Have none of your earlier books ever been entered for the prize?
They were, without my knowing it. I only discovered that after this recent contretemps. I was, as I’ve said, astonished to discover that publishers routinely submit books for prizes without informing their authors.
Don’t you think the withdrawal might be seen in some circles as a mere grand gesture?
I don’t know what circles you’re talking about. Those who know me or my work will be well aware that I am not a person who seeks out controversy.
You must have read Rushdie’s 1983 essay, "‘Commonwealth Literature’ Does Not Exist". Isn’t it ironical that he was there at last year’s award ceremony, when The Ground Beneath Her Feet was in contention?
As a matter of fact, I haven’t read the essay. And what other writers choose to do vis-a-vis this prize is none of my business. It wasn’t my intention to belittle others who’ve accepted this prize. When I wrote to the Commonwealth Foundation, I also wrote to a friend of mine who’s won this prize. This is what I said: ‘You’ll probably be surprised to know that I’ve decided to withdraw The Glass Palace from the competition. I thought I’d write to you especially because I don’t want you to feel that I’m attacking past winners of this prize. My book is addressed to certain specific historical circumstances: other books are not and these issues are not relevant to them. So I perfectly understand why these questions didn’t arise in your case.’"
But couldn’t you have used the prize money for, say, a cause you believe in, and yet make your point?
I certainly thought of it. But it seemed to me that it’d be an attempt to eat my cake and have it too. I also could not see myself standing on the podium, accepting the prize and then making a speech about what was wrong with it.
There’s been some criticism of your work on the lines that your "vision seems to be imbued with imperialistic overtones". Was the withdrawal intended to silence such critics?
The opinions I expressed in my letter to the Commonwealth Foundation were my own. But since then, I’ve been deluged with messages from around the world supporting my decision. Clearly, many people shared my perceptions without necessarily articulating them. In fact, I received a letter from an Indian student in Britain who summed it thus: ‘As an Indian student in Britain, confronted with apologists (often otherwise intelligent and usually well-meaning people) for British rule and its alleged ‘greatness’, I’m often struck quite forcefully by the enormous gulf between how the British see the entire Imperial exercise, and how we do, and how they don’t quite seem to, well, get it, even when you tell them, in very simple English, why you think the way you do. So thank you for saying, in the context of this dubious category of ‘Commonwealth literature’, what I’ve wanted to say in a broader context.’
Don’t contradictions exist in other prize contests too?
I’d like to stress that I have no objection to literary prizes in general. But it seems to me that the value of a literary prize should lie, in the first instance, in celebrating literature: not in valorising a particular view of the past or present, nor in creating, as it were, a literary ‘bloc’. I believe the idea of the ‘Commonwealth’ (and ‘Commonwealth literature’) does represent a certain reading of the past and present—one that is, in essence, contrary to the spirit of my book. On the other hand, prizes like the L.A. Times, Guardian, Crossword, Ananda Purashkar don’t, to my mind, represent any such readings. It also seems to me perfectly reasonable that a chain of bookshops or a newspaper group should offer literary prizes. But many might well object to a prize named after a tobacco company or a political party and so on, and I think they’d be right to say so. After all, if the givers of prizes feel they have the right to judge authors, they should be aware that authors also have the right to judge prizes.
How would you like to describe your oeuvre?
I think of myself as an Indian writer in the first instance. By this I mean that my work has its roots in the experience of the people of the Indian subcontinent, at home and abroad. I’d be uncomfortable with any categorisation of my work that didn’t acknowledge this. In this sense ‘Indian writing in English’ seems to be a perfectly acceptable categorisation of my work.
