Winters were vile,
They were vulgar,
Woeful,
Villainous.
They would wreck my wisdom,
My victories,
And
My vigilance.
They would leave me whimpering,
Wailing,
Without
And within.
I would writhe,
And Wrestle,
But
The worms would not wane.
I would wriggle,
And vomit,
But my wrenching
Would be but worthless.
I would be wretched,
Withheld,
Wishful,
My wishes all valueless.
Winters were wars,
They were wrong,
Vicious,
Wickedness.
These were winters,
Where there were women,
Vaginas,
And Vampires.
***
This winter was white,
It was winsome,
Weird,
Wonderful.
It washed my veils,
My veins,
And
My visage.
It left me willful,
And wanton,
Without
And within.
Now I walk
And wonder
The when
And where of things.
Now I wade
Via winds
That whoosh
Wackily.
Now I am willing,
And weird,
I wear
The vibes of vanity.
It was a winter
Where there were veterans,
And weirdos,
And my well-wishers.
This winter was visible,
It was venal,
Vibrant,
Vivacious.
***
Winters of worries, a winter of vividness.
A winter of vigour, winters of weariness.
A welcome winter, after the winters of weakness.
Winters of virginity, and now a winter of virginness.
Winters of wistfulness, of wastage, voluntary.
A winter of vignettes, of vindication, of virility.
A winter where I won, unlike the winters of virulence,
A winter of voice, after the winters of violence.
Vulnerable, virulent winters,
A violative, violet winter.
Viral, wakeful winters,
A winter of wakefulness.
Winters of the world,
Of walls, of watchfulness.
A winter of my world,
Of vanity, of whappiness.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Friday, February 3, 2012
The Secret Underground Race
Walls, motion, pages, sounds,
Stuff that tell you stories of,
Those distant wars, those arms within,
That heart and all those broken lives,
That wretched house, those wrecked limbs,
And the ideas, those affairs clandestine,
They speak to my macabre split personality,
In a language that’s discreet, pristine.
Maybe the links are novel, or maybe merely special,
But the voices of that pain, of those muffled cries,
Ring in my ears, pure and true and clear.
It’s a relationship that will last a life,
It had no end, will have no beginning,
And may even not a plot to tell.
So all this while, and all your life,
My walls, my motion, pages, voice,
Have told me some different tales,
Of battles that were never sought,
And of the minds that had never thought,
Of the life, the flowers that will never be,
And the lies, the desires that were never free,
The affairs always clandestine.
The whistle blew, the visits made,
The secret underground race,
That everybody ran, and which all of you fake,
Was never, ever run by me.
I was too busy watching you run.
I was too busy breaking your rules.
And even though I have finished last,
And there are regrets for not running fast,
I am happy that I was left behind,
In front of me the starting line.
Now I can run my marathon.
And while the wind would whoosh past by,
My walls, my pages, and this rhyme,
Would talk to me above the cries,
Above your claps, above your crude,
And as the secrets tumble out,
I would run my stories before you.
And as I cross the finish line,
I’d shout the truth of all my lies,
I am different, and yet one of you,
I’ll be freer and yet be one of you,
My affairs ever clandestine.
Stuff that tell you stories of,
Those distant wars, those arms within,
That heart and all those broken lives,
That wretched house, those wrecked limbs,
And the ideas, those affairs clandestine,
They speak to my macabre split personality,
In a language that’s discreet, pristine.
Maybe the links are novel, or maybe merely special,
But the voices of that pain, of those muffled cries,
Ring in my ears, pure and true and clear.
It’s a relationship that will last a life,
It had no end, will have no beginning,
And may even not a plot to tell.
So all this while, and all your life,
My walls, my motion, pages, voice,
Have told me some different tales,
Of battles that were never sought,
And of the minds that had never thought,
Of the life, the flowers that will never be,
And the lies, the desires that were never free,
The affairs always clandestine.
The whistle blew, the visits made,
The secret underground race,
That everybody ran, and which all of you fake,
Was never, ever run by me.
I was too busy watching you run.
I was too busy breaking your rules.
And even though I have finished last,
And there are regrets for not running fast,
I am happy that I was left behind,
In front of me the starting line.
Now I can run my marathon.
And while the wind would whoosh past by,
My walls, my pages, and this rhyme,
Would talk to me above the cries,
Above your claps, above your crude,
And as the secrets tumble out,
I would run my stories before you.
And as I cross the finish line,
I’d shout the truth of all my lies,
I am different, and yet one of you,
I’ll be freer and yet be one of you,
My affairs ever clandestine.
Monday, September 12, 2011
The Delhi Metro Species
Anyone who has used the Delhi Metro for a substantial amount of time would agree that the millions who use Metro’s mostly-pleasant-sometimes-annoying services regularly can be broadly categorized into a mere handful of types.
The Seat-snatchers
Members of this species, which has an overwhelming majority of males, seem to have an aversion to standing, even if it is for just a couple of minutes. So they suspend their manners for some seconds when a train arrives on the platform and easily resort to pushing, pulling, jostling, scratching and even stepping over a couple of hapless innocents to grab that much-prized seat. If they are unable to succeed in this exercise, they go and stand in the corner sulkily, with their wild greedy eyes on the ones sitting.
