Man and Madness - a book review

This book easily goes under the category chic lit, a term that has gained currency thanks to a profusion of female writers. If this is the author's debut into the world of letters, then she deserves a mention among those who braved the perils of writing and forged ahead in spite of the odds inherent in such a venture. The style, if I can use that word to refer to the manner of this writing, is quaint and impulsive, an emotional outburst. The book shows promise that a more balanced and mature work may be expected from the author in time to come. 

Man and Madness reads like  a collection of impressions from a personal diary. The impressions are hastily put together to make a linked narrative after the manner of a monologue. The thing that strikes most as a discordant note is not its verbal meanderings, nor its debatable association of love with madness, but its utter lack of editorial support. Even if one ignores the strange juxtaposition of words, one is unlikely to ignore the way some are spelled. To top it all, the title smacks of sexism, unless it is intended in its erstwhile meaning in general of a human being. 

The narrative style - for lack of a stereotype to describe it, I shall use the word existential, but without the tremendous connotations that the word carries - is painfully repetitious of a single simple theme of a woman being misunderstood and man, the selfish, egotistic, mad man, never really understands the beauty and fragrance of love that the woman so easily emanates from every breath of her life.  

To add to the pathos of man-woman love, there is the woman who is bruised mentally and and also terminally ill. Even in that condition, she overwhelms all who come into contact with her, with her unflagging goodness and the inexhaustible source of love. She is the very personification of love that man in his crude, crass and infantile nature would never understand. He is the very personification of madness. And paradoxically, the woman is ever seeking love in return from that man who he is patently incapable of giving it.  

Poesy is prosaic, though it succeeds certainly in breaking the fatiguing routine of the narrative. Unrhymed meter, 'emotion..._not_ recollected in tranquility...', there is in it the same expression of unrequited love that underlies its prose counterpart. 

The dry unedited narrative seems to have been hastily culled from the pages of a personal diary that was never intended for publication. It served perhaps more to assuage one's own feelings, as a means to unburden one's heart, as a way of catharsis for one's own pent up emotions. 

The drawings look suspiciously like those found in The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran. While neither the theme nor the literary merit bears any resemblance to that great work of art, this needs to be brought out for the sake of the record. 

Man and Madness by Aparna Banerjee Sarkar published by All About Books Global

Brain activity

It is a Sunday morning, lazy, quiet and totally unwilling to get up from the bed. Alone in the room and on the bed, I curled up and dozed off again. 

I felt the tap on my shoulder, quite a tap, I must say, which woke me up and I wondered what I wanted to do to have been woken up like so? And I remembered I had to do diabetes check on Moma. I did and it showed 98, this after she gave up taking dia pills, against doctor's orders. Need to check again post prandial. 

It occurred to me as I thought over the manner in which I woke up that perhaps there is some part of the brain that is always awake, no matter how fast asleep you are. Like the internal clock of a computer system, which keeps running even when the system is shut down. This clock, not just a time keeper, is also a fully functional reminder and alert system. Is there more to it? Or, is that all?

What about the time I heard the voice inside asking me to walk away from it all and learn from the world first hand about the world from the people of the world. Which part of the brain spoke? Question is, are there many such parts of the brain? If so, apparently they're are all disconnected, disjointed and latent, only surfacing when some conditions are met. The brain in that case is like a house divided. 

What about the other day when I heard a voice asking me to shut up as I was waxing eloquent in my harangue against gods, worship and such. Mother was watching a video of Lord Venkateswara and the hymns to the God were playing loud in the silent spaces of the house. Through the music and the Sanskrit slokas I voiced my distaste of this form of worship and I continued in this manner as I walked out of the room. There, at the threshold I distinctly heard, through the sound of my own voice, the word in Hindi 'chup' which translated means 'shut up', when my mother tongue was Telugu. I froze right there, forgot what I was saying, turned around and looked at my mother. She was lost in the devotional rapture she was experiencing before the video. She couldn't have said it, for it was a male voice. Curious, and thoroughly disturbed, I asked mother if she heard anyone speak. 'Only you talking like a nastik (disbeliever). Then I told her what I had heard in my head and she remarked: 'this particular hymn was my father's favorite; he was a devotee and even translated this piece into Telugu which is heard in the temples even today. Maybe he was scolding you.'

I did not know what to make of it all. 

