Do we really need another one?

No one reads books anymore they say.

Publishing is a dying industry they say and I love books. I know hundreds of people who do.

Presently I am in the world of trying to get a book published. I am witnessing an interesting phenomenon of humane, helpless and kind rejections such as this: “We think you are an emotive writer and your story is very moving. It would undoubtedly provide comfort to those who have lost children, whether by suicide or otherwise. But there is so much work that goes into publishing a book and we have to believe that it can work commercially to a certain degree. I worry that it would be very difficult to get media attention/reviews and therefore retailer traction in this case.”

These letters leave me strangely encouraged to persist and keep refining the manuscript, keep working on the craft of writing and keep remembering what this is about. I write in singular first person but denote the third person plural. I am They, Them, We.

It’s about kissing the ground that supports my weight. It is where my son, all my ancestors and circumstances stand in me through all the seasons and storms. In every moment, it is and has been my home whether I like it or not. It tells me who I am and how, from my very foundations I can hold a conversation with life even when it seems terribly treacherous. Strangely, it is also a place of grace that surprises me by its ability to humble and elevate me, even after being dragged through the mud. It enables me to step off onto a softer ground of gentle understanding where grief finds expression as what it truly is, pure love, often known by safer names such as compassion and connection. I kiss this wise ground that has taught me what it means to be free, be love and be human.

One way or another, I am sure my words will find their way to those with whom they will resonate. If you have any helpful ideas around publishing, please do write a comment. Thank you for reading. This blog is the birthplace of the book.

No mystique

Posted by kidsaregifts20

Sitting in mesmerising remoteness, I’ve been falling in love with Maya Angelou. Her words in this interview on The Paris Review have been singing in my ears and I am compelled to share the music as it resonates with the beat of my heart. And, is she funny or is she funny? Astounding combination of humour and profound fundamental human truths.

“We may encounter many defeats.” She says. “Maybe it’s imperative that we encounter the defeats. I don’t know. But we must not be defeated. I see people who haven’t gone through anything and you think, ‘Ah! Honey, go through something. Go through something.’

If I have a theme in my work, it is that we’re much stronger that we appear to be. And maybe much better than we allow ourselves to be. And that human beings are more alike than we are unalike. There’s no real mystique. Every human being, every Christian, every Jew, every backslider, every Muslim, every Shintoist, Zen Buddhist, atheist, agnostic, every human being want a nice place to live. A good place for the kids to go to school, healthy children, somebody to love, the courage, the unmitigated gall to accept love in return, some place to party on a Saturday or Sunday night and some place to perpetuate that God. There’s no mystique. None. And if I’m right in my work, that’s what my work says.”

Truly inspired. Love the sweet little made-up words like ‘unalike’. Thank you Ma’am.

Move over Sainsbury’s

Posted by kidsaregifts20

The nearest village to us is Shukravara-sante, which means Friday-fair. Sante is a periodical gathering of buyers and sellers at a particular place. This coffee-growing region has huge plantations where hundreds of people work. They get the day off to rest and do their weekly shopping. Hence, Friday is Sunday. It is the highlight of the week. The nearest town is miles away and why would one take the trouble to go there if the freshest produce is available nearby?

A collection of temporary and permanent sheds with people sitting on the ground, selling glass bangles in fancy colours, coconut-graters for a pittance, honey-mangoes, unfamiliar greens, dried red chillies in heaps, dried fish emanating its peculiar smell, plastic buckets and mugs in bright colours, cardamom and pepper, clay pots made locally to set curds in, snacks being fried on the roadside, fresh cane juice with ginger and lemon. A hundred yards of pure delight.

We’ve been here three weeks and visited the market three times. We can get most of our weeks shopping and see all those smiling faces again that are becoming more and more familiar every week. My flimsy Kannada and their meagre Hindi and English are sufficient when stretched. In the moment inadvertently provide live entertainment to the locals and laugh with them at myself.

The milk collection point is just down the road. It’s where the villagers bring milk from their farms for being sold and sent to a big dairy 40 Kilometers away. At 6.30 every morning when Simon brings a litre and a half of it in the steel milk churn, it is warm.