The Agony Aunties
If traveling alone, this species finds itself utterly lost and miserable. Generally, its sari-clad overweight members fail to locate the elevators and then take atleast five and a half minutes to board the escalators. If they fail to walk up to the ladies’ coach or manage to not notice its existence, they board the general coach and stand with such wretched expressions on their faces that a couple of young boys readily get up to offer them their seats. If traveling in pair or groups, this species can be exceedingly noisy.
The Conversationists
This species has members with diverse behavioral characteristics. While some of them have an uncanny predisposition to share their personal problems with fellow commuters by either talking rather passionately on phone or through direct forcefully-initiated conversations, some of them are budding editors who think that the world is interested in their opinions and therefore can’t wait to share them with others (during the recent Anna-mania days, these members had a ball of a time).
Other members of this group are rather young and travel in groups. They stand or even sit together in the space between the coaches and indulge in stimulating and lively discussions. If the group is predominantly male, expect to hear some colorful expletives. If it is predominantly female, expect an ample volume of giggles, screams and ‘awwws’.
The Aesthetes
This metro species is found in abundance and predominantly consists of music enthusiasts who have earphones plugged tightly into their eardrums. If you stand close enough to them, you can expect to hear a muffled version of the latest item number or the soundtrack of Salman Khan’s current blockbuster. Some of them can even be observed giving an impromptu karaoke or restrained dance performance.
Other members of this species are lost in literature. Either the morning newspaper or the latest Chetan Bhagat bestseller is opened before them. The Seat-snatchers and The Agony Aunties can be often observed staring disbelievingly at this species.
The Rebels
This species consists of anti-society anarchists. When not breaking queues, traveling in ladies’ coach, using elevators and quarreling, they can be observed complaining loudly or mumbling quietly about the world around them (why do ladies travel in general coaches? why is Rajiv Chowk so overcrowded? why do people stand near the doors? why is the AC not working? What is up with that Aesthete?). Mostly in great hurry, the members of their species are generally middle-aged men who are getting forever late for their office and who possess a unique skill-set to board overflowing coaches through closing doors.
The Intellectuals
Members of this species have so much to think about that they have no time for anything else. They can be found sitting or standing looking here and there in expressionless contemplation about everything under the sun. When the sounds and sights around become too much to handle, members of this species close their eyes to reflect with utmost concentration. When doing this, they appear as if they have dozed off because the sex of the previous night took too much time and effort.
The Seat-snatchers
Members of this species, which has an overwhelming majority of males, seem to have an aversion to standing, even if it is for just a couple of minutes. So they suspend their manners for some seconds when a train arrives on the platform and easily resort to pushing, pulling, jostling, scratching and even stepping over a couple of hapless innocents to grab that much-prized seat. If they are unable to succeed in this exercise, they go and stand in the corner sulkily, with their wild greedy eyes on the ones sitting.
The Agony Aunties
If traveling alone, this species finds itself utterly lost and miserable. Generally, its sari-clad overweight members fail to locate the elevators and then take atleast five and a half minutes to board the escalators. If they fail to walk up to the ladies’ coach or manage to not notice its existence, they board the general coach and stand with such wretched expressions on their faces that a couple of young boys readily get up to offer them their seats. If traveling in pair or groups, this species can be exceedingly noisy.
The Conversationists
This species has members with diverse behavioral characteristics. While some of them have an uncanny predisposition to share their personal problems with fellow commuters by either talking rather passionately on phone or through direct forcefully-initiated conversations, some of them are budding editors who think that the world is interested in their opinions and therefore can’t wait to share them with others (during the recent Anna-mania days, these members had a ball of a time).
Other members of this group are rather young and travel in groups. They stand or even sit together in the space between the coaches and indulge in stimulating and lively discussions. If the group is predominantly male, expect to hear some colorful expletives. If it is predominantly female, expect an ample volume of giggles, screams and ‘awwws’.
The Aesthetes
This metro species is found in abundance and predominantly consists of music enthusiasts who have earphones plugged tightly into their eardrums. If you stand close enough to them, you can expect to hear a muffled version of the latest item number or the soundtrack of Salman Khan’s current blockbuster. Some of them can even be observed giving an impromptu karaoke or restrained dance performance.
Other members of this species are lost in literature. Either the morning newspaper or the latest Chetan Bhagat bestseller is opened before them. The Seat-snatchers and The Agony Aunties can be often observed staring disbelievingly at this species.
The Rebels
This species consists of anti-society anarchists. When not breaking queues, traveling in ladies’ coach, using elevators and quarreling, they can be observed complaining loudly or mumbling quietly about the world around them (why do ladies travel in general coaches? why is Rajiv Chowk so overcrowded? why do people stand near the doors? why is the AC not working? What is up with that Aesthete?). Mostly in great hurry, the members of their species are generally middle-aged men who are getting forever late for their office and who possess a unique skill-set to board overflowing coaches through closing doors.
The Intellectuals
Members of this species have so much to think about that they have no time for anything else. They can be found sitting or standing looking here and there in expressionless contemplation about everything under the sun. When the sounds and sights around become too much to handle, members of this species close their eyes to reflect with utmost concentration. When doing this, they appear as if they have dozed off because the sex of the previous night took too much time and effort.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Bargaining at the Sunday Book Bazaar at Daryaganj
“You can get classics for as less as Rs. 20 there!” This and many such enticing remarks, heard over years of existence amidst fellow bookworms, ensured that I finally made my first visit to the Daryaganj Book Bazaar on last week’s breezy pleasant Sunday, with a friend who shares my affection for all things literary.
