Writer Anita Desai’s life and work have been marked by discipline and attention to detail, writes Jai Arjun Singh

 
The world of Indian publishing in English can be intimidating — certainly for the outsider, but occasionally even for someone who works within the industry or is closely associated with it, say as a literary journalist. Twenty-five years after Salman Rushdie won the Booker Prize for Midnight’s Children, and 20 years after Penguin Books India opened new doors for aspiring writers, there is something of a publishing boom underway, with bright young writers dabbling in genres — science fiction, chick-lit (fiction for young women), fantasy, campus fiction, graphic novels — that were scarcely even heard of a few years ago, and younger, more open-minded editors willing to encourage them on. Hardly a week passes without the high-profile launch (followed by cocktails, or at the very least preceded by high tea) of a book touted as one of the year’s most significant publishing events. Fashionable young scribes get featured on the front pages of newspaper supplements even before their first book is out; a select few get large advances. Literary festivals are the rage, and even when they aren’t happening the community seems perpetually to be in touch; almost every author, author-in-progress or critic has a website or blog.

This is not how it used to be in the early 1950s when a young girl began writing short stories sitting at a desk in her Delhi home. This is not how it was when, a few years later, while studying in Miranda House college, she submitted her work for publication to niche literary magazines like Thought. Or when, a few years later, she sent manuscripts to small companies in England because local publishers were preoccupied with textbooks or reprints of old books. The world of Indian publishing was very different then. It was lonely work being a writer. And yet, Anita Desai made it. Purely by dint of talent and discipline, she became one of the most respected Indian writers of the generation immediately preceding Rushdie’s; the generation that came just before the floodgates began to open for Indian writing in English (or IWE, to use the popular acronym) and hype began to surround every new writer.

Mostly out of choice, Desai has never been a very visible writer — she isn’t part of the literary party scene in New York, where she currently lives, or in India, during her frequent visits here. She has spent most of the past 20 years in the US after leaving India in 1986, which has contributed to her low profile here. And in the past two years, she has happily basked in reflected glory — that of her daughter Kiran, who won the 2006 Booker for The Inheritance of Loss. But she has never really been out of the picture. Her name still draws respect from the heavyweights of Indian writing; Rushdie once called her the pre-eminent Indian novelist of her generation and the equal of Jane Austen.

Anita Desai was born Anita Mazumdar in 1937 in Mussoorie, to a German mother and a Bengali father. She grew up speaking German in addition to Bengali and Hindi, and recalls that English entered her life only when she went to school; consequently, she always associated this language with the written word. She grew up with her siblings in an Old Delhi house, an experience she would draw on for one of her most acclaimed books Clear Light of Day, about the lonely childhood of two sisters and the different trajectories of their lives as adults.

In 1958, aged only 21, she married a businessman, Ashvin Desai. Over the next 13 years they had four children (Kiran being the youngest) — one of the most astonishing things about Desai’s career is that she managed to balance a rigorous writing life with the responsibilities of being a wife and mother in a traditional society. But write she did, and her explanation of how she found time for this is beguilingly simple. “After packing the children off to school,” she says, “I would sit at my desk and stay there until they returned home.” Discipline, the resolve to write daily — these were the keywords; not for her the luxury that many writers have had of being fiercely temperamental, subject to long periods where no work gets done at all followed by long, frenetic sessions of productivity, shut away from the world. For her, that wasn’t even an option.

Her first novel was Cry, the Peacock (1963), published by Peter Owen, “which was then a small publishing company with an interest in foreign writers and voices; I got lucky”. However, it wasn’t until Fire on the Mountain (1976), the story of an old woman and her granddaughter living in solitude in the hills of Shimla, that she felt she had turned a corner, finding a voice of her own. Most of her subsequent books were about what she has referred to as “little heroes” — people who lead circumscribed lives, never doing anything obviously grand or world-changing, and yet managing to find dignity within those lives. Like the spinster Bim in Clear Light of Day, a caretaker of memories, unwilling to leave the house she grew up in. Or Hugo Baumgartner in Baumgartner’s Bombay, a German Jew who escaped the Holocaust as a child and lived for decades in Bombay without doing anything really noteworthy.

