Poetry: She Sat Beside Me On the Minibus

Clad in tattered white and a toothy smile

She huddled beside me on the rickety minibus

I didn’t say hello, never asked why

She told me anyway, her destination was the Ultadanga Terminus.

The Transport Department were pussies, she said,

In terms more colorful than I can in decency convey

The municipality? A bunch of thieves!

Sprayed diluted pesticide, never swept the leaves.

Her husband, she said, had been an officer,

Might’ve been a peon or an auditor.

Either way, he showed ‘em their place

Fought the good fight a fortnight, then vanished without a trace.

Swatting a mosquito with dirt-stained fingers,

She told me the Chief Minister will die of Dengue fever.

Rubbed her face with the frayed ends of an ancient saree

Assured me the state of the nation was quite dreary.

Had she been in government? A private petitioner?

Her nephew’s in the Assembly, her son a commissioner.

She has nothing to be afraid of, she’s quite sure

At 82, there ain’t much she hasn’t endured.

Gazed out the window when the conductor came by

Muttered about inflation and ignored his cries.

I bought two tickets, one for the Ultadanga Terminus

The man cursed, she smiled, I got off the bus.

The Problem with ‘Problematic’ Fiction: A Defence of Vampiric Alpha Billionaires

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Why is fantasizing about being in a semi-abusive relationship with a hot billionaire any worse than fantasizing about being an orphaned Chosen One hunted by a dark wizard?

That was the question I was faced with yesterday, while browsing the Goodreads comment section for a run-off-the-mill billionaire romance/erotica. Now I am by no means saying that this book was an outstanding work of literature. I haven’t read the book, so I have no way of knowing what kind of quality it has to offer.

That Which Separates Fantasy and Reality

But one of the major (and common) complaints about it on the comment section was that the relationship that it featured was ‘problematic’. And that reading about this problematic relationship might adversely affect young readers who would then proceed to expect this sort of behavior and dynamic in their own relationships.

These sorts of concerns are nothing new. It’s the exact same sort of thing people have been saying for years about a plethora of books including Twilight, Fifty Shades of Grey, A Court of Thorns and Roses and myriad other YA titles.

It’s not that I don’t understand where the critics are coming from. The twenty-seventh time you read about some alpha dude getting his knickers in a twist because his lady-love has spoken to another man is twenty-six times too many, in my opinion. But that’s just my taste in bedtime reading. It doesn’t have to be yours. And while everyone is allowed to rant about tropes they find annoying, of course, it is the accompanying moral handwringing that I find quite uncalled for.

I mean, that line of argument doesn’t even make sense. Not really. If reading about Christian Grey makes you seriously consider hooking up with an abusive billionaire, what’s to say reading about Batman wouldn’t make you seriously consider dressing up as a nocturnal mammal and beating up street thugs?

It might, of course. But in that case you’ve got far bigger problems to deal with in life than your exposure to ‘problematic’ fiction.

Why is it that everyone seems to think young girls reading Twilight might go on to have unhealthy relationships thanks to their exposure to the book, and yet nobody seems to have the same concerns about young boys watching The Fast and the Furious growing up to become reckless drivers?

I mean both of those things are theoretically possible. It’s just that we (normally) trust people to know the difference between fantasy and reality. The only demographic to whom this courtesy is not extended seems to be young women reading over-the-top, Harlequinesque romances. Never mind the fact that most popular fiction is over-the-top, unrealistic, and ‘problematic’ in one way or another.

All Fiction is Problematic

I mean, sure, you wouldn’t really want a semi-murderous vampire to be obsessed with your smell. But then again, would you really want to have a lightening shaped scar on your forehead, acquired when some psychotic terrorist murdered your parents? For that matter, would you really even want to attend a school where people regularly fall off incredible heights after getting hit by giant flying balls on their broomsticks? Probably not. Definitely not the kind of place you’d want to enroll your children in.

Most people who get a kick out of murder mysteries probably don’t really want to be involved in a murder themselves. And even hardcore Captain America fans would probably balk at the idea of being injected with an experimental steroid to be deployed as a super-soldier to a real war-zone.