After meeting at the Chandni Chowk Metro Station, we boarded an auto-rickshaw that charged Rs. 30 to drop us at the Bazaar, essentially a long sidewalk with books littered everywhere on it. Many of these were competitive books that reminded me of my dreadful high-school’s science books but there were novels too: classics intermingling with cheap crime thrillers, Indian bestsellers lying beside French authors and so on and so exciting.
“It’s a flea market, bargain as much as you can,” my father had advised before I had left home.
Now, I am not that good at bargaining, but I was determined to give it my best shot that day. We began browsing, essentially looking for canons in that sea of low literature.
I spotted The Inscrutable Americans at a small stall.
“75 Rs,” the stall owner said.
“20?” I took a chance.
“No,” he said.
“Tell me the right price then.”
“Minimum 40, not less than that.”
“Finalize at 30,” I said.
“No,” he said.
I moved on. “He would call me back,” I told my friend. He didn’t. I had to come back ten minutes later and pay Rs. 40!
So went on the haggling and shopping. We also soon found the Rs. 25-30 books and went crazy picking this and buying that. At the end of the sidewalk, I spotted Wodehouse at a stall.
“Bhaiya, 20?” I asked.
“30.”
“Minimum 25.”
“No.”
I moved on. “We are crazy, leaving Wodehouse over Rs. 5!” my friend said.
“He would call us back,” I said. He never did. We never came back for the book. We are crazy.
When we thought that the sidewalk has ended and with it the stalls, we didn’t know the sidewalk never did end, and neither did the Bazaar: both continued as we turned right at the end. As we turned left and then right again after that, we were still in books’ company. After buying 7 famous titles for Rs. 220 at one stall, we chanced upon The Lord of the Rings trilogy lying unnoticed at a stall. “We have struck gold,” my friend said. “We are buying this for Rs. 20.”
“In that case, we have struck diamonds!”
“Bhaiya, how much?” my friend asked.
“100.”
“Be reasonable,” I said, trying my best to control myself from bursting out laughing. My friend took over the bargaining.
We came up to Rs. 40, the shopkeeper was down to 50. We began leaving. “He would call us back,” I said.
He did!
I didn’t go back; my friend did. She came back a minute later with the thick book in her hand. We sat down on the stairs of a building nearby, laughing at our good fortune. Two minutes later, we discovered that a page was missing from the book. Not that good a fortune then, I thought. “Don’t worry, I have the pdf!” my friend said.
The stall-owners soon began packing up. But we weren’t done shopping, even after having bought 25 books! As I was checking out books being stashed into sacs at one of the stalls, my friend hired an auto.
It was time for us to go to the Delhi Book Fair and laugh at the prices there!
After meeting at the Chandni Chowk Metro Station, we boarded an auto-rickshaw that charged Rs. 30 to drop us at the Bazaar, essentially a long sidewalk with books littered everywhere on it. Many of these were competitive books that reminded me of my dreadful high-school’s science books but there were novels too: classics intermingling with cheap crime thrillers, Indian bestsellers lying beside French authors and so on and so exciting.
“It’s a flea market, bargain as much as you can,” my father had advised before I had left home.
Now, I am not that good at bargaining, but I was determined to give it my best shot that day. We began browsing, essentially looking for canons in that sea of low literature.
I spotted The Inscrutable Americans at a small stall.
“75 Rs,” the stall owner said.
“20?” I took a chance.
“No,” he said.
“Tell me the right price then.”
“Minimum 40, not less than that.”
“Finalize at 30,” I said.
“No,” he said.
I moved on. “He would call me back,” I told my friend. He didn’t. I had to come back ten minutes later and pay Rs. 40!
So went on the haggling and shopping. We also soon found the Rs. 25-30 books and went crazy picking this and buying that. At the end of the sidewalk, I spotted Wodehouse at a stall.
“Bhaiya, 20?” I asked.
“30.”
“Minimum 25.”
“No.”
I moved on. “We are crazy, leaving Wodehouse over Rs. 5!” my friend said.
“He would call us back,” I said. He never did. We never came back for the book. We are crazy.
When we thought that the sidewalk has ended and with it the stalls, we didn’t know the sidewalk never did end, and neither did the Bazaar: both continued as we turned right at the end. As we turned left and then right again after that, we were still in books’ company. After buying 7 famous titles for Rs. 220 at one stall, we chanced upon The Lord of the Rings trilogy lying unnoticed at a stall. “We have struck gold,” my friend said. “We are buying this for Rs. 20.”
“In that case, we have struck diamonds!”
“Bhaiya, how much?” my friend asked.
“100.”
“Be reasonable,” I said, trying my best to control myself from bursting out laughing. My friend took over the bargaining.
We came up to Rs. 40, the shopkeeper was down to 50. We began leaving. “He would call us back,” I said.
He did!
I didn’t go back; my friend did. She came back a minute later with the thick book in her hand. We sat down on the stairs of a building nearby, laughing at our good fortune. Two minutes later, we discovered that a page was missing from the book. Not that good a fortune then, I thought. “Don’t worry, I have the pdf!” my friend said.