Later, with In Custody (1984), she felt she had broken out of the domestic circle, writing a book where the two central characters were men: the story is about Deven, a small-town professor who gets the chance to meet and interview his idol Nur, a once-great Urdu poet now fallen on bad times. Though Desai had never been an aggressively feminist writer, this was the first time she was writing in the male voice, and she felt refreshed by the experience. A few years later, she collaborated on Ismail Merchant’s film version of In Custody, starring Shashi Kapoor, Om Puri and Shabana Azmi, but subsequently admitted that it disturbed her to see the decrepit Old Delhi of her novel presented in vibrant colours in the film.

Desai’s writing can occasionally be dense to get through for the casual reader — there are many descriptions of minutiae, and of the interior lives of her principal characters; the same careful attention to detail, in fact, that can also be seen in her daughter’s work. But there is also an acute humour running through her books. At times this can be overt in tone — like Deven’s pathetic attempts to capture Nur’s voice for posterity on a tape recorder, which culminate in the capturing not of a beautiful verse of poetry but something mundane and vulgar. At other times, the humour is more understated, more delicate. But either way, it always arises from her deep understanding of human beings, their foibles and self-delusions, and of the little everyday things that make life worth living even when the larger picture seems unutterably bleak.

In the past two decades, she hasn’t been a very prolific writer of books, producing only The Zigzag Way, Fasting, Feasting, Journey to Ithaca and a short-story collection during that time. But she still rigorously maintains her writing routine, doing a fair number of critical pieces and essays for publications such as the New York Review of Books. She lives on the outskirts of New York — a place she describes as “a little village” — and travels occasionally to Mexico and to India. For the most part, her daily life conforms to the image of the reticent, solitary writer.

In December 2007, Desai was made a fellow of the Sahitya Akademi, only the third Indian writer in English to receive the honour — the others were Mulk Raj Anand and R K Narayan. Random House India marked the occasion by reissuing three of her finest novels (Clear Light of Day, In Custody and Baumgartner’s Bombay) in elegant, minimalist new designs. Soon her other books will also be collected in this format. It’s a concept that closely resembles the Library of America’s tradition of reissuing and collecting the works of major American writers, such as Saul Bellow and Philip Roth. It’s no less a tribute than this great lady of letters deserves.

“I indulge in reflection with my writing”

 
Anita Desai tells Meeta Bhatti about her world

Other than you, only two Indian writers in English have been lifetime fellows of the Sahitya Akademi. How does it feel to hold this position?

It is an honour and I am very grateful. With a stroke of luck, it came when Random House announced the re-release of three of my books. It all coincided with the re-release of In Custody, for which I wrote the screenplay. My family and friends are happy. And my older publishers, who published an unknown author, are vindicated.

You have described the 1950s and the 1960s as “distinctly discouraging”, a time when making a living as a writer was hopeless business. How are things today, especially for first-time writers?

When I started writing, Indian writers didn’t have any sense of fellowship or community. We were working in complete isolation without outer encouragement or inducement. One had no sense of any readership. In a way it was good as there was no sense of pressure either. Young writers today are under pressure to make a success of their work, whereas, at that time, no one was watching you.

What changed?

In the 1980s, Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children generated tremendous interest in Indian writing. Indian readers felt they were reading an Indian language even though it was English and that it was addressing their interests. It also energised a younger generation of writers. Publishers sat up and started looking out for new talent. Thirty to 40 years ago, it was not possible for writers to make a living out of writing — it was unheard of.

Has quality suffered in the process?

As publishing has achieved this kind of popularity, they can afford to put out all kinds of books for a variety of readers, which almost gives the impression of a glut. For young writers it’s encouraging. Unfortunately, literature has also been invaded by the cult of the celebrity. To my thinking, celebrity has nothing to do at all with the books one writes. But sadly there’s also the pressure to become a celebrity. I know publishers in the UK and US who look for attractive writers rather than the quality of writing. And that’s why they have book festivals now. In a way it is fun because you meet your fellow authors, see books, but it also demands that you perform in a public arena and I feel it has nothing to do with writing.

How have you coped with a three-city tour for a fresh release of your books?

I did nothing of the sort when I was young. It’s a very recent phenomenon. Perhaps that’s why I can look at it with detachment. I am happy to have the books come out with less publicity. But I think it is important for the publisher to present the book to the public. I couldn’t do the kinds of tours younger writers do. It takes too much out of you. I have seen it happen to my daughter Kiran. She has spent the past two years launching her book, The Inheritance of Loss, in different countries. For two years she hasn’t put pen to paper. Now she is waiting to break off and get back to the silent occupation of writing.

Have you enjoyed teaching aspiring writers?

