Chandra Holm: How does it feel to know that your book is short-listed forthe Crossword award? How important is this to you at this stage of your writingcareer?
Shashi Deshpande: It certainly feels good to know that Small Remedies is onthe Crossword shortlist. It matters simply because these things make a writerand her works more visible. And one wants one’s books to be read. But to me,personally, it does not mean what it would have done, say, ten years ago. Iremember how delighted I was when I got the Sahitya Akademi award. Now, the factthat Small Remedies has been so well received by readers is just as important tome.
What do you think in general of awards? Do awards act like moral tonic towriters? To you?
I must confess that I have very divided feelings about awards. Like I said,they make a writer and her works more visible. At the same time, they imply akind of competitiveness between writers which I don’t like. In fact, I don’tlike competing.
Does it matter as to who finally wins the award?
It certainly does matter that a good book wins the award.
Have you read the other books that are short-listed? If you were one ofthe judges, to whom would you hand over the award?
Thankfully I haven’t read any of them, so I don’t need to comment.
Literary awards have a great tradition. Whatdo you feel about them?
About awards, well, I think there are just too many these days - it’salmost like lollipops being distributed to kids - and too much importance isgiven to them. Actually, it goes this way. A book is chosen by a small group ofpeople from among a few books given to them. It’s really a matter ofcomparison. Books cannot be put in an order of best, second best, etc. On thewhole, I think awards should be for a writer’s body of work, for thephilosophy that informs the work, for it’s meaningfulness to society. Awriters angst or soul, as you put it, goes into all her works (I’m speaking ofserious writers, mind you); I don’t think just one book would carry these.What’s better for writers than awards, well, for literature anyway, is to givewriters grants during the period of writing. It is so hard for a writer todevote three to five years of her life to writing a book, not knowing whether atthe end of it you will get anything at all. But a grant, as is given in manydeveloped countries, will remove this financial stress. Maybe encourage moregood writing, as well.
Talking of awards, Amitav Ghosh’s refusal of the Commonwealth award ismaking headlines these days. What do you think of his stand?
I respect him for taking a stand and acting on it - it’s not easy toreject a prize because of a certain ideology. I’m also glad he said what hewanted to; I believe authors should speak up. But I think he has not named thereal enemy. Much more harmful than the dead dodo of the Commonwealth are marketforces which are shaping, or rather distorting the shape of literatureeverywhere, but much more so in India. There’s something very unhealthy aboutthe huge advances given for a single book and equally harmful is the ensuingpublicity given to the book on the basis of this fact and the illusion createdthat this is great writing, only because it has got so much money. This newlanguage, which speaks of `bidding’ for books, one the media has caught on towith such glee, has really reduced books to an auctionable commodity rather thana vehicle of ideas.
Authors and books are being seen through the lens of theamount the books earn, rather than by what they are saying and how they aresaying it. This (dollar imperialism I call it in short) is far more damaging toliterature than an award that is linked to an empire which no longer means much,anyway. An animal sans teeth, sans claws. And as for the Commonwealth awardbarring books not written in English (our regional languages, for example, likeGhosh pointed out) what about the Jnanpith which is barred even to Indianwriters and books published in India only because they are in English? I haveserious objections to this, because I consider English writing in India as muchIndian literature as that written in the regional languages. If not, where do Ibelong?
One of the surprising things of this incidence is the fact that Ghosh didnot know that his book was submitted for the competition. This seems to be quitecommon. Still, is this how it should be? What kind of a relationship existsbetween your publisher and you, as a writer?
No, certainly no publisher should submit a book without consulting theauthor. The presumption is that an author will be delighted to get any award orprize, and that an author with strong convictions or ideological objections doesnot exist; which is, unfortunately, true for the most part. On the whole,author-publisher relations are very poor in India. I don’t mean that they arehostile, but that there is nothing positive about them. As for me, I have a goodrelationship with my editor who looks after most of my interests; which is okay,but nothing should be dependent on one individual. Publishers should have somepolicies about how they deal with their authors. Indian publishers, I am afraid,have none.
You work with publishers within and outside India. Is there any differencein how they treat you as a writer?
Professionalism is very much lacking among Indian publishers. Like I said,there is no policy, much depends on the individual you are working with.Whereas, with the few foreign publishers I know, there is a professionalism aswell as a kind of friendliness. For example, the Feminist Press wrote me a veryenthusiastic and warm letter when my book A Matter of Time was chosen by Barnesand Noble for their Great Books display. Whereas, when I won the Sahitya Akademiaward, my publisher, who had published this same book, didn’t even write tocongratulate me. But, of course, things are better here now and after Penguinentered the scene there is an element of professionalism.