The stall-owners soon began packing up. But we weren’t done shopping, even after having bought 25 books! As I was checking out books being stashed into sacs at one of the stalls, my friend hired an auto.
It was time for us to go to the Delhi Book Fair and laugh at the prices there!
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Oh My God!
I am an atheist, but I wasn’t always so. There came a point in my life when maintaining a belief in God became impossible for me. But, atheism is a useless practice—all it gives you is the satisfaction that you do not lead a life where deceptive doctrines of religion make a fool of you all the time. You think you are superior because you refuse to be deceived like the majority that visits places of worship to see its God.
But, how much of a use is this? You only end up marginalizing yourself; you willingly become a part of the minority. However, this is just a minor problem. The major problem is that you lose something vital by foregoing of your belief: you lose your God to whom you could go and pray for your future, to whom you could ask for penance, on whom you could load your sins and walk around peacefully. If you are an atheist and you are depressed or distressed, you only have yourself for company; if you are in some danger, you can’t leave everything to God and let Him take direct charge.
You see atheism involves a lot of hard work. That’s why I want to come over it. But the problem is I can’t. How can you look around yourself or know about history or read literature and still believe in God? Also, if you do believe in God, then you are likely to choose one among the existing options. Doing so would most likely make you a part of a religion. And that religion would have certain codes and rules that would be imposed upon you. An alternative to this would be to believe in a nameless, faceless supernatural entity but it’s not very effective. Vivid imagery, it seems, is crucial in these matters.
So, herein lies a serious dilemma: I want to have a God but can’t have one. So what do I do?
Well, I have found a way. I have decided to create my own personal god. This god would be a human female. Why? Well, human because a non-human god doesn’t make sense and female because they look more beautiful than men. Since beauty doesn’t exactly lie in the eyes of the beholder, she, this God of mine, would be pretty: young, medium-length blonde hair, fair, bluish eyes, well-endowed, tall, flawless, and lean—a mix of Madhuri Dixit and Kate Winslet with a generous sprinkling of Miranda Kerr and Sofia Vergara.
She, my god, would dress as the occasion demands. If I am sad, she would be dressed in a white mournful saree. If I am happy, she would doll up and don a cool pair of jeans. And, if I am all excited and pepped up, she would don a sexy mini skirt. She would not control my life all the time; she’d do it only when I ask her to. She won’t control all of my future either, she would take care of only those parts that I ask her to take care of. If I am sad, she would console me. If I want encouragement, she would say, ‘Go dude, I know you can do it!’ If I am happy, she would get all drunk and dance seductively for me.
Since she’d be my own personal god, I won’t be able to blame her for others’ suffering. However, if I suffer, she would have to listen to me with all the pity and patience in the world. In addition to being smart and pretty outside, she would be smart and pretty inside too: sensitive, intelligent, prudent, affectionate, considerate and so on. I have even thought what I am going to call her. I have named her Goddy.
Problem solved, then. I am no more an atheist now! Now, I have my own personal Goddy, and she is right now laughing loudly at you.
But, how much of a use is this? You only end up marginalizing yourself; you willingly become a part of the minority. However, this is just a minor problem. The major problem is that you lose something vital by foregoing of your belief: you lose your God to whom you could go and pray for your future, to whom you could ask for penance, on whom you could load your sins and walk around peacefully. If you are an atheist and you are depressed or distressed, you only have yourself for company; if you are in some danger, you can’t leave everything to God and let Him take direct charge.
You see atheism involves a lot of hard work. That’s why I want to come over it. But the problem is I can’t. How can you look around yourself or know about history or read literature and still believe in God? Also, if you do believe in God, then you are likely to choose one among the existing options. Doing so would most likely make you a part of a religion. And that religion would have certain codes and rules that would be imposed upon you. An alternative to this would be to believe in a nameless, faceless supernatural entity but it’s not very effective. Vivid imagery, it seems, is crucial in these matters.
So, herein lies a serious dilemma: I want to have a God but can’t have one. So what do I do?
Well, I have found a way. I have decided to create my own personal god. This god would be a human female. Why? Well, human because a non-human god doesn’t make sense and female because they look more beautiful than men. Since beauty doesn’t exactly lie in the eyes of the beholder, she, this God of mine, would be pretty: young, medium-length blonde hair, fair, bluish eyes, well-endowed, tall, flawless, and lean—a mix of Madhuri Dixit and Kate Winslet with a generous sprinkling of Miranda Kerr and Sofia Vergara.
She, my god, would dress as the occasion demands. If I am sad, she would be dressed in a white mournful saree. If I am happy, she would doll up and don a cool pair of jeans. And, if I am all excited and pepped up, she would don a sexy mini skirt. She would not control my life all the time; she’d do it only when I ask her to. She won’t control all of my future either, she would take care of only those parts that I ask her to take care of. If I am sad, she would console me. If I want encouragement, she would say, ‘Go dude, I know you can do it!’ If I am happy, she would get all drunk and dance seductively for me.
Since she’d be my own personal god, I won’t be able to blame her for others’ suffering. However, if I suffer, she would have to listen to me with all the pity and patience in the world. In addition to being smart and pretty outside, she would be smart and pretty inside too: sensitive, intelligent, prudent, affectionate, considerate and so on. I have even thought what I am going to call her. I have named her Goddy.