Would being exposed to Captain America at a young age make you more amenable to experimental drug trials? It might, but in that case you need therapy more than media censorship.

But none of these concerns keep us from enjoying those ridiculously over-the-top, yet unbelievably entertaining stories. Because we all know that what’s good in fantasy isn’t good in reality. What you find entertaining to think about is not the same as what you want to experience in your real, day-to-day life.

Reading and enjoying violent Mafia novels doesn’t mean you want to join the Mafia. In fact, most people who’re actually in the Mafia probably haven’t read that many Mafia novels at all. I’m pretty sure they’ve got more important shit to deal with. Like, you know, killing people and stuff.

So why should reading about overly-possessive alpha boyfriends mean that you’ll really end up in unhealthy and abusive relationships?

I’m not saying that that’s impossible. All I’m saying is that the one doesn’t necessarily lead to the other. You can end up in an abusive relationship without ever having read a single book in the Twilight saga, just like you can become a drug kingpin without ever having watched The Godfather.

Never let anyone tell you that you need to consume ‘problematic’ media in order to have a problematic life, kids. Those two can exist completely independent of one another. I promise.

Arson, Murder, and Kissing Fuckbois

I was as annoyed as the next person with the Twilight frenzy that overtook the pre-teen population during the mid-2000s. I read all the intellectual-sounding criticisms and socially-concerned Twilight bashing that the Internet had to offer in those years. And when writing The Classroom Effect at the ripe old age of sixteen, I remember taking great care to ensure that none of my relationships could in any way, shape or form be associated with the dreaded P-word.

I was 23 when I started A Flight of Broken Wings, my second novel. It didn’t feature any significant romantic relationships. It did, however, feature two murders, one theft and multiple stabbings, many of them perpetrated by the hero and his allies.

And the irony of it all is that it never even occurred to me that any one of these elements might be seen as ‘problematic’ by my readers.

Why not, though? Why is a fictional sixteen-year-old dating a 200-year-old vampire any more problematic than a fictional sixteen-year-old becoming an assassin and killing villains? I mean if I had two daughters and one of them was planning to join an assassination squad while the other dated a sparkly fuckboi, I’m pretty sure I’d ground the first one for longer.

Why is being a killer ‘empowering’ while dating a werewolf is ‘problematic’? Wherein lies the difference between the fucked-up-ness of either of those life choices?

I guess what I’m trying to say is that we maybe need to reexamine our ideas of what constitutes power and what constitutes weakness. And why one is more desirable than the other. Why are the stupid (and sometimes violent) fantasies of preteen boys deemed less ‘problematic’ than the stupid (and sometimes sappy) fantasies of preteen girls? And what kind of a relationship do we really even want to have with the world of fantasy?

Because you can’t tell me that reading about Edward Cullen makes you pine for a vampire boyfriend but reading about Bruce Wayne doesn’t make you want to punch criminals in a batsuit. And because acting on either of those impulses in the real world would probably land you in some pretty…problematic spots, if you know what I mean.

Let me know down below your take on the problem of problematic relationships in fiction.

On Writing the Novel I’ve Always Wanted to Read

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I wrote my first novel in the last two years of high school. I started it in the first month of class 11, and completed it exactly one month before my higher secondary exams the next year. Now it was a relatively short novel – barely touched 65000 words – with a linear storyline. Today, I could probably finish a similar project in less than six months. But I was sixteen and confused – not an unusual state of being – and full of doubts about my ability to actually complete a full-length novel.

You see, The Classroom Effect might have been my first completed novel, but it was by no means the first one I had ever begun writing. The first novel that I ever started working on was a detective story featuring a poisoned lipstick and three Japanese sisters, one of whom fell off a tree. 

It was inspired by an Indian detective TV show called ‘Krishna Arjun’ and a Japanese anime series called ‘Cardcaptor Sakura’, both of which I was obsessed with at the time. I was all of 8 years old and the first three chapters of the novel were written by hand on an old school diary that had been only partially filled with the previous year’s math homework.