I cannot help comparing Ghosh’s stand on getting the regional award thisyear and Salman Rushdie’s almost childish behavior [1] last year when he did notget the Commonwealth prize. Any comments? Also, how far was/is the media (againwithin and outside India) responsible in making Salman Rushdie behave like an enfantterrible? Should one blame the media at all in this case?
Oh well, what can one say about individuals and their behaviour? Except thatI do feel that a writer, or anyone for that matter, needs to be very strong tobe able to take celebrityhood and media attention in her/his stride. Of course,Rushdie is the focus of media attention; I saw how it was during theCommonwealth award night in Delhi last year.
The way the media rushed in whenthey were let in finally was frightening. But then, Rushdie’s is a sensationalcase, a one-in-a-million kind of sensation. So why blame the media, either? Inthe final analysis, it’s up to you how you cope with this glare of attention.I guess a great strength of personality would help to accept it with equanimity.Otherwise, too much media attention seems to bring out what I call thebrattishness in some people. I always remember Dorothy Sayer’s words: `What wedo is more important than what we are’. Mr Rushdie obviously thinks the otherway round.
How important is media attention to you? Have you got too much of it, toolittle? Are you happy with the situation as it is?
Personally it makes me very uncomfortable and uneasy. I have an odd fear ofbeing the focus of attention. At the same time, I have come to realise that ithelps to be written about - one’s books become more visible. But I certainlydon’t like to be written about in connection with anything but my work. Whatmakes me sad - and angry too - is my work being ignored when Indian writing isbeing written about - for reasons that have nothing to do with the significanceof my writing. However, I now know that these pieces, specially when they appearin newspapers and magazines, are forgotten the next day, while books remain.Authors and good books have the last word, after all. That’s a happy truth.
If your wish would be granted, how would you like the media to behavetowards writers?
If you ask me, literature does not really belong to the daily newspaper ormagazines; these are concerned with the ephemeral and the sensational, whereasliterature (good literature, that is) belongs to a much longer time-span. In oneway, I must admit media focus does make people more aware of books and writers.But only some are constantly spoken of - anything Rushdie says is news, any newsabout literature, or even just language, means putting in a picture of ArundhatiRoy - making them symbols of writers and literature. Which is wrong. It’s anincomplete and lopsided picture. And making celebrities of writers is not goodfor literature. It’s bad for writers who begin to see themselves as largerthan life, it’s bad for young writers who think that writing means this kindof glamour, (they want to become writers, not to write), it’s bad for youngwriters who get too much attention because of one book; they will get stuck inthat and find it hard to move on. Sometimes, these five minutes of fame candestroy a writer. Fame and too much publicity are enemies of creativity. But myreal wish would be for the media to respect the dignity of those who wouldrather not be spoken of.
And what about how the writers use/misuse the media to forward their owngrievances and slights? I am thinking here of Salman Rushdie who wrote last yearagainst the Commonwealth committee, and Vikram Chandra’s articles published inThe Hindu and republished in The Boston Review, Shobha De writing about Anita Desai … oh, one could go on and onwith such examples…
Writers using/misusing the media for their own personal agenda is becoming aproblem, isn’t it? I’m seeing a great deal of it in India recently. Theproblem, partly, is that writers have suddenly become celebrities and there area lot of giant-sized egos around.Readers, too, seem to like reading aboutwriters - even more than reading them - and find their nasty gibes and spitefulcomments about other writers tongue-licking tasty. The media, obviously, givesreaders what they want, even encourages these things. This apart, people who arenasty are going to use their nastiness in writing as well. But I think thatthose of us who don’t like such things should express our distaste. Ipersonally feel that while many writers (rightly) join in the chorus for freedomof expression at the drop of a hat, we need also to think of self-control andself-restraint in the interests of other people’s right to their privacy,their right to be free of abuse and slander. To me, there’s something immoralabout writing about people who don’t have the platform that you have as awriter.
These days there is lots of hype in the media about literature in general,about Indian literature in English in particular. You started writing whenwriters writing in English could be counted on the fingers. Why did you chooseEnglish as your language?