Problem solved, then. I am no more an atheist now! Now, I have my own personal Goddy, and she is right now laughing loudly at you.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
About it…did she…?
What kind of girls wear dresses as short as that? The kind who would never want to sleep with me because of the way I look? Or the kind who would let anybody enter them? You know the kind that just want it regardless of where it comes from? You know what, it does not matter what kind of girl she is. The fact is that I want it. Really badly. And it’s only natural that I want it so bad. I have kept myself in control all these years and may have to keep the control on for four more years. But it’s becoming increasingly difficult to keep it on. Especially because all my friends have done it, and, more importantly, have done it many times by now.
Was it then the taunts that made me do it? Or was it the alcohol? Or was it the fact that the circumstances were congenial: the time, the place, me, her and the possibility that no one would ever get to know about it? Or was it something else? I mean it’s inhuman to expect guys to keep it in control until the usual age of twenty-five, isn’t it? I don’t exactly know what it exactly was. But, I have told them it was a whore.A prostitute.
I never expected them to be so nice, so sympathetic. Everyone has needs, they say, and everyone makes mistakes. The pressing matter on hand is that I’m dying and not how it happened. They are all out to support me. They hug me, eat with me, get me bouquets, cry for me. It sickens me all. I mean why the fuck does not anybody ask questions? Why doesn’t anybody slap me? Thrash me? Abandon me? When it happens with many others who carry around this virus like me, then why not me? You know what, damn those campaigns!Damn them! They have got into their fricking heads! All these hospital people and all these well-wishers of mine, all of them may just end up killing me before the virus does.
I guess I would have confessed long ago had I been a man without a family. But, sadly, that’s not the case. My family’s become my tragedy now. And I have to keep quiet about it.About all the pain.About that day. About the animal that I can be, that I became that day.
In hindsight, I don’t even think it was fun. She bothered me too much. I mean, honestly speaking, my hands have served me better than that many times. If only she hadn’t tried to fight me off as brutally as she did, it could all have been at least slightly worth the risk. I would have at least had the satisfaction of feeling that if only her eyes did not have that hollow painful look when I was entering her. Did they want to shout out loud? Her eyes.Had she wanted to say something? Heck, did she even know?About it?If yes, did she want to say it? Did she say it?
What kind of girls wear dresses as short as that?
Was it then the taunts that made me do it? Or was it the alcohol? Or was it the fact that the circumstances were congenial: the time, the place, me, her and the possibility that no one would ever get to know about it? Or was it something else? I mean it’s inhuman to expect guys to keep it in control until the usual age of twenty-five, isn’t it? I don’t exactly know what it exactly was. But, I have told them it was a whore.A prostitute.
I never expected them to be so nice, so sympathetic. Everyone has needs, they say, and everyone makes mistakes. The pressing matter on hand is that I’m dying and not how it happened. They are all out to support me. They hug me, eat with me, get me bouquets, cry for me. It sickens me all. I mean why the fuck does not anybody ask questions? Why doesn’t anybody slap me? Thrash me? Abandon me? When it happens with many others who carry around this virus like me, then why not me? You know what, damn those campaigns!Damn them! They have got into their fricking heads! All these hospital people and all these well-wishers of mine, all of them may just end up killing me before the virus does.
I guess I would have confessed long ago had I been a man without a family. But, sadly, that’s not the case. My family’s become my tragedy now. And I have to keep quiet about it.About all the pain.About that day. About the animal that I can be, that I became that day.
In hindsight, I don’t even think it was fun. She bothered me too much. I mean, honestly speaking, my hands have served me better than that many times. If only she hadn’t tried to fight me off as brutally as she did, it could all have been at least slightly worth the risk. I would have at least had the satisfaction of feeling that if only her eyes did not have that hollow painful look when I was entering her. Did they want to shout out loud? Her eyes.Had she wanted to say something? Heck, did she even know?About it?If yes, did she want to say it? Did she say it?
What kind of girls wear dresses as short as that?
Monday, April 25, 2011
Anything for You, Readers: An Examination of Indian Campus Novels
In popular imagination, college campuses are this really rocking hub of incessant excitement, youthful vigour, perennial action, interesting characters and extra-curricular academics. While for those who are yet to or who never make it to a college, this imaginative picture persists until personal experience strikes, for those who do get to go to a college, this rosy picture gets all botched, butchered and bungled once the nervous initial weeks come to an abrupt end.
The aforementioned campus picture of endless excitement is produced and directed in popular imagination by various channels of mass media such as television, cinema, newspapers, radio etc. These channels, with certain rare few exceptions, accumulate the congenial from the campus buzz and propagate a thrilling image of campus life. This resultant image, needless to say, is prejudiced, incomplete and incomprehensive. The campus reality for the majority is actually a lot different.
The public demolition of such images should make for great art. In India, since movies, television and newspapers have largely refused to undertake this enterprise, the ever-dependable literature seems to have come to the fore to rescue. This deconstructionist exercise was weakly initiated by Five Point Someone, Chetan Bhagat’s 2004 debut novel that apparently still features on the best-seller popular fiction section of all bookstores.
Since the incredible success of Five Point Someone, a number of writers have trodden in Bhagat's footsteps, such that an entire sub-genre of campus novels has come into existence overtime under the wide gambit of Indian Popular Fiction. Now that it has been quite some time since the emergence of this genre, it is pertinent to analyze where this deconstructionist exercise has been ushered and where it is headed. This paper, In addition to doing this, would also examine some other aspects of the genre.
