One of the least coveted prizes in literature is the ‘Bad Sex’ award in fiction that goes annually to the author who produces the worst description of a sex scene in a novel. The award was founded in 1979 by the Literary Review, a British periodical edited for many years by Auberon Waugh, son of Evelyn.
Past winners include John Updike, Norman Mailer and our very own Aniruddha Bahal for a passage in Bunker 13. In the unlikely event of Electric Feather: The Tranquebar Book of Erotic Stories finding a British publisher, Indians will have another shot at that prize of dubious distinction. This book, edited by Ruchir Joshi, has some serious contenders.
My bet is on Samit Basu. This is a family magazine and so I cannot reproduce here some of the juicier sections of his short story. Suffice to say, words like “pussy” and “hairy” come into play and they have nothing to do with that animal in your house or the growth on your head. As far as I can deduce, Basu has limited experience when it comes to sex but is not short on invention.
He reminds me of another Bengali author. Whatever happened to the vertically challenged Sasthi Brata? The sex life of that enfant terrible of the early 1970s was reputed to be zilch, but he had a fertile imagination. He gave us graphic accounts of copulation every few pages, but his books were deadly dull.
It is not easy writing erotic stories. There is a thin dividing line between erotica and pornography. You cross that line at your own peril. According to Erica Jong, the author of Fear of Flying, “erotica celebrates the erotic nature of the human creature—and does so artfully, dramatically. Pornography, on the other hand, serves as an aid to masturbation, with no artistic pretensions and no artistic value.” That is a good definition. Porn is best read and enjoyed on a toilet seat.
D.H. Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover, Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer and, more recently, Philip Roth’s Portnoy’s Complaint are erotic masterpieces, not porn. Indian writers are not good at this genre. Khushwant Singh is an exception, though he gave up writing erotica, for Grove Press, some years ago. There is also Hanif Kureishi. All right, he is British of Pakistani background but if we can claim a Trinidadian as one of our own after he won a Nobel, there is no reason why we cannot embrace Hanif!
The editor of this compilation, according to his own admission, was unsuccessful in persuading our more eminent authors to contribute. One writer would not respond to his e-mail. Reading between the lines, it has to be that lady from Mumbai, a socialite, who specialises in racy pulp fiction.
Indians are an inhibited lot, afraid to scandalise parents and embarrass children. We were not always like this. Our ancient literature and sculptures amply demonstrate that. Before the Muslims arrived, we did not wear stitched clothes—just a single length of cloth, a dhoti or a sari, wrapped around the body. The blouse is a recent invention.
Electric Feather has a couple of good erotic stories, both written by women. What does that say about our men? Sheba Karim’s tale of a young girl’s infatuation with her aunt is subtle and elegant. Meenakshi Reddy Madhavan is far more daring. She does not shy away from words like ‘penis’ and ‘clitoris’. The forefinger plays a prominent role in her story of the seduction of a twenty-seven-year-old male virgin.
Tishani Doshi writes tenderly on the sexual desires of a thirty-nine-year-old woman, another virgin, ensnared by a married man. Niven Govinden’s story of two gay lovers in Amsterdam is also nicely written. Only, the problem is that one has to be very prudish to find either of these stories erotic. Someone should have urged Abeer Hoque, another contributor, to resist the temptation to use footnotes. You are writing a short story, not a dissertation.
I wish the editor had explained the title of the book, Electric Feather. Sounds kinky, but what does it mean? My dictionary is no help and there is no story here under that name. I liked the cover design by Rishad Patel. It is witty, a copy of the book tucked away under a pillow.
I will mark Electric Feather E, for effort and for erotica, or lack of it.
