Happy New Year!
2019 was the year I began writing novels, and started taking story and narrative seriously. In 2020, I hope to take that to a new level, and have at least two novels completed.
In 2019, I applied for a bunch of grants and fellowships, using a writing sample from my novel-in-progress, San Francisco Serial. It probably needs a bunch of work, and seeing as I’ve only been taking my writing life seriously for just over a year, it makes sense that I’m not raking it all in just yet, and I ought to keep trying. The people who do get accepted to these fellowships have clearly worked much harder, are more comfortable with their writing identity, and have it be a larger part of their life. And they write much more impressively, and I have a lot to learn from them.
I go through these lists, my eyes lighting up at the names and profiles of first and second generation immigrants who write about cultures outside of America. These are who I can learn a lot from. And I find myself often disappointed - Most, if not all of them, write about the terrible, painful parts of their culture.
I understand how bad news spreads faster than good news, and stories of struggle and pain are probably more interesting than stories of joy and success. But at some level, it feels rather disempowering.
Kashta-padra Fiction
I call these books kashta-padra fiction (Etymology: Tamil, kashta: difficulty, padra: suffix indicating experiencing. So kashtapadra is an adjective that means ‘struggling’).
I grew up with these books as my primary diet, as someone who couldn’t comfortably read fiction in Indian languages - I spoke one language at home, one language outside, my school taught me in English, and my second language was yet another language, and so the only profitable and comfortable language to me has been English, especially since it was also the language a lot of books for children were published in.
I read Arundhati Roy, Salman Rushdie, VS Naipaul, Taslima Nasreen, Rohinton Mistry, Jhumpa Lahiri, and Anurag Mathur, among others. I was told these were the authors who were internationally acclaimed, and hence, good. But they somehow never sat well with me, even as I read The Inscrutable Americans for the tenth time.
I didn’t quite like the tropes. There was always a homesick Indian abroad, or a Westerner trying to understand India, and baffled at all the terrible things that happened there. Or terrible things happening in India with no Westerner present, but somehow, you couldn’t get over the feeling that it was written to appease a Westerner’s eyes. Even books like Opal Mehta, which was supposed to be fun YA dealt with the titular protagonist being a fish out of water, finding it hard to fit in.
I have never really cared about the heat and dust in India, and the colors haven’t been notable to me, because I’ve always been surrounded by it. Reading these books at some level felt like peeking into a world that was about me, but not for me.
When I moved to the West a decade ago, my experience was nothing like in the books I’d read about Indians in the West. Granted, things had changed a lot, immigration was a lot easier, and liberalization of the Indian economy had let us understand America much better than previous generations. But still, it felt like the books had lied to me, and lied pretty hard. Neither was the West like they portrayed, and neither was the ‘real India’.
The Global Idiom
I guess that’s the problem when you write globalized fiction. You’ve to fit into the global idiom. People came to the West from the third world to escape terrible things, and anything that fits that narrative is great. It probably worked until the Indian economy liberalized, and the world started seeing India as a place with a billion customers.
Now it doesn’t work that way anymore, right? People in India and China are wealthier, and the upper middle class is often doing better than in the West, so that should reflect in fiction, right? There’s a very empowered class of skilled workers coming to the First World, so their perspective should also show up in fiction right?
Well, other than Crazy Rich Asians, I haven’t seen that much evidence of that in global fiction.
I went to the Menlo Park library a few months ago, and I suddenly wanted to read a book by an Indian author. I went through all the aisles in fiction, A to Z, stopping for any name that sounded vaguely Indian, and I found maybe only 5-10 books among a 100 which didn’t have a depressing theme.
That’s pretty depressing, right?
I plan to repeat that exercise at a few other libraries in the Bay area, and report back with solid numbers, but at first glance, it is an extremely depressing idea, that there isn’t a market for fiction about Indians that isn’t about colonial oppression, caste/religious/sexual violence, or poverty, heat and dust.
It feels like going through the traditional gatekeepers is not going to be our way out of this depressing-yet-brightly-colored rut. Because, the global idiom hasn’t changed. You can see it in how The Times and New York Times report about India’s space program.
I used to be baffled at how Indians themselves write such depressing narratives, despite most Indian writers from earlier generations being from notably wealthy families, who probably had stories of joy and good vibes to draw from, but now I realize those aren’t the voices that get picked to be part of the global fiction tapestry. Even if you didn’t start out this way, you end up going down that path, because that’s what gets published, and that’s what sells.
