Generation X Finds A Spokesman

The first thing you notice about Kaizad Gustad is his Rasta hairdo. The second thing you notice is that it successfully camouflages a face that belongs by right on a baby. The third thing you notice is that the bunch of teenage girls goggling at Indias wild card entry in the literary sweepstakes couldnt care less that he looks more like Babyface than Jagger. Theyre completely smitten with the sexual plumage the Rasta locks, the black-on-black outfit, the fallen angel turned rockstar smile.

With just one movie and one book to his credit, 29-year-old Gustads already on his way to some version of superstardom. It helps that the movie Bombay Boys is a whacky look at the enigma of NRI arrival, and has been discussed threadbare before its hit the theatres. It helps even more that his debut collection of short stories, Of No Fixed Address, was picked up by David Godwin, known to us as Arundhati Roys literary agent. International rights are being hawked in London and New York even as HarperCollins go into a second print run with the Indian edition.

 

And most of all, it helps that Gustad is among the few Indian authors writing in English who knows exactly how to position himself. Hes the man without a country, the guy on the cusp of innocence and experience. Of No Fixed Address has huge flaws, but it also has one huge strength: Gustad speaks for a conveyor-belt generation thats attempting to jettison its excess baggage. A generation whose primary loyalty is to itself, not to country, boss or disposable partner.

If I wasnt an author, Id be a serial killer, says Gustad. This, along with the protestation that hed be really, really happy being a simple statistic, is one of his favourite pronouncements.

But the surroundings are not conducive to serial killings. Gustad is relaxing on the well-kept lawns of Delhis India Habitat Centre. Hes just finished lunch with Kusum Sawhney, an author whose florid style goes oddly with Gustads streetfighting man prose. A gaggle of schoolgirls watch him watching them, but dont have the nerve to approach their idol.

Ive done 64 jobs, I think, says Gustad. Hes tended bar in Hong Kong, smuggled things into China, been a dancer in Paris, sold poems in Washington Square (at one dollar apiece), been a wine and food critic, worked at McDonalds, and worked on a farm.

That adds up to a lot of luggage labels. In Of No Fixed Address, he wanders through London, Bali, Madrid, LA, Tahiti, Goa, Toronto, Amsterdam, Paris, Hong Kong, New York, Sydney and Mumbai.

The idea was to talk about the blood that boils under the skin of those countries. I consciously look for situations that might be used in a book. I write pretty much as I travel no address, no plans, no guidebook. Restlessness set in early Gustad recalls running away from home at the age of six for three days, out of curiosity rather than discontent.

The result should be welcomed in a world market where Asian literature appears to be the flavour of the decade. But Of No Fixed Address is unlikely to placed in the same bracket as Arundhati Roys The God of Small Things. Godwin apart, the two authors have little in common bar a knack for assembling an interesting cast of characters.

Its all fiction. All of it, Gustad told his audience post book reading. Thats not entirely true. From Meena, the young prostitute in the opening story to the elderly English couple in Phaedrus and the Funny Papers to the actress in A Woman on the Verge, many of the characters are based on Real People.

Their lives, Gustad hastens to add, have been suitably modified. No one will know, except for the person involved. In one of the funniest stories in the collection, Gustad explores what happens when a man called Rustomji sets out to meet the author who turned him into a fictional character. The writer, Cawas Byramji, is modelled on Rohinton Mistry. I went to Toronto to track him down, laughs Gustad. He wouldnt meet me hes very reclusive.

That abortive trip took some courage, but one thing Gustad doesnt lack is chutzpah. He was in London with a finished manuscript just after Arundhati Roys novel hit the headlines. I was promoting Bombay Boys, which took an entire year. But if youre a small nothing from nowhere, then youd better damn well shout.

Thats what he did when he went shopping for an agent. He got David Godwins number from Directory Enquiries, called him and said: You dont know me from Adam, Mr Godwin, but youre going to publish my book.

He read it, liked it of course, it was more complex than that, grins Gustad, who maintains a solid core of privacy under that surface accessibility.

Gustads book readings are worth attending for the sheer showmanship on display. He slides easily into the skin of one character after another. He maintains eye contact with his audience, watching for feedback, shock, resonance, even boredom. I stand corrected, he tells a fan, then looks at the chair hes perched on. No, I sit corrected. By the time hes through, most of the audience is dazzled into submission, ready to talk.

A lot of book readings put you off the book, Gustad observes. Most authors are private people. Authors shouldnt read their own work unless theyre comfortable with being performers.

Im different. I hate being alone. I never sleep alone, I never eat alone, I never get up alone. It tells me theres some deep, deep lack in my character, I guess. And he produces another of those one-liners that zing out like hes a conjurer on speed. I dont really like writing if I could afford therapy, Id be in therapy instead. His mother, Gustad explains solemnly, fell off the upper berth in a train when she was eight months pregnant with him. She landed on my left brain, and thats why the rational, practical side of me doesnt exist any more.

Hes called away for a moment, and the three bravest among the schoolgirls bombard me with questions. Is that REALLY Kaizad Gustad? Whats he like to talk to? Is he in Delhi for a long while? No? Ohhhhhh... One eyes the book with its slick neon dustjacket and confesses that her mother wont let her read it.

I repeat the conversation to him when he returns, and suddenly Gustad the dreadlocked dude disappears, replaced by a very upset 29-year-old. You should never censure a child. Never, he says with quiet force.

One presumes the censorship is the byproduct of the effect Gustad produces on the unwary. The author had said of Spain: When I walk down the streets of Madrid, they think Im Spanish. When I walk down Indian streets, they think Im from Mars.

Their opinion will probably be confirmed if this author/director/traveller puts his future plans into action. Now that hes through with Bombay Boys and Of No Fixed Address, whats next?

Gustad thinks for a second, then breaks into a wicked grin. Id like to be a poet-rock star, he murmurs. Now wouldnt that be wild? He already has two essentials the dreadlocks and a fondness for being on the road. There is the matter of being able to sing, but no doubt Kaizad Gustads native inventiveness will find a way around that small problem.