Writer don't sell soap

Who is a writer? How is she or he related to the society? What are the responsibilities of a writer? What is the objective or objectives of a writer? Why do they write at all?

Writing is a profession, like carpentry or engineering, like a medical practitioner or a scientist. It is a role played by a person as much as a teacher or a labourer does. The writer produces something and there is a consumer base for it. The content of this production comes from the base and is offered back to the base. A writer observes the world and relates that observation in the mythical tradition of a story. 

The story is as much about the other as it is about oneself, for one is part of the whole and never removed from it. But to get a perspective from the observation, the writer steps aside, as it were, from the subject and recounts as faithfully as possible, as skilfully as possible, the many interesting facets of the subject under consideration. It is hard work. It has its due diligence. It originates from the primary motive to share, to partake, of one's observation and to look obliquely at oneself through the characters one creates. 

While a story is a work of fiction, a figment of the writer's imagination, the basic premises and tenets on which the story rests must necessarily reflect what is observed in the real world. This is the writer's primary responsibility. To hold up a mirror, as it were, to reflect that which is seen clearly by the writer, that which is glimpsed darkly by the reader. The implication is that the writer is a seeker of truth, paradoxically, even though the entire work is presented as fiction. Fiction is not falsehood. Fiction is a way of presenting the truth in a manner that is easily received. 

It is a singularly solitary effort. It is a struggle within oneself to bring out one's deepest thoughts and urges on matters that concern the world in general. Matters that one glosses over in the immediacy of everyday life. The writer essays to shed light on the dark corners of our lives, those feelings and emotions and thoughts that we so feel deeply but never fully come face to face to study in silent contemplation. The writer does all the hard work and presents the kernel of observations as a simple lucid story. The skill of the writer is of paramount importance in engaging the reader. In revealing the observations little by little without smiting the sensibility of the reader.

Fiction writing is not the product of a formula. It is not the outcome of a series of planned and tested sequence of operations. It is not imitation, nor a novelty. It is not an invention based on sound scientific or theoretical principles. It sprouts from a seed, a seed that is born of long observation and contemplation. From the seed grows the sapling and if nurtured right becomes the tree that it is meant to become. The tree blossoms and bears fruit. It is for the fruit that every fiction endeavour is aimed at, the fruit that is the work's culmination. It is this fruit that the reader is offered, bitter or sweet. All that the reader is expected to do is to go along the journey of this growth and receive the reward at the end. It is for this fruit that the reader comes to the writer. It is for this fruit that the writer works so hard to produce. It is this fruit that is advertised and sold in the market. It is this fruit that is overhyped or undersold, ignored or besmirched. It is this fruit that in the end, literally and metaphorically, fulfils the writer's endeavour. 

Where is the market for this fruit? Is it a wrong question? The writer must live of course. There are always the bills to pay. The fruit must sell. He is in the market with his basket of fruit. Are there any takers? The fruit is there on the shelf. The shelf is run by a professional seller. The seller knows which kind of fruit sells and which kind does not, of he or she is a good seller, that is. Eventually, the seller will find a way to sell all his fruit, for after all he or she is in the profession of selling. No stone is left unturned to figure out a way to sell his fruits. The writer's fruit doesn't age with time. It neither gets better nor gets worse, though sometimes it has come out in the wrong season, either too early or too late for the season. But it does not ever decay. It thrives on the shelf or simply removed from it and pushed into a corner. It's time may come or not at all - it depends on the fruit and on the skill of the fruit seller. The producer of the fruit has disappeared: there are other seeds to nurture, other fruits to give birth to. 

<p>Pollution - within or without?</p>

A policeman stopped me at a traffic signal just as it turned green. He stood right in front of the car and directed me to the far left by the footpath. I knew I was in trouble and pulled over apprehensively. He thrust his swarthy face through the window and demanded to see the pollution check certificate. Bummer! I knew I had not got it renewed and had been meaning to get it done for some time. I rummaged through the chaos in the glove box and came up with a certificate. 'This one is expired,' remarked the policeman drily and asked me to pay the fine. I pleaded with him to let me go, but he stubbornly refused. 'You know the rules,' he was saying. 'You have not got it checked in three months. That is a serious offense.' I lied about overwork and pleaded some more. The policeman was not convinced and kept shaking his head. Then he asked me to settle it fast, he had a traffic to control, or else pay the fine - it was six times more than the cost of a pollution check. I 'settled' for the cost of the certificate, but he wasn't interested. He wanted me to double it. I was horrified and showed it, but he couldn't care less. 'Pay the fine, Sir,' he said politely. I figured that after 'settlement' and the renewal of the certificate, it would still be half the fine. I agreed and shelled out hard cash. I bled in my heart, fumed at myself for postponing the inevitable and cursed the 'robber' of a cop who could have easily directed me to a checkup point that was right across the road!