American universities have writing courses that people sign up for to become published writers. But I have never taught at these programmes. I have taught at MIT where students were expecting to be scientists and engineers. They used to come to writing classes to get in touch with themselves and get away from the rigours of science and engineering. So it was really pleasant. These were interesting students because they felt science and engineering weren’t enough; that there was something missing from their lives. And although some were very talented, there was the idea that some would go back to earning a living as scientists. There were students who changed their minds along the way though! I had a law student who was practicing law already; she gave that up and recently brought out a collection of short stories, and is now launching a novel. Part of the reason is that they are following their own inclination. The other part is that they get sponsorships and fellowships along the way and publishers willing to pay advances on books.

You were neighbours with Ruth Prawer Jhabwala and have credited her with keeping up your courage when you felt like a struggling writer….

Ruth lived in my neighbourhood in Old Delhi when I was a child. I used to see her pushing the pram with her babies. I went to her to borrow books. It was wonderful to know that she could live this very domestic life and still be a writer. Although I never showed her my work, it was tremendous encouragement that she was there.

Did you get that support from your family?

Well, they expected me to live a traditional life. They wouldn’t have understood if I had thrown away everything and gone off to write. So I married, had children, brought them up and wrote in spare moments. My family (that I was born to) would see me sitting in a corner, writing away. They thought of me as the writer in the family. After I got married, I lived in a setting that had absolutely no regard for writing. That was hard. Maybe it was part of the reason I left it and went to Cambridge and then the US to teach, where I was among other writers and what I was doing was respected.

Apart from Kiran, were you an inspiration for your other children?

It’s strange how all of them grew up in the same family, had books on the shelves and saw me reading, but they didn’t. My eldest son Rahul lives in Patiala and works for a firm. Three of my children live in the US — my older daughter Tani married an Indian doctor and my younger son Arjun is an architect in Manhattan. Kiran is the youngest and the only other writer in the family. She has inborn talent. But she, like the other three, said she wouldn’t want to be a writer. She said, ‘You live such a boring life.’ She planned to become an environmental scientist at one time but I used to tell her, ‘You write such wonderful letters, why don’t you expand them into something.’ She wasn’t interested. Luckily, there were professors in her arts college who encouraged her to write. She actually attended writing courses in American universities. But she was unhappy; her professors were forcing her to write in a way that didn’t come naturally. She used to take a lot of time off and stay with me and write the way she wanted to.

Your work delves a lot into lifelessness and death. How do you see ageing and death?

I think it’s got something to do with being Indian and growing up living in India — one is always aware of death, the fact that it can take over quite suddenly, and that it’s waiting in the wings. These Indian obsessions find their way into my books too. Personally, I don’t think I would be able to simply celebrate life without being aware of the darker side of the shadows. My whole vision of life may not be tragic but is certainly tragic-comic. One has to include both sides of life to truthfully reflect what one feels or knows.

At the centre of your work are family values and the tussle between heart and mind….

People tend to think of the Indian family as being warm and protective. But anyone who has lived in an Indian family knows that there are just as many difficulties, bitterness, resentment, problems, because you have to adjust to so many people. It is pretence when we say, ‘Oh, it’s all so wonderful.’ If only everyone else could discover family life as we know it. I have known a lot of pain and heartbreak especially on the part of women as well as men.

How important is family to you?

If I hadn’t had family life and relationships with my children, my life would be so diminished. I don’t regret or resent having given up time to their childhood. It was a very happy time for me.

How much of your books is drawn from life?

A lot of my work is based upon memories or witnesses I have heard. At the same time, as a writer there’s a part of yourself that you have to keep separate; a secret you need to protect.

Is there any of your work that you haven’t published because it was too real?

Fasting, Feasting was a book I held back for over 10 years. It was based on people very close to me and I did not want to hurt their feelings. As time went on, some of them passed away and others more or less told me to go ahead. Eventually I published it.

Are you working on a book now?

My last book, The Zigzag Way, is so small that it’s hard to persuade anyone that I spent a long time writing it! I haven’t moved on to another subject. I spend a lot of time doing critical work, writing reviews and introductions to other writers’ works.

The Zigzag Way was about searching for identities. Is coming back to the roots very important?

In that book, some characters are searching for roots; others for new identities, abandoning old identities and creating new antennae in a new place. I used the metaphor of the mind to show how people dig through depth after depth before they arrive at silver. For some it is the past, and for some it is the future and what they made of themselves. Roots go down so deep that you can’t pull them out. You simply transport them wherever you are.