The Writers
Almost all Indian campus novels till date have been authored by young 20-something writers, many of whom did not have an “arts background”. Many of these novelists were also first-time novel writers—their campus novel was their debut work. And, some of these authors have only written their debut work up till now and nor do they seem to have any plans or intentions of coming up with more manuscripts.
So, this sub-genre has largely been dominated by amateur reader-turn-writers. They perhaps wrote to bask in some months of fame or to try their luck at a different profession. They may also have written for personal satisfaction or simply because they had the content and means to write a book. Whatever may be the reason behind their decision to develop a novel about their college life, the fact is that their young personality has intensively shaped up the genre in a distinct fashion. Not only are there recurrent themes (ragging, peer pressure, teenage angst, pre-marital sex, hostel politics, friendship woes, nagging parents etc.) to be found in their works, their characters and plot-lines also traverse similar tracks, as has been discussed later.
As mentioned above, most campus novel writers were first-timers who penned in their work their personal college-life experiences. This claim is also supported by the fact that most of the novels in the genre are first-person narratives. These novels apparently then are partly fictional, partly autobiographical. But do they represent and describe a genuine college experience? The answer to this question cannot be generalized—it needs be answered separately for every individual book and even for every reader as the “genuine college experience” has to differ for each individual.
The amateurishness of the campus- novel authors is conspicuously reflected in the writing style of their books that only use simple, short and straightforward sentences coupled with a juvenile vocabulary. Campus slangs and expletives are used in bulk and most characters are given hip nicknames. The focus is not really on character depth or circumstantial symbolism, but on the expression of the inner turmoil of the protagonist. The tone is often comic and irreverent and tends to border on exaggeration at times.
One peculiar common quality that needs to be especially noted among the group of writers of campus novels is that the majority of them are male. Amitabh Bagchi, Tushar Raheja, Animesh Verma, Abhijit Bhaduri, Harshdeep Jolly—all of these are male writers from prestigious Indian colleges. Unsurprisingly, their novels have all had a male protagonist. Thus, the genre has till now been overwhelmingly dominated by men—women’s experience of Indian colleges is therefore almost non-existent. In popular terminology, there have only been lad-lits in the genre, chick-lits are inexplicably absent.
The word “prestigious” is to be especially noted in the above paragraph, because almost all writers who have so far written in the genre have been alumni of only prestigious Indian universities. While a large number of writers have come from the IITs (Bhagat, Raheja, Bagchi, Verma), others have come from IIMs, DU or MU. Thus, even the campus experience of small lesser-known colleges or even popular colleges of small cities has been unavailable to the readers of this genre.
The teachers are also yet to write novels set in campuses. After all, teachers are as much a part of the campuses as students. Their perspective of the life in colleges is likely to make for thrilling and engaging reading. But, so far, there have been no attempts by the teachers to express their side of the campus story.
The dominance of male student writers belonging to only eminent colleges has begun to make this genre stale and repetitious. The sales of campus novels have begun to plummet and new novels tend to fuzz out unknown without much buzz. The readers are now looking for something fresh and novel which the genre has not been supplying of late. There is now a prominent dearth of good writing that has begun to threaten the existence of the genre. If this continues, then the genre is likely to become severely endangered, if not extinct, in the near future.
The Readers
In later Indian literary history, campus novels are going to find a special mention as they have raised an entire new breed of novel readers from a huge population of traditional non-readers. Chetan Bhagat’s Five Point Someone has to be applauded in this context for introducing to people who had never read anything beyond their school books to the unparalleled joy of reading.
Several factors were responsible for this major readership evolution: a) as mentioned above, the writing in these books was lucid, contemporaneous and, most importantly, sans any use of heavy words, b) the books talked about issues that the youth could relate and identify to and c) the price of these books was kept low enough to appeal to youngsters living on tight budgets and always-seeming-less pocket money.
Campus novels have also been guilty reads for traditional literature readers. Suddenly, there were novels that did not demand intensive brainstorming, that could be taken into the Metro and read among all the noise and the rush and that were entertaining and even hilarious at times. But these were also novels that had to be bought, read and necessarily chucked out by this section of readers. They were not the kind of paperbacks that could be added to one’s personal book-collections as adornments.
An important aspect of the readership of campus novels is that these novels have been created almost exclusively for Indian readers: their use of local slangs, desi themes and Indian campus settings are unlikely to be enjoyed much by international readers. Some of these books are not even released outside India. This is in stark to the literature produced by veteran Indian writers such as Amitav Ghosh, Kiran Desai and V. S. Naipaul that often is read more outside than inside India.
The Publishers
Bhagat’s Five Point Someone was published by Rupa Publications in 2004. The book brought both fame and money to the publishing house and apparently played a major role in helping Rupa emerge as a leading publishing house. One major factor, as mentioned above, behind the tremendous success of the book was its low affordable cost of Rs. 95. Most campus novels since then have been priced around the same denomination and this has so far ensured their decent sales.
Publishers say that even though they are aware that these novels do not constitute what is called high-literature, they are sometimes forced to publish them since they register enormous sales and, in this manner, pay for the publication of real literary stuff that does not get sold as much. Therefore, though these novels may not be worthwhile of entering into the Literature lists of English literature scholars, they are now essential for the steady growth of these lists.