I made a U-turn and headed toward the pollution check point, a stone's throw from where the unscrupulous and greedy cop robbed me. The chap at the roadside checkpoint asked for the year of manufacture and went about performing the computerized test. After a while, out came the details on the computer monitor. He keyed in some details and printed it out. He charged me about 30% more than what I had paid the last time. 'Prices have gone up since,' he enlightened me and stretched his had a little more towards me. I asked for a receipt. 'You got the certificate. There is no receipt.' I said something to the effect that this was not fair. 'Are you authorized to charge so much?' I asked, now thoroughly saddened and desperate. 'You can check elsewhere,' he pointed out. I asked him to show me the official price document. He said there was no such document. 'You can return the certificate if you don't want to pay,' he offered me a way out of the impasse. He looked at the road and shuffled his feet as if he had a line of customers to attend to. There was not a soul behind me, but his manner, unrelenting and impatient, unsettled me. I thrust an amount that was a little less than he asked for and vowed never to get my car certified from him again. He did not insist on being paid what he had demanded. He pocketed the money and said there were some in the city who charged more than he did. He was probably right, for there was apparently no stipulated fee. I knew of course that the price varied every six months or so, but what I did not expect was a price differential for the same service. 

Private operators run this service under the banner of RTA, the Road Transport Authority. Operators house their equipment in a van parked by the side of the road. It is their mobile office and service center rolled not one. Besides the driver, there is just one technician who actually does the job. There was no other operator for miles on either side of the road. There is always a cop not far from the mobile checkpoint. He would intercept you at a traffic junction to make his dirty deal. Reminds me of the nail on the road that pierces the unsuspecting tyre and flattens it. The harried motorist thoroughly dismayed finds a fix not far down the road. You pay what the roadside puncture man demands - they don't allow you the luxury of a haggle. One could argue, 'Why don't you pay what the pollution check technician asks for?' The RTA banner does not force him to abide by government rules - there are no rules. He is just a private operator, an authorized service provider. That's all. 

"The next time you see a mobile pollution testing van in your neighbourhood, chances are that it is running without the government's permission..." warns The Times Of India. It went on to add, "What's more, these centres are also charging exorbitant fees for pollution check." Now, isn't that cool! 

I reminded myself that despite our socialist leanings we are a nation of private enterprise. We pay by the price tag. If there is none, we pay by bargain. If that is not allowed, we have the option to move on and find another. In the process we run the risk of getting caught for non-compliance of government rules. Bribe your way out, but that is only a momentary relief. If you haggle with a cop, it might get worse. He may challenge you on other counts like license, registration papers, seatbelt, tinted glasses and so on. One never knows what is amiss until it is demanded by the authorities. And they do it adroitly - lying in wait for an ambush round a corner, when you least suspect it. Like the nail on the road, dropped deliberately by the puncture man to ensure that his business runs smoothly. 

New vehicles don't pollute as much as their older cousins, less so the diesel variety. According to a government-run website, four wheelers of the petrol variety cause 12% of total pollution from automobiles as against only 2% by the diesel vehicles. Why not make an exception for diesel motorists? And for new cars less than five years old. But it is easier to make overarching rules, a lot easier to enforce, a lot easier to collect more money by way of penalty for non-compliance, a lot easier to assess annual returns from the number of registered vehicles, a lot easier to comply with international norms for pollution check. It is, alas, a lot easier for the cop on the road to make quick money on the sly.

Work schedule

Why is it so difficult to stick to a writing schedule? Many accomplished writers have sworn by the schedule that brought them success. Some do writing as the first thing in the morning. Some write when everyone in the house has gone to sleep. There are some who retreat into a secluded spot to write. There are of course some who write whenever the inspiration strikes. The mood becomes important. The muse when it visits must find a congenial time to whisper in the ear. But if you put it to vote, most people swing in favor of a schedule, a regimen to follow. Stare at the blank page, if you must, say the die-hard schedulers, but keep at it until the words come out. Stick to a schedule, they urge you, no matter how many times you have to stare at a blank page, or for how long. For if you lisp for words, the words must come. 