The Making of ‘The Classroom Effect’

Campus novels had been all the rage in India for a few years by the time I began writing ‘The Classroom Effect’. Chetan Bhagat had released his trailblazing ‘5 Point Someone’ (which I shall defend till the day I die). Its success had led to the paperback market being flooded with stories about young college students falling in love. So of course, I thought I should follow the steps of those that came before and pen a campus novel.

There was just one problem with this plan, though. I wasn’t in college yet. I didn’t know what life was like in college. All the information I had about college life came from the dubious ‘youth shows’ of Channel V and the aforementioned campus romances. Let’s just say I wanted a bit more authenticity than that in my novel.

So I did the next best thing. I wrote a campus novel…about a school campus. To be specific, my school campus, mostly because it was the only campus I knew well enough to describe in a coherent and believable manner for over 200 pages.

And I absolutely loved the story while I was writing it. The characters were my babies, and I wanted them to do awesome things, have awesome lives! There was a part of me in every single one of them, and yet none of them was anything like me at all. 

I wrote about the life I had, combined seamlessly with the life I wished I had. I wrote about my friends and people I wished were my friends. I wrote about the things we had done, the pranks we had pulled, the rules we had broken – and made everything less lame and more adventurous than it had actually been. It was cathartic, to say the least.

I took two whole years of ill-advised shenanigans and packed them into a single day of unmitigated epic-ness that ended in a dramatic rescue and not one, not two, but three whole declarations of undying love. Yeah, over-the-top doesn’t even begin to describe it!!

Writerly Lessons Learned and Wisdom Gained

I grew a lot as a storyteller over the two years that I wrote that book. And writing ‘The Classroom Effect’ taught me a few important lessons.

The first was that campus love stories weren’t really my thing. I knew this because the only campus novel that I had actually read and enjoyed was the one that arguably started it all, Chetan Bhagat’s ‘5 Point Someone’. I had tried to read a few after that, but for some reason could never really complete any of them.

I guess I should’ve known from the beginning why writing in a genre that I could barely read wasn’t the best idea. But in my defence, I was following the age-old advice of ‘write what you know’. At sixteen, there wasn’t much I knew about other than high school and all that it entailed.

The other lesson I learned was that romance wasn’t really my thing. I am not a romantic person, never have been. And while I could talk (quite entertainingly) about romance as seen from an outsider’s perspective, I could never convincingly portray a romantic relationship from the perspective of the characters actually in that relationship.

And I jumped through some weird and interesting hoops to avoid having to write about earnestly romantic situations in the book, because something in me knew that I wouldn’t be able to do them justice; that they wouldn’t be authentic.

In the second year of college I started writing another campus raomance (this time actually set in a college) called ‘Frivolous Deceptions’. And again, I loved my characters to bits. But the trappings of a campus romance felt even more contrived now than they had in high-school; perhaps because I knew myself better now than I had then. Whatever the reason, I abandoned the project midway and didn’t write anything else in college. Well, I wrote other things, but nothing that could be descried as a novel.

Writing the Novel I Wanted to Read

So after I finished my education last year and decided it was time to write my next book, I asked myself: What do you really want to write about?

And my mind came up with an absolute blank.

I mean, I didn’t know what I wanted to write about. Not really.

I liked reading mysteries and thrillers, but I was often annoyed with their lack of character exploration and development. I liked reading fanfiction, but I was frequently annoyed by their over-the-topness, if you know what I mean. I also liked reading fantasy, but the idea of world-building scared the shit out of me.

Plus, I wasn’t really sure if any of these elements would hold my interest for the hundred thousand-odd words I would have to type out to create a complete novel.

So I decided to get scientific about it.

Asking myself what I liked obviously wasn’t working. So I decided to make a list. An exhaustive list of all the stories that I had ever loved, across mediums.

The completed list, once I had finished compiling it, consisted of 6 of my all-time favorite books, 2 anime series, 4 movies, 2 TV shows, 5 fanfics across multiple fandoms, and 1 song that I had been playing on loop for that entire week.