Do you see a change in the Indian middle class, also an important part of your books?

The middle class I was writing about belonged to another world. It was very stable and traditional. At present, though, it is a class in flux, trying hard to become rich. There are two sides to it. One is the ugliness of it, a consumer society that has got crazy with its ability to consume. On the other hand, it has freed a lot of people from tradition. They have made a new life for themselves. In India, no one had the strength in my generation to invent a life. You couldn’t give up what you had been born to or raised for, and go into a completely different sphere. Now people in the middle class feel they can do anything if they work and compete hard.

You tend to lead a fairly solitary life, so much so that you are considered a recluse….

I wouldn’t have said so earlier in my life when I was certainly considered a recluse because I had these habits — I didn’t go out to meet people, I was always at my desk writing. I did enjoy good company; bad company was always upsetting to me. That’s why I got this reputation. Now I can choose who I want to meet and who I don’t.

Do you have other interests?

I think it’s wonderful to be able to do something with your hands. There is nothing physical about writing; it’s a mental exercise. I bought a house five years ago for the first time and I spend a lot of time in the garden. I sometimes leave my desk to work in it. In certain seasons when a lot of work is required, it does draw me away from writing. Otherwise, I always enjoy going for walks.

Is it a writer’s responsibility to be a social activist?

There are things I feel passionate about. In my case, the channel for that is writing. But I don’t want to use the words ‘can’ or ‘should’ for activism because there are some writers who are able to voice their feelings and join a team and work actively towards solutions. It’s in your nature whether you are driven to activism or driven to reflection. I indulge in reflection with my writing.

Are there social and political issues today that bother you?

There are always such issues. When I am in America, I am in a constant state of outrage at the government and what has been done to countries like Iraq. I do speak out against it when I have the chance. As I have spent so much time away from India, I am more reluctant to do that because I feel that if you are not a participant in what is happening at present, in a way you have lost the right to speak on it. But there are certainly a lot of issues in India that are outrageous. We are not looking after all our people. For every glittering urban sector, there are acres of garbage that people are living on. And we haven’t really achieved social justice. You are sitting in a car and barefoot children in rags come up to you at traffic lights holding up glossy copies of Vogue and Time Out. What connection do these magazines have with these little children and their lives? It’s shocking.

How do you feel about awards?

(Laughing) A lot of people have asked me, ‘You lost the Booker Prize; how do you feel when your daughter won it?’ They actually say it like that! And I say that because I lost it I am so happy that she won. I think her book was so marvellous that if she hadn’t won it, it would have been so wrong. It was a triumphant moment. She was overgenerous and acknowledged support from me. What do I think about prizes? Well, one can say they don’t matter but that’s not truthful. They not only make a difference to the book, but also to one’s life. They give you support and encouragement and pay you to live the next few years while you are writing your next book. What I think is very difficult is that each prize chooses one book out of hundreds. Who is to say that this is the best book, like the Nobel Prize? How do you pick out the one book published in the whole wide world in all its languages and say this is the best? That’s an absurdity.

Life, Longing and Literature

 
Cry, The Peacock (1963)
As much an intense psychological exploration into the darker recesses of a woman’s mind as a novel of unfulfilled love and desire.

Voices in the City (1965)
Set in the 1960s, this novel is a depiction of how our identity can never break free from the clutches of our social class.

Bye Bye Blackbird (1968)
Xenophobia forms the core of a plot that revolves around the backlash against migrants in London in the 1950s.

Fire on the Mountain (1976)
Winner of the Sahitya Akademi Award, this story of three generation of women who discover contentment in isolation was acclaimed for its rebellious posture.

Clear Light of Day (1980)
Short-listed for the Booker Prize, this domestic drama uncovers the myriad scars and smiles of familial relationships.

In Custody (1984)
A small-town lecturer meets his hero, an Urdu poet, and ends up trading awe for disillusionment. A pungent commentary on the duel between worldly desires and spiritual concerns.

Baumgartner’s Bombay (1988)
Set in the time of the Holocaust, the novel traces the journey of a Jewish man, Hugo Baumgartner, who flees Nazi Germany to escape persecution and settles in India only to meet with a tragic end.

Diamond Dust and Other Stories (2000)
A diverse collection of short stories steeped in the angst and aspirations of people living in three continents.

The Zigzag Way (2004)
A young Harvard student’s excursion to Mexico spirals into a journey through the complex history and secrets of his genealogy.

Featured in Harmony – Celebrate Age Magazine
March 2008