I’ll Never Write Kashtapadra Fiction
Irrespective of what people think might sell or wouldn’t, I don’t see myself writing anything other than empowering narratives of the global Indian. I have several strong reasons to do so:
I wouldn’t read kashtapadra fiction. I don’t have the stomach for it.
Kashtapadra fiction isn’t reflective of the typical Indian or Indian immigrant experience anymore. I wonder if it ever was.
There’s lots of great stories of strength, joy, and victory in Indian history, and a lot of people, both Indians and others, would like to hear them.
Writing only negative, depressing stories perpetuates racism and discrimination.
There’s no point telling western stories with an Indian voice. There’s enough people to do that. What’s lacking is Indian stories with Indian voices. Maybe the stories need to be modified just a little so everyone can appreciate them, but the success of Bahubali, an unapologetically Indian fantasy story, reiterates that there’s a huge untapped market for this type of storytelling.
It’s why I want to write that novel about India House, because that whole tale has everything - Indians in the West, Irish, Italian, Egyptian and South African revolutionaries, espionage, gun-running, Scotland Yard, and copious amounts of dark humor. And then it is also an empowering tale of self-determination of people in an oppressed colony, that more people need to know about.
My novel-in-progress, San Francisco Serial started off as a version of Tales Of The City, but from the perspective a Peninsula-residing female immigrant code-monkey, and then turned into a domestic thriller with dead researchers, corrupt VC money, and agents from the R&AW, the CIA, and the ISI. There are parts of it that are dark and depressing, but that’s because villains gotta villain. While I haven’t written the ending yet, it’s going to involve my lead character overcoming her fear of public speaking, so how dark can it be?
I Need Your Help
If I’m to become a better writer, I need your criticism. My goal is to have a flawless writing sample, that can knock anyone out of the gate. I’ve tried getting it as close to perfect as I could, and I’ve had some great friends help me out.
But you’re a more discerning reader who is hard to please, and I want to reach your exacting standards.
So please, please, please go through my writing sample below, and point out as many things you don’t like about it as you can. I will incorporate as much of your criticism into my writing as I can.
The Writing Sample
It was a slow day at the Military Hospital in Poonch. The heavy snow was bad weather for shelling and cross-border fire. People would come in at night with frostbite, but now, there was little to do, and Dr. Vijay Veerappa was having a leisurely lunch in the dingy cafeteria with his supervisor, Dr. Jacob Abraham .
“Enjoy the calm,” Dr. Abraham said, as they ate their roti with daal, “It gets very busy once it’s spring. And very sad. We won’t be able to have a leisurely lunch like this.” he chuckled. “You have not seen combat yet, no, Vijay?”
“No sir.”
“You were in Siachen for your regimental training.”
“Yes sir.”
“With the Sappers?” he said, referring to the Combat Engineers group.
“Yes sir. We were building bridges there, sir.”
“Good. Good. If you can manage in Siachen, you can manage anywhere. World’s highest battlefield. No joke, no joke.”
‘Succeed’ was probably not the right word for Vijay’s experience in Siachen. Serving as a trainee doctor atop a glacier in the Himalayas, 20,000 feet above sea level, was a major challenge in even the best of times. Starting there in January, right out of medical college hadn’t been fun. He had thrown up nearly every day for the first month, and a headache had been his constant companion. The thin air hadn’t helped his asthma.
But he had persevered. The Armed Forces Medical College had a way of killing the part of your brain that gave up at things, and Siachen had been its antim sanskaar. At least he didn’t have to go out in the cold to do all the drills, like the soldiers and officers. The ceasefire between the Indian and Pakistani armies had suffused the battalions with a buzzing energy and sense of purpose, and he had been no exception. He had thrown himself into his work, his good humor and skilled bedside manner returning as he got to know the soldiers, officers and engineers better.
But the moment his Regimental training ended, he was happy to be posted literally anywhere else, and when the posting at Poonch, right by the Line Of Control, the pseudo-border between India and Pakistan, had come up, he had grabbed it with both hands. The cold was still biting, but the army-issued jackets were enough to stay warm, and the Poonch riverside made for a beautiful evening walk. The district was remote, but they were only a short drive from Srinagar, and they had real food supplies. No more having to boil orange juice.