Okay, so step one was a success. I finally had a list of all the stories that I loved. The kind that got my blood thrumming in my veins and my breath coming a bit faster.

Now I just had to solve the most difficult part of the problem and we would be done. I had to find out why I loved these stories. What was it about them that I found so damn irresistible?

So one day I sat down with pen and paper and began patiently to make a list of all of my favorite scenes from every one of these stories (well, except the song, of course).

When I was done, I tried to analyze what it was that these scenes had in common. What tropes were they playing on, or subverting? What kind of atmosphere were they trying to build?

Finding the Loves of My Life

After weeks of wracking my brains for answers, I finally had something of a list. Yeah, you guessed it. I have a thing for lists.

To this day, I still believe that that was the best thing I could possibly have done for my writing career, though. It’s not something that would work for everyone, of course, but in that situation it worked wonders for me.

Making that list made me realize that the only person whose romantic stories I enjoyed reading was Jane Austen. And I probably only enjoyed them because she was more concerned with the social implications of a relationship than about the inner workings of the thing itself. In some ways, Austen had as much of an outsider’s view of romance as I did, only more nuanced and far more hilarious.

But what I loved most was the Pride and Prejudice trope that she used in many of her stories. And by that I mean the rivalry to love dynamic that was at the core of Elizabeth and Darcy’s relationship, and to a lesser extent that of Emma and Mr. Knightley.

But while I did love the enemies-to-friends trope, I didn’t necessarily want to use it in a romantic context myself. Which brings us to my longstanding love for buddy cop shows. Well, they didn’t really need to be cops, any sort of crime-fighting pair would do. What was important was that the protagonists must be super different from one another, and must hate each other’s guts upon first meeting.

Common Law, White Collar, Rizzoli & Isles, even Castle – you name it and I’ve watched it. And I don’t see why The Man from Uncle should be left off this list, just because I watched the movie and not the TV show version of it.

The two anime series that I’d loved the most as a child were ‘Saiunkoku Monogatari’ and ‘Fullmetal Alchemist’, and I’ll admit that coming up with a similarity between them was the hardest. I did find it eventually though. You see, what underlay both of these stories was an intense focus on regional and national politics, combined with some fantastic elements.

And while Fullmetal Alchemist focused on early-twentieth century German politics and Saiunkoku Monogatari was all about feudal China (or its fantasy equivalent), they both talked about national and international politics, tensions between states and countries, political upheavals and maneuvering. I realized that some of the other anime series that I’d liked as a kid – such as Fushigi Yûgi and Kyo Kara Maoh – also dealt with these sorts of themes, though perhaps with less depth and finesse than the two I’ve already talked about.

The final ingredient to this potpourri of beloved tropes was added when I realized that I really enjoyed reading about themes of guilt and gratitude. And this is where my love-hate relationship with over-the-top fanfiction comes in.

Because fantasy-adventure TV shows and movies often don’t have the time to deal with the emotional repercussions of some of the shit that goes down in their story-arcs. I mean, how many fantasy political thrillers have you watched (or even read) that had a realistic take on PTSD? That really talked about the emotional aftermath of being tortured, being held captive, or watching a loved one die?

And don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that fanfiction does any of this in a realistic or believable manner. Well, sometimes it does, but that’s the exception rather than the rule. And I would be lying through my teeth if I said that I browse through AO3 at the end of a punishing day to read a realistic case-study of the symptoms of PTSD and depression. I don’t.

But the thing is, when you’re reading about characters that slay demons and lead revolutions every Monday, Wednesday and Saturday, sometimes over-the-top is exactly what you need.

Would Captain America really go on a bender after losing his childhood friend Bucky and spill his guts to Tony Stark? Probably not. But then, you can never say never when dealing with a steroid-fueled super-soldier and an inebriated mad scientist billionaire philanthropist, can you?

And Finally – My Second Novel!

Of these realizations, and some others that will be talked about in future blog posts, was born my second novel – ‘A Flight of Broken Wings’. It started out as a fantasy narrative about two protagonists who were as different from each other as can be (and belonged to different species, just to really drive the point home).

