, is celebrating its centenary, and doing so in style, going by the scale and ambition of the MBILF’s fourth edition, curated by the colourful Sabin Iqbal, helped by his team of young, eager volunteers. With over 500 speakers from across the world, give or take a few glitches, the event went off smoothly, despite the rather steep daily ticket rate of Rs 300. I thoroughly enjoyed my own session to promote Ínsatiable: My Hunger for Life, at which, when I was asked by the vivacious, well-read interviewer, Hindu journo Saraswathy Nagarajan, whom I would like to be reborn as, I promptly said “Mammootty”, to guffaws of delight from the audience seated under The Big Tree (one of the outdoor venues). Had I stopped there, it would have been okay. But Saraswathy goaded me on to expand on my choice, and I brazenly did! I happily went on to discuss my fan-girl crush on Mammootty, the star-actor from Kerala (in my book, he is right up there with the best global actors like John Gielgud and Marlon Brando). I talked about his rock-like chest, kind eyes and wonderful voice. The ladies in the audience couldn’t stop smiling!
A relevant observation: Malayalam authors got the best crowds and most cheers. Even Mateo, grandson of the legendary Gabriel Garcia Marquez, looked lost. As did all of us who write in English, since most attendees didn’t understand the language or care for it. Hindi, of course, remains a foreign tongue, unless you are speaking to a Bihari taxi driver.
At other venues, heavyweight conversations were taking place, with animated but sanitised discussions on boring national subjects that only interest professional lit-festers and politicians. Tamil Nadu finance minister Palanivel Thiagarajan managed to have the last word at this diverse, inclusive event (I loved meeting trans-activist author Kalki Subramaniam, aka Queen Kalki), when he retorted: Where I stand does not depend on where I sit!” Quite right, Sir… this holds for all netas, regardless of whether they represent the Opposition or ruling party.
Most such “important” panels are devoid of women -- unless the solitary woman on stage is an attractive TV anchor moderating a bunch of bores on the dais (awful job!). During post-event dinners, these same bores go into a huddle in some dark corner of the lawn and carry on discussions sotto voce. Bro… nobody cares what you guys are saying, okay? Relax and enjoy the free Scotch!
I came home with kilos of banana, tapioca and jackfruit chips. It’s Valentine’s Day next week and I’m looking for a suitable unattached cow to hug. The Animal Welfare Board has declared February 14 “Cow Hugging Day” (but this was subsequently withdrawn). I am in search of my Significant Udder!