“Which is why,” Dr. Abraham was saying, interrupting his thoughts, “I’m confident you’ll be able to hold the fort by yourself tonight.”
“Yes, sir.” Vijay said.
“Dr. Mehra is supposed to be here tomorrow. Good man. You’ll enjoy working under him.”
“The Kargil hero sir?”
“Yes, yes. That’s why I thought you’d like working with him. Your father, I understand was in the Artillery regiment?”
“Coorg Rifles, sir.”
“Martyred at Dras?”
“Batalik, sir.”
“Brave officer. You make him proud, alright, Vijay?”
“Yes, sir.”
Vijay had grown up with the whole world and its brother telling him to make his father proud. At first, it had been his family, members of his father’s battallion, his batchmates from Khadakvasla, other Kargil veterans who had seen combat too unexpectedly and too young, and he had understood. But the moment he stepped into the Armed Forces Medical College, every lecturer, every professor, none of whom had known of his father, would tell him to make his father proud. Granted, he wasn’t the only relative of a fallen soldier there, but it still annoyed him the whole time. His classmate Irshad Gooru had lost his older brother serving in the Jammu And Kashmir Light Infantry on the second day of college, and Prithviraj Chauhan who partnered him on dissections in their second year was the only surviving male in his family; his father and uncles in the Central Police Reserve Force having fallen in Dandakaranya. They’d exchange glances and eye rolls after a professor had gone off on one of them about ‘making their family proud’. But now, after Siachen, he understood.
“Alright, Vijay” said Dr. Abraham rising to his feet, “I’ll be off.”
Vijay sprang to his feet and saluted him.
“I know I’m supposed to stay till 5pm, but the truck to Srinagar leaves soon.” Dr. Abraham explained. No one Vijay had served under ever gave as much explanation as Dr. Abraham did. “See you in two weeks!”
“Yes, sir.” Vijay said, and walked back to his office. The next few hours would be slow. Now with Dr. Abraham gone, it was the perfect time for a nap.
“Doctor! Dr. Veerappa! Vijay! Wake up!”, an urgent female voice woke him. It was dark outside. How long had he dozed off for?
It took Vijay a second to return to alertness. The intense expression on the nurse’s face confused him. He had never seen Kaveri that agitated.
“Burns victim. Pilot. Just came in.”
Vijay sprang into action, putting on his coat. “Alive or dead? How bad is it?”
“Third or fourth degree. Seems to have parachuted out of a burning plane. Alive. Not looking good.”
“Identified? Has his regiment been notified?”
“He just came in.” Kaveri said.
Vijay rushed in to the emergency ward. It only had the pilot on a gurney, and two nurses attending to him.
His uniform had mostly burned off him, and nylon, presumably from his parachute, was burned into his skin. He had never had to treat a victim with such severe burns before. He checked the pilot’s vitals, watching the blood pressure and heart rate drop before his eyes.
“Prep him for surgery. Now. And set up a transfusion.” he said. The nurses began drawing blood and administering saline.
“Officer? Officer?” Vijay said, gently patting the pilot’s face.
The man stirred, before slipping back into unconsciousness.
But something was off. The bits of uniform that still clung to the pilot’s body didn’t seem quite right. Vijay turned on all the lights in the sparse emergency room.
It didn’t seem the same shade of camo he was familiar with.
He needed to call someone. Anyone.
Commander Ahuja was waiting for Vijay as he exited the surgery. It was 3am, and the pilot had had barely any skin he could use for a graft.
“What’s it looking like?” the commander asked.
“I’ve sewn him up as best I could. He needs to be shifted to Srinagar at the earliest.”
“Has he come to? Said anything? Name? Any ID?”
“No. But you should see for yourself.” Vijay said, leading the Commander to the surgery.
“That’s the clothes we cut him out of.” Vijay pointed to the pile by the bed. The commander made a beeline for it.
“Well, doctor,” the commander whispered, “Looks like we have ourselves a prisoner of war.”
Within twenty minutes, a jeepful of soldiers had arrived and posted themselves around the emergency ward. Several senior-looking officers asked Vijay about the health of the pilot. He found himself repeating the same response at least five times. “The next eight hours are crucial. He can be moved after that.” Everyone was being very tight lipped. Vijay knew better than to ask questions.
As he went back to his office, a thought occurred to him. He rifled through the crammed shelves full of papers and files, until he found what he was looking for.
Carbon paper.