The story revolved around a globe-spanning political conspiracy, imaginary countries and their not-so-imaginary geopolitical clusterfucks, murders, betrayals, national and racial preconceptions, and the mandatory fanficcy and over-the-top angst scene where everything goes to shit.

The life I was writing about was in no way the life that I knew (or ever wanted to, to be honest with you).

But it was a world I liked to imagine when listening to badass songs by a plethora of punk-rock bands. It was populated by characters who I wouldn’t necessarily want to live with, but whose shenanigans I would happily binge-watch on Netflix, and read fanfics about after. It had scenes I would roll my eyes at in a paperback thriller, then go make myself a hot-chocolate for the next chapter.

In short, I had written a story that I would thoroughly enjoy reading!

The Right Way to Write a Novel

And I don’t know if that’s the proper way to write a novel. And quite honestly, I don’t care! Because I had a hell of a time writing it. And I can’t wait for the day when I’ve finally forgotten the story enough to be able to experience it from the perspective of a first-time reader.

Because it is (at least for now) the only novel in existence that was custom designed to make me happy!

So I guess at the end of the day, all I’ve done is to tweak slightly the original piece of advice I received about how to write a novel. Writing ‘A Flight of Broken Wings’ has taught me that it’s not about writing what you know. It’s about writing what you love. It’s about creating your own favorite novel, made to order.

Because then, even if nobody else likes what you’ve written, you’ll always have one die-hard fan. And keeping her happy will make sure that you never want to stop writing!

Poetry: An Elegy on the Death of My Fake Leather Sandals

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Starry-eyed, I peeked at you through the shop window

The salesman’s toothy smile was nothing to your new-polished glow.

Your fake leather belts and stiff rubber soles

Made me dream of journeys sans mud, debris, and potholes.

The salesman whispered the ‘discounted rate’ delicately into my ears,

I glanced down at my slender wallet and blinked back my tears.

My feet slid into your gentle folds, a warrior coming home,

I was fifty short but in your embrace, the world I wished to roam.

Your beauty was unsurpassed, though the insoles did itch,

And your buckles gleamed like fairy dust, when the toe-cap pulled a stitch.

You helped me traverse wet sand heaps on under-construction roads

You stood with me on the roller-coaster of rush-hour public transport.

You were with me through the muddy puddles, of early monsoon

Caked with dirt, you stayed alert, through alleys litter-strewn.

You held me in your hard embrace on broken footpaths

Helped me slink through curfew gates not even the cat could surpass.

And I should have known, you were too good for this town

My fake leather sandals with the rubber soles of brown.

As I hung off the bottom step of the spasmodic minibus

Beneath me the buckles ripped, the outsoles gave up.

And I know that over the months, we’ve had our fights

And I’ve said more than once that you were overpriced.

Though it’s true that I think you could have done with a discount

Never let them tell you, our bond wasn’t profound.

All my neighbors know of your tales of valor

What you lacked in durability, you made up for in glamor.

So what if the heels were rickety and the insoles tickled?

The road to affordable beauty with potholes is riddled!

Poetry: In Honor of the Late Electric Kettle Martyred on the Promise of an Elusive Education

This poem is dedicated to:

Kirti, Pallavi (roomie), Khushboo, Priyanka, Kanchan, and last but not the least, my darling dead kettle. I miss you all!! :*

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For nine months we were Rapunzels

Languishing in the tower of redundant education

Bidding civilization a teary farewell

To buy a degree with the currency of isolated frustration.

And through it all, you were there

By my side, when the world seemed dark and bare.

Oh, beloved companions of my embittered soul

My electric kettle and my Maggi bowl.

Through the heated – if slightly inebriated

Political debates of 2AM

You kept us full and caffeinated

You are the Magi of Bethlehem.

And even when our packaged noodles

Were pilfered (or borrowed) with dubious consent

And even when our budgets frugal

Had all been on clothes and vodka spent.

