The short and the long of it

Of late I have developed a preference for short stories. I hardly ever used to read them till about a year ago.

Suddenly I find that now I am, and that it is pouring new authors whom I like. Or, perhaps, I have at last started looking at the right genre of fiction.

My latest find is Shubha Mudgal, the mostly classical and sometimes film-song singer. Speaking Tiger, who published my first and last novel last year, have, as usual, once again shown good taste.

Ms Mudgal’s short stories — 32 pages long on average — are every bit as good as her singing. As might be expected the stories are about music, the bad notes in it and all. 

Ms Mudgal knows the subject from the inside. And she unerringly spots the ludicrous, the alarming and the contemptible aspects of the modern Hindustani classical music universe. 

Her first collection is called “Looking for Miss Sargam”. Speaking alliteratively, I might say that crass commerce and cynical chicanery come into cold contact with the calmly classical. 

There are seven stories in all, each as fascinating as the other for the glimpses we get of the world of Indian music and the foibles, insecurities and vanities of the people who comprise it. Musicians, mavens, managers, marketers and mavericks tumble through them in a wonderfully honest and revelatory procession.

You simply have to read this book to see how things work in the production, distribution and marketing of music and how mass production as well as production for the masses has affected even the most conservative classical musicians. In the end it is the same old story: He who pays the performer calls the tune.

Well, so what? After all, if Pavarotti can sing with Bon Jovi and Celine Dion and Ravi Shankar could perform with the Beatles, why not some famous Indian classical vocalists with some equally famous Indian playback singers? 

A peculiar problem

There is, however, a problem that I frequently face with collections of short stories. I am never able to read all of them at one go. This never happens with a novel. 

But it does, unfortunately, with even the best of the short story writers. Even Jeffrey Archer who, as story tellers go, is in a class by himself.

This should not matter, except that one never goes back and reads the remaining ones. My limit is five in a row. Try as I might, I can’t go beyond that. 

As a result, I have a couple of dozen half-read collections at home. They remind me of Schrödinger’s Cat, which doesn’t exist till you see it.

But seriously, this is a serious problem not just for the reader but also for the publisher. How many stories should make up a collection? 

Publishers look at the number of pages because they worry about costs and pricing. So if they want a 250-page book, how many stories should there be? Ten stories of 25 pages each, 25 of 10 pages each or 50 of five pages each?

The answer depends on how you view a short story: Is it just for “time-pass” or do you have your sights on posterity? Can short stories ever achieve ever-lasting glory?

No outlet

I discussed this with a friend who told me to shut up and write a short story. I agreed and, for a model, I chose John O’Hara who used to write 1,000-word stories for American newspaper. The idea, perhaps, was to give commuters something to read. 

He must have written a few hundred of them. They are absolutely wonderful and have been published in various collections. He, certainly, has achieved everlasting fame.

On the other hand, there’s me. Out of the 20 stories I have written so far, only four have been published. 

This is because — hold your breath — there is no paper or electronic platform in India that publishes short stories anymore. 

None, at least, that I know of. So willy-nilly, writers have to publish collections which remain unsold for the most part.

Even this newspaper, in a rare show of bad judgement, has refused to publish mine. I would have understood if it had told me that they are terrible. Instead it says we just don’t publish short stories but your other drivel is welcome. 

Imagine if The Hindu  had told R K Narayan the same thing or the New Yorker to John O’Hara. Well, chaps, Frederick Forsyth’s Day of the Jackal  was refused by 35 publishers before someone took it on.