Some leading publishing houses have now begun to complain about the quality of the huge quantity of manuscripts that they have been receiving for some time now. An editor at Rupa goes as far as to say that it seems that almost every student with decent writing skills has a manuscript to submit these days. Most of these manuscripts, she says, don’t even manage to hold your interest even till the end of the first chapter. They almost constitute what in publishing vocabulary is known as slushpile.
All these manuscripts that constitute the slushpile have begun to find to the Internet after having been rejected by all possible publishers. Their authors either publish then on their blogs or go for the option of online publishing through online publishing ventures such as Serene Woods. The manuscripts, in this manner, become more or less non-profit enterprises and receive nominal readership.
The Plot and the Characters
The male protagonists in this genre are almost always these low-key diffident youngsters who conform neither to the conventional male stereotype nor to the image of the campus stud as popularized by Indian movies set in campuses. He is generally not the good-looking and the good-natured heartthrob of the campus for whom the female readers tend to easily fall for. Instead, he is more of a guy-next-room whom you may not even notice if you did not belong to his class or course.
This protagonist usually has a couple of true close friends who deeply influence his story along with his love—interest who is often a smart pretty girl whom the protagonist finds superior to him in some way or the other. The protagonist manages to surprisingly woo this girl but her parents are usually difficult catches. This love story becomes either the central or the sub-plot of the plot and is mostly concluded positively towards the end.
The plot in this manner is more or less predictable. It ends at a happy note when all the problems come to a satisfactory conclusion. But its course is not as predictable—there are often both funny and unusual incidents that fill the middle pages. However, new themes and issues are rarely explored through these incidents. Thus, both the territory and the destination of these novels are familiar, and although their route is newish rarely radical.
Conclusion
Let’s get back to the deconstructionist exercise mentioned in the introduction of this paper. It seems to have come to a standstill courtesy authors with similar resume who seem to be somehow apprehensive of experimentation. However, the enterprise has not reached a dead-end as yet—it just needs to be directed in diverse directions for its consistent growth because the genre still has a lot of unexplored potential that is likely to bear interesting and successful results only if it is probed properly
The aforementioned campus picture of endless excitement is produced and directed in popular imagination by various channels of mass media such as television, cinema, newspapers, radio etc. These channels, with certain rare few exceptions, accumulate the congenial from the campus buzz and propagate a thrilling image of campus life. This resultant image, needless to say, is prejudiced, incomplete and incomprehensive. The campus reality for the majority is actually a lot different.
The public demolition of such images should make for great art. In India, since movies, television and newspapers have largely refused to undertake this enterprise, the ever-dependable literature seems to have come to the fore to rescue. This deconstructionist exercise was weakly initiated by Five Point Someone, Chetan Bhagat’s 2004 debut novel that apparently still features on the best-seller popular fiction section of all bookstores.
Since the incredible success of Five Point Someone, a number of writers have trodden in Bhagat's footsteps, such that an entire sub-genre of campus novels has come into existence overtime under the wide gambit of Indian Popular Fiction. Now that it has been quite some time since the emergence of this genre, it is pertinent to analyze where this deconstructionist exercise has been ushered and where it is headed. This paper, In addition to doing this, would also examine some other aspects of the genre.
The Writers
Almost all Indian campus novels till date have been authored by young 20-something writers, many of whom did not have an “arts background”. Many of these novelists were also first-time novel writers—their campus novel was their debut work. And, some of these authors have only written their debut work up till now and nor do they seem to have any plans or intentions of coming up with more manuscripts.
So, this sub-genre has largely been dominated by amateur reader-turn-writers. They perhaps wrote to bask in some months of fame or to try their luck at a different profession. They may also have written for personal satisfaction or simply because they had the content and means to write a book. Whatever may be the reason behind their decision to develop a novel about their college life, the fact is that their young personality has intensively shaped up the genre in a distinct fashion. Not only are there recurrent themes (ragging, peer pressure, teenage angst, pre-marital sex, hostel politics, friendship woes, nagging parents etc.) to be found in their works, their characters and plot-lines also traverse similar tracks, as has been discussed later.
As mentioned above, most campus novel writers were first-timers who penned in their work their personal college-life experiences. This claim is also supported by the fact that most of the novels in the genre are first-person narratives. These novels apparently then are partly fictional, partly autobiographical. But do they represent and describe a genuine college experience? The answer to this question cannot be generalized—it needs be answered separately for every individual book and even for every reader as the “genuine college experience” has to differ for each individual.
The amateurishness of the campus- novel authors is conspicuously reflected in the writing style of their books that only use simple, short and straightforward sentences coupled with a juvenile vocabulary. Campus slangs and expletives are used in bulk and most characters are given hip nicknames. The focus is not really on character depth or circumstantial symbolism, but on the expression of the inner turmoil of the protagonist. The tone is often comic and irreverent and tends to border on exaggeration at times.
One peculiar common quality that needs to be especially noted among the group of writers of campus novels is that the majority of them are male. Amitabh Bagchi, Tushar Raheja, Animesh Verma, Abhijit Bhaduri, Harshdeep Jolly—all of these are male writers from prestigious Indian colleges. Unsurprisingly, their novels have all had a male protagonist. Thus, the genre has till now been overwhelmingly dominated by men—women’s experience of Indian colleges is therefore almost non-existent. In popular terminology, there have only been lad-lits in the genre, chick-lits are inexplicably absent.