Through those tumultuous times you kept us fed,

Never went hungry to the creaky hostel bed.

Neither snake nor monkey on those haloed grounds

Ever wanted for tasty food within your compound.

And here we convey our sincere apologies

To the morning lectures, whose many qualities

We shall never know, for they were always missed

With a commitment that bordered on religious zeal.

And here too, we must admit

That we never really gave a shit

About the assessments or the flashy PPTs

Of imagination and research a shapeless potpourri.

But my friend, you should never believe

Anybody who tells you they didn’t grieve

For the cheap momos and cheaper pav bhajis

When the town of Dhenkanal they had to leave.

And it was a strange and glorious land

Where mosquito troupes and reptilian marching bands

Danced to Bollywood numbers on command

At night when all was dark and grand.

Boiled Maggi and filter coffee

Had never tasted better than on the crappy

Sheets of the rickety hostel bed

With music loud, the future on an arrowhead.

And it was the best of times

Though we were broke and bored, didn’t have a dime

Yet we got the lesson of our lives

Never miss the chance to have a good fucking time!

Poetry: An Ode to Rejection

It’s good, but not what we’re looking for right now. 

Oh, but it stings. And how! 

The position’s closed, better luck next time 

Your lips are bruised purple from that smile. 

We loved it, but it doesn’t fit with our current line-up 

You take a bitter sip of the salty tea-cup 

It’s good, dear, just not for me 

You nod, you understand, ‘cause it never is. 

Your throat stings from not screaming loud enough, 

Frustration the itch of a swallowed cough. 

You’ve heard it a hundred times, and yet the hundred-and-first 

Burns like every regret thrice reimbursed. 

But while they wound, they aren’t nearly as bad, 

As the radio silence of indifference ironclad. 

Refreshed inboxes and double-checked call logs tell 

The sordid tale of a dream drowning in the wishing well. 

Vacancies disappear and resumes languish 

Receptionists pout in parodied anguish. 

It’s never you, it’s always them, 

It’s never you’re-not-good-enough, it’s always not-the-right-fit. 

It’s all the same, yet unique every time 

Nobody’s got a minute, but asking’s not a crime. 

It’s self-flagellation with a calling card 

We don’t give a fuck, best regards. 

Your name’s not on this list, or the next one 

And yet you walk, ‘cause you can’t outrun 

The ghost of a dream, of a hope long gone 

Of finding the happily-ever-after in life’s lexicon.

Poetry: On Seeing the Sun on a Weekday

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The frosty LEDs flicker overhead, 

Dispersing monotone rays of white on beige 

I feel a fresh migraine approach 

Sip the stale coffee cooling next to my keyboard. 

The girl beside me in the rainbow dupatta, 

Leans over empty staplers and stained manila 

To whisper: ‘The boss is going on a holiday,

Won’t be back before salary day.’ 

I’m told this is cause for celebration 

The best you can make of a bad situation. 

And I suppose I’d feel some of this ecstasy, 

If my soul weren’t screaming for aspirin. 

The words on the screen swirl and dance 

Dupatta girl spares me an expectant glance 

Before turning to the gentleman to her right 

Replays her message of freedom and flight. 

‘It’s been a while’, someone says 

Since we’ve seen the sun on a weekday. 

‘It’s been longer’, snaps another 

Since I took a smoke break and wasn’t bothered. 

I grant these are all valid concerns, 

Nobody enjoys a meeting with flooded lungs. 

We also need a new coffee machine 

Someone really should get the filters cleaned. 

They filed a report with the HR department 

Got an electric kettle and a higher sales target. 

Which they didn’t meet ’cause the phones were dead 

And were allocated a raise of two percent. 

That’s ‘cause you can’t put a Band-Aid, you see 

On a laceration of the third degree. 

Sunless days of endless excel sheets 

Aren’t fixed with extra caffeine and weekend retreats. 

Still, you can give me a ride back home, 

When the sun’s gone, the streets are monochrome. 

For now, I’d settle for a quick smoke break, 

Vitamin D’s overrated anyway.