I say this over and over again - I did not choose English. One does not sitdown and choose one among many languages to write in. You write in the languagein which your thoughts express themselves. In fact, the language chooses you.For me, matters were very simple: English was the only language I knew wellenough to write in. I call English the language of my creativity.
How difficult was it really to get established in those days? To benoticed? To be taken seriously?
I can only tell you my writing history. I began as a short story writer - Isent my stories to all the magazines and Sunday papers I knew. I had manyrejections but I knew that the stories I thought were good were accepted. Whichgave me the confidence to write and a readership. Nothing came easy - at no timecould I say `I am established’. I wrote serials and two children’s books andthen moved on to my first novel. So it was gradual, slow, and always hard work.And it was almost like working anonymously. If I was known at all, it was as the`person who wrote for Femina and Eve’s Weekly’ - which so irritated me Istopped writing for them. I was taken note of I think only when I got theSahitya Akademi award for That Long Silence. To be taken seriously took me evenlonger - even now I have a feeling I am regarded as `one of the women writers’- not one of the significant writers in the country.
Your father was Adya Rangacharya, a noted scholar of Sanskrit anddramatist of Karnataka. How is it to continue in the footpath of a famousfather?
My father - yes, it’s good to have this literary heritage. And apart fromthis, being his daughter has given me a window into Kannada literature, intoSanskrit. English writers in India are often divorced from their own literarytradition, which is such a great loss. I’ve been fortunate to be able to seethe Kannada literary world from close, to have a few glimpses of the literatureitself.
How does living in Bangalore - far from places like Delhi and Mumbai -affect your life as a writer? Is it a lonely one?
No, it’s not a lonely life. It suits me fine. I am not a party animal,anyway, nor do I like to discuss my work with other writers.I don’t likecrowds either, so avoid conferences and seminars as much as possible. But there’smuch else - family, a few friends, books, walks, crosswords, e mail contact withfriends outside, household routine - and writing; my life is full indeed. I’mvery happy to be away from cities like Delhi and Bombay. But it was Bombay withits enormous vitality that gave my writing a kick start - I’m grateful to it.And, in my writing, still go back to it and to Dharwad. Bangalore, strangelyenough, rarely figures. And imagine the bliss of not being in Delhi - withjournalists having you on tap, as it were, for opinions, with other writerssniping at you and you, if you can, sniping back!
Who are your readers? Does gender play any role here? Do you hear morefrom male readers or women readers? Who - men or women - do you feel really understand what you have to say in your work?
My readers - I don’t have much feedback from abroad, but from Indianreaders now, yes. My readers, it seems, are mostly women. Perhaps they canidentify more with what I’m saying. I can understand this, but what surprisesme is that men still shy away from what they think of as `women’s novels’.Don’t they have any curiosity? I have no problems reading about men, I amcurious, intrigued, amused, interested. Why do men close their minds?
You are almost always referred to as a woman writer. Well, most women whowrite are referred to in this way. How do you react to this prefix?
How do I react to being constantly referred to as a woman writer? I’menraged, furious, mad, exasperated … I could exhaust the Thesaurus and itwouldn’t be enough. Just the other day I came across a book on Bangalore whichhas pictures of some eminent people from Bangalore. While Ananthmurthy, GirishKarnad, Mahesh Dattani are called just writers I am a `woman writer’. I’msick of it. Why is my gender a relevant fact? I’m a writer. Period. For God’ssake, is literature a public toilet that we need to have signboards saying `Men’and `Women’? Actually, I’d kind of understand if literature was categorisedthis way. But it’s worse - it’s Human and Women. I’ve decided thathenceforth I will always speak of `men writers’.
For quite a long time your writing was branded as being feminist, as beingabout middle class women from India. How do you defend yourself against suchcomments? Do you see the need to defend yourself?
I don’t feel the need to defend myself, but certainly a need to explainand clarify. Yes, I am a feminist, but I am not a feminist writer. I don’tthink this is hairsplitting - it’s a very important distinction. Polemics hasno place in creative writing. If I want to speak of feminism, I do it inarticles - and have done so. Fiction writing captures the complexities of humanbeings, it cannot be framed in any ideology. However, my belief in feminism ispart of what led me to explore the lives and minds and women.
Who is responsible for this kind of categorization? The publisher, thecritic, the writer, the reader? Is this simply a way of self-defense so that onedoes not need to think about how a woman feels and acts? What is the cure tosuch blindness?
The critics, of course.