The word “prestigious” is to be especially noted in the above paragraph, because almost all writers who have so far written in the genre have been alumni of only prestigious Indian universities. While a large number of writers have come from the IITs (Bhagat, Raheja, Bagchi, Verma), others have come from IIMs, DU or MU. Thus, even the campus experience of small lesser-known colleges or even popular colleges of small cities has been unavailable to the readers of this genre.
The teachers are also yet to write novels set in campuses. After all, teachers are as much a part of the campuses as students. Their perspective of the life in colleges is likely to make for thrilling and engaging reading. But, so far, there have been no attempts by the teachers to express their side of the campus story.
The dominance of male student writers belonging to only eminent colleges has begun to make this genre stale and repetitious. The sales of campus novels have begun to plummet and new novels tend to fuzz out unknown without much buzz. The readers are now looking for something fresh and novel which the genre has not been supplying of late. There is now a prominent dearth of good writing that has begun to threaten the existence of the genre. If this continues, then the genre is likely to become severely endangered, if not extinct, in the near future.
The Readers
In later Indian literary history, campus novels are going to find a special mention as they have raised an entire new breed of novel readers from a huge population of traditional non-readers. Chetan Bhagat’s Five Point Someone has to be applauded in this context for introducing to people who had never read anything beyond their school books to the unparalleled joy of reading.
Several factors were responsible for this major readership evolution: a) as mentioned above, the writing in these books was lucid, contemporaneous and, most importantly, sans any use of heavy words, b) the books talked about issues that the youth could relate and identify to and c) the price of these books was kept low enough to appeal to youngsters living on tight budgets and always-seeming-less pocket money.
Campus novels have also been guilty reads for traditional literature readers. Suddenly, there were novels that did not demand intensive brainstorming, that could be taken into the Metro and read among all the noise and the rush and that were entertaining and even hilarious at times. But these were also novels that had to be bought, read and necessarily chucked out by this section of readers. They were not the kind of paperbacks that could be added to one’s personal book-collections as adornments.
An important aspect of the readership of campus novels is that these novels have been created almost exclusively for Indian readers: their use of local slangs, desi themes and Indian campus settings are unlikely to be enjoyed much by international readers. Some of these books are not even released outside India. This is in stark to the literature produced by veteran Indian writers such as Amitav Ghosh, Kiran Desai and V. S. Naipaul that often is read more outside than inside India.
The Publishers
Bhagat’s Five Point Someone was published by Rupa Publications in 2004. The book brought both fame and money to the publishing house and apparently played a major role in helping Rupa emerge as a leading publishing house. One major factor, as mentioned above, behind the tremendous success of the book was its low affordable cost of Rs. 95. Most campus novels since then have been priced around the same denomination and this has so far ensured their decent sales.
Publishers say that even though they are aware that these novels do not constitute what is called high-literature, they are sometimes forced to publish them since they register enormous sales and, in this manner, pay for the publication of real literary stuff that does not get sold as much. Therefore, though these novels may not be worthwhile of entering into the Literature lists of English literature scholars, they are now essential for the steady growth of these lists.
Some leading publishing houses have now begun to complain about the quality of the huge quantity of manuscripts that they have been receiving for some time now. An editor at Rupa goes as far as to say that it seems that almost every student with decent writing skills has a manuscript to submit these days. Most of these manuscripts, she says, don’t even manage to hold your interest even till the end of the first chapter. They almost constitute what in publishing vocabulary is known as slushpile.
All these manuscripts that constitute the slushpile have begun to find to the Internet after having been rejected by all possible publishers. Their authors either publish then on their blogs or go for the option of online publishing through online publishing ventures such as Serene Woods. The manuscripts, in this manner, become more or less non-profit enterprises and receive nominal readership.
The Plot and the Characters
The male protagonists in this genre are almost always these low-key diffident youngsters who conform neither to the conventional male stereotype nor to the image of the campus stud as popularized by Indian movies set in campuses. He is generally not the good-looking and the good-natured heartthrob of the campus for whom the female readers tend to easily fall for. Instead, he is more of a guy-next-room whom you may not even notice if you did not belong to his class or course.
This protagonist usually has a couple of true close friends who deeply influence his story along with his love—interest who is often a smart pretty girl whom the protagonist finds superior to him in some way or the other. The protagonist manages to surprisingly woo this girl but her parents are usually difficult catches. This love story becomes either the central or the sub-plot of the plot and is mostly concluded positively towards the end.
The plot in this manner is more or less predictable. It ends at a happy note when all the problems come to a satisfactory conclusion. But its course is not as predictable—there are often both funny and unusual incidents that fill the middle pages. However, new themes and issues are rarely explored through these incidents. Thus, both the territory and the destination of these novels are familiar, and although their route is newish rarely radical.
Conclusion
Let’s get back to the deconstructionist exercise mentioned in the introduction of this paper. It seems to have come to a standstill courtesy authors with similar resume who seem to be somehow apprehensive of experimentation. However, the enterprise has not reached a dead-end as yet—it just needs to be directed in diverse directions for its consistent growth because the genre still has a lot of unexplored potential that is likely to bear interesting and successful results only if it is probed properly
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