Write-off

For once, let’s excuse back-cover exaggeration, which is doubtless customary. But how do you explain misleading titular claims, that too by leading book publishers?

Penguin then must have good reasons to present as “New Writing” a largely uninspiring bunch of fiction and non-fiction that purports to be “eclectic and wholly original and confirms that good writing continues to flourish”. Published as part of the anthology First Proof, the seventh of the series is hardly proof of good writing, much less new writing.

Anthologies with little to offer unwittingly do readers a favour: it’s easy to spot the pick of the bunch, given that the pretentious lot sets off rare genuine talent. First Proof 7 is no exception. Non-fiction has its saving grace in “The Town of Nine Lives”, by San Francisco-based Tibetan writer Tsering Wangmo Dhompa. It is an account of a road trip she takes along with her aunt, Tashi, from the airport in Xining – the bustling capital city in China’s Qinghai province – to the Tibetan town of Kyegu, home to Tashi. Packed neatly in this well-written travelogue is the contrast between the lives in the two cities, the cosy quaintness of the Tibetan way of life, and the sense of belonging towards one’s homeland, however harsh.

The other non-fiction offerings that elevate the otherwise pedestrian bunch are Sneha Rajaram’s “Gopalan” and Colin L Fernandes’ “The Bridge”. Rajaram sketches her memories of mentally-ill Gopalan, while Fernandes recalls a visit from America to his ailing father in India. It is not literary quality that sets the two contributions apart. But hidden in the artless sincerity of these accounts are poignant reminders of the grim shades of life. It is deeply moving to see a fidgety Gopalan struggle to preserve dignity amid the many strains and stresses that mental illness brings. And like Fernandes, most people would recall a moment in their lives when the gap of years and miles was bridged by a relative’s illness.

Much of the remaining lot is for those who are willing to forgive writing that fails to pass muster. Soonoo Taraporewala’s account of the evacuation of a village in the 1970s, as part of reforestation efforts in Ranthambore, lacks immediacy — much has changed since then and forest rights and rehabilitation are a whole different ball game today. Michel Danino’s sketchy autobiographical account, interspersed with details about his efforts to unravel the mystery surrounding the Indus Valley civilisation and his all-too-familiar criticism of the Aryan Invasion theory, hardly makes a refreshing read. And though museologist Rama Lakshmi has raised a useful point in “A Museum Evangelist’s Persuasions”, about engaging community while building museums, the rank overbearing manner of her prose takes away from the cause she sets out to champion — note the abundance of “I”. Unforgivably off-putting is Shweta Sarda’s “Intimations within news film footage”. An incoherent running commentary of events that unfold in news film footage is too incomprehensible, and unoriginal, to allow an appreciation.

And now, fiction. Penguin has taken the blurring distinction between fiction and non-fiction to a completely new level: it has chosen to categorise pure non-fiction as fiction. The mix-up is evident in A Ramnath’s “Dear Ambassador”. In this amusingly touching bit, the author has written a letter to his dear old Ambassador car, which ends with a goodbye: “Appa and I [Ramnath] ... took some photographs of ourselves with you [the car]. When we were done, I turned on my heel and left, determined not to prolong the goodbye. Some months later... you quietly exited our lives.” Though enjoyable, by no stretch of imagination could this be termed fiction (it even features in Ramnath’s blog post titled “Our Grey Ambassador”, dated October 6, 2009, http://nothingparticular.wordpress.com/2009/10/06/our-grey-ambassador/).

As for genuine fiction, there is little to admire in this section. There are two long stories bordering on bubblegum: “A Fag End” is about two strangers who meet on a train journey during which the woman takes a liking to the man; “Taj Mahal by Moonlight” centres on the Indian advertising world. Gitanjali Kolanad’s “Shadow Planet” is so vague it seems, and possibly is, a work in progress. For a specimen of slipshod writing – or poor editing? – with too many laboured adjectives, turn to Kavitha Mandana’s “Ceasefire”. You would find everything from hard-to-miss goofs (“She liked what she’d saw) to inane linguistic usage (“traffic in a gridlock”). 

Amid this singular lack of good writing, “Bringing home a Naxalite” is reassuring. In this engaging short story about a little girl who one day brings home a friend, a 27-year-old Naxalite women, the author manages to skilfully nurture the suspense till the end, only to reveal that the friend was a figment of the girl’s imagination.

In the end, it is pertinent to ask whether it is fair to readers to rustle up just about anything that comes the publishers’ way to keep an anthology going. It’s time we woke up to this dangerously complacent attitude and focused on finding some real good stuff.

FIRST PROOF 7
The Penguin Book of New Writing
Penguin Books; 219 pages; Rs 250