It is not that I don't have anything to write. I am working on some writing projects that are in various stages of completion. From an idea for a story at one end of my writing spectrum to a finished manuscript at the other, I am sufficiently covered from boredom and consequently the distraction that it entails. And yet I often find myself doing anything except being immersed in my project work. Why? Some say it is the lack of a schedule that is keeping me from working while some others say that I am too lazy. I think the truth of the matter swings more towards my supreme indolence, which I cherish and share with many masters of the craft of writing, be it fiction or software. A schedule would be actually a hindrance for someone who likes to work when he pleases and laze around when he is not writing. I don't usually get bored, though. Lazy people seldom get bored; boredom is the hangover of workaholics. 

It is not that I haven't tried scheduling my work. I have always been a believer of organized work. I have drawn a work timetable so many times that I can churn it out in a matter of seconds. I have become adept at it. I have a few apps to help me come up with a beautiful schedule to keep me working from morning till night. I also set reminders to help me stick to the schedule. The reminders include audible alerts, screen notifications and email messages. I have always set multiple alerts to ensure that I don't miss my tasks. I spent hours looking for scheduler apps; many don't come even close to what I need, but I don't give up my hunt for the right one, one that matches my temperament, my mood swings and my innate inability to stick to a schedule. 

I think what I need is a prime mover, the motivator, that urges me to set to work. It could be money or a muse. When there is neither in sight I look around and lose focus. I feel disoriented. I kick the schedule and return to chaos, the sweet nothingness of a vacuous mind. A mind that spins the web of imagination of characters and events, of ideas and plots, of story lines and synopses. But nothing gets done until the muse returns, or there is a chance of making some money. 

Poster

Just posted a note about my debut novella at http://tactilize.com/ananddotb/cards/47448

In addition to the marketing efforts by the publisher Indireads, it is incumbent on every author for self promotion. Reach the audience as wide as possible. It is advertisement sans propaganda. 

Even though i am old school and still love to hold a book in my hand, especially if it is written by me, but still the fact remains that traditional bookstores are either closing down or are languishing. The digital publishing is gaining ground and penetrating even the niche areas of book publishing by established authors. Many traditional publishers are treading digital waters warily but definitively. 

Both the print and online versions of books needs to be advertised via the social media networks. Author portfolio, unknown and quite unfamiliar concept probably only a decade ago, is now prominent on blogs and is encouraged by publishers of both the traditional and modern kinds. 

Breaking into e-print

It has been a long and arduous journey from a nebulous idea to a tight narrative of my debut novella Magnificent Loss. The journey began at a frenetic pace and like all journeys that begin with much enthusiasm faltered towards the end. The end kept moving like a mirage and I doggedly persisted to reach it. Unknown to me it awaited the final nudge that would propel me towards the destination. The push came from Indireads, an e-publishing startup that aimed to bring out new voices from South Asia. Now that the required impetus came, I could see the end clearly, driven by the forces of circumstances in the life of the characters that I created and also their nature that inevitably drove them to a satisfactory conclusion. Satisfactory it was, from the point of the writer, my writerly self, and hopefully it would find an echo in the discerning reader. 

It is a story of a young man in search of a life that is untrammeled by his past, who struggles to come to terms with his loss, and despite numerous indications to the contrary strives to make peace with his past and charts a path to the future. It is a love story that delves into the undercurrents of doubt, fear and memory with a surreal background and a strong yearning to live and love. 

Indireads made it available for purchase and download to your favorite ereader with several purchase options and ebook formats to choose from. It is available here - 

http://www.indireads.com/books/magnificent-loss/

The book cover clearly echoes the spirit of the story between its cover pages. 

Nothing is more precious for the author than to receive feedback on his debut effort. It is much appreciated if the reader leaves a comment and rates the book according to its perceived merit. The comment may include not only about the story, but also about the publishers who worked hard with their paraphernalia of publishing services - reading the draft, editing the manuscript, converting to ebook format and finally launching on their website. 

Happy reading!