He placed the carbon paper under the notepad as he wrote his report on the pilot. As he filed the report away, he folded the shiny blue carbon paper and the sheet of carbon copy into a very small square, and tucked it into a tear in the leg of his army-issue winter boots.
Kaveri was still at the nurse’s station when Vijay emerged at 8am.
“Didn’t go home at all?” he asked.
“No! This is so exciting!” she said.
Vijay grinned. Kaveri could be a gossipy, drama loving auntie one second, and just as quickly turn serious and efficient. She reminded him of his aunt, also named Kaveri. Why are we Coorgis so unimaginative with our names, he wondered, with every baby girl named after the mother river? Was it a Coorgi thing for women to have that demeanor? He remembered his aunt relaxing with chitchat about Mayamruga or whatever that long-running serial was called, and then switching in a second to focused and alert whenever the phone rang with news from her husband. Probably an army family thing, he concluded, the pressure of having to bring joy into grimness, while also being able to put your feelings aside to do what needed to be done.
“When are they moving him?” she asked.
“You never know with these things, but they told me 1200 hours.” he said.
“Excellent. I can go home, then, and make kadumbuttu for dinner.” she said.
“What, I’m not invited?”
“I was going to bring you some in the morning. I thought you’ll be here all day today as well.”
“Dr. Mehra’s going to be in at 9, I think my shift will be done by 3. He felt an itching in his fingers. “Smoke?” he said, reaching for the cigarettes in his pocket.
“Yes!” she said, “Let me just restock the ward, and I’ll join you.”
“I can wait.” he said.
“I’ll only be a minute, go on out.” she said.
As he stepped out of the hospital, a young man, clad in all black, ran toward the hospital at full speed. Probably some emergency, Vijay thought, and lit his cigarette. Kaveri would be delayed even longer.
As he watched the young man from the outside gate of the hospital compound, a bad feeling took over his body. Something was wrong. Instinct took over, and Vijay ran like a madman away from the hospital.
Within seconds, the hospital erupted in a massive explosion, taking with it the pilot, the commander, all the soldiers and medical staff.
And Kaveri.
Vijay was waiting for the Chief in the large, large office in South Block in New Delhi. The eight-hour chopper ride from Poonch had not been pleasant, and his stomach was still doing somersaults.
The walls were decorated with pictures of the Chief with people in the uniforms of foreign armies, and UN dignitaries. But there were no personal effects either on the desk, or anywhere else in the room. Was that what happened when you were a spy for forty years, Vijay wondered.
The door opened, and the short, squat man rushed in.
“Sorry I’m late, meeting ran over.” he muttered. “No need.” he said, motioning him to remain seated, as Vijay stood up to salute him.
“Vijay Veerappa.” the Chief said. “I knew your father. Very brave officer. Would not retreat. Very vital with our effort in Batalik.”
“Yes sir.” Vijay said.
“Unfortunately, you’re going to have to retreat here.”
“Sir?”
“It’s a very unsafe position you’re in. Do you know the implications of being the sole remaining witness of an enemy combatant coming so deep into Indian territory? It has very strong international implications. It isn’t like a regular terrorist infiltration. He was in uniform. A pilot at that.”
“Do we know more about where the plane crashed or— “
“At your rank and position, you are not privy to that information, Officer. The less you know, the better it is for you.”
“Sir.”
“So to keep you safe, we are going to have to move you on a different assignment.”
“Yes Sir.”
“You have family?”
“Yes, sir, my mother, sir.”
“You have 24 hours to say goodbye to her.”
“Where am I being posted, sir?”
“You will be told at the right time.”
“Sir.”
“Just make sure to pack a light jacket.”
Maheshwari pulled open the soft pink curtains. It was 4am. She liked looking at the sea before the sun rose. The still blackness of the Bay, with Alcatraz in the distance, filled several hearts with fear, but it only filled her with a calm resolve. Soon, the sun would rise, and the water would turn a glittering blue. By then, she would be rushing to get her kids to school, and then driving south to San Francisco. She took in the inky blue sky and breathed deep breaths. She did love her me-time.
Her phone rang. She picked up.
“Mahie, we need your help again.”
Thank You
Thanks for reading! Please feel free to share it with any friends and family who might be in the Armed Forces (especially in the Indian Army), because I don’t know anyone in that line of work, and I’d love their opinions on if I can add, remove, or change anything.