Opposite the chicken shop is a general store that sells eggs. The lovely family that run the chicken shop can’t sell their eggs in their own shop as people expect them to give them away for free. So, they sell the eggs to the general store and people buy them from there. An egg costs seven rupees which is roughly 7 pence.

Saagar would be surprised that I was trying to learn a new language, that we had moved to an unfamiliar part of India and started afresh. Simon and I have wanted simplicity for a while and it’s finally coming. Couldn’t agree more with Charles Bukowsky who said, the less I needed, the better I felt.

Looking forward to the market tomorrow. Move over Sainsbury’s.

Equal night.

Posted by kidsaregifts20

Vernal means relating to occurring in the spring. Fresh or new or youthful.

Yesterday the light and dark equalized for the first time this year. Today has pulled a little more light over to its side than Yesterday. The Earth’s axis tilting as far as it could and the Sun shifting to meet with it, like lovers under a warm blanket on a cool night. The soil awakening, the snow melting, the birds singing a little bit earlier in the morning, as if on cue. The leaning and longing of the oncoming Summer taking root here, now. The round shutters of our pupils readjusting, recalibrating. The underground murmurings of tulip and daffodil bulbs, the fluorescent greening of the tips of the trees looking forward, looking upward, rising in love.

The end of one thing, the inception of another. The old continuing as new. The same Earth, the same Sun, now in a lighter role, in a brighter mood, curating space for a distinguished guest to sneak in. A shy new bud on a rose bush, a fresh tender heart-shaped leaf still half-folded on the Anthurium, a long-tailed black bird strolling on the curved spine of a green coconut frond, young green mangos picking up the redness of the Sun.

It slinks in as a cup of fresh mint tea, a phone call from a long-lost friend, an old photograph of my grand-mother. Sometimes as a spell of utter silence. Sometimes as the whisper of my breath. Joy chooses me and shows up in unexpected places, patiently waiting to be recognized. Acknowledged. Embraced.

Shiny-new-object Syndrome

Posted by kidsaregifts20

If you’d ask me, what’s the one thing I want to do before I die, I’d say – write my book.

I have been working on it for years but it fails to materialise because there is work, home, travel, putting away summer clothes, family, packing, births, films, reports, reading, e-mails, deaths, Diwali, slumber, too-hot, too-cold, Christmas, don’t-feel-like-it, may-be-later, not-inspired, not-now and the list goes on to fill five pages.

This blog is a friend, a punch-bag, a vent, a discovery, an exploration, a path and a ready distraction. It is my creative play-ground, seemingly under my control and gives me instant gratification – writing a few hundred words within an hour or two and hitting ‘Publish’. Done.

It takes tonnes of time, sweat, blood and gut-wrenching angst to get the first draft of a book done. Things to think about – the setting, characters, voice, pace, first-person or not, genre, authenticity, shouldn’t sound preachy, shouldn’t be too emotional, shouldn’t be too short or too long, chapter-isation, privacy, audience and mountains more. It needs reworked, edited and rewritten many times over till it’s polished and ready. It needs to pass through expert scrutiny before it gets anywhere near ‘Publish’. It needs my full attention.

I’ve spent the last three days at a little village called Satkhol taking part in a Creative Writing Course at The Himalayan Writing Retreat. It’s been an exercise and a luxury. The air is pristine, the hospitality impeccable, the space serene, the teaching clear and the long range of snow-capped Himalayas in the near distance, stunning. This environment elevates me and brings me home to my truth. So, distractions will have to go. For now, I shall take a break from blogging to focus on the book. Stay in touch. I will resume when I have made a submission to a literary agent. Thank you for being here with me. I have felt your warmth. It has sustained, inspired and encouraged me for as long as I have been with you. Thank you. This is no more than a pause.

May each new day and the coming New Year bring you clarity and unveil the joys that lie within your heart.

“Doesn’t everything die at last and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

With your one wild and precious life?”

-an excerpt from The Summer Day by Mary Oliver.