Philip Roth and the Novel today

Philip Roth's imminent retirement has thrown up a lot of questions. He says he has dedicated his life to the novel, taught it in classrooms, created it in a lonely room with no company but a clacking typewriter, spoken about it in conference halls and literary events, consecrated many relationships at its altar. The novel has been, for him, a life. The covers of his books encase not just his words, but his very life. But look at the publishing industry today. Does it really have room for a man who puts his life into his books? Writing a novel has become an acceptable hobby- as acceptable, say, as golf or dance classes or interior design. The mystique of the writer exists, just barely, but how many of them are willing to shut themselves away from the world and into the pages of a paperback? The thing is, you don't need to do that anymore to be published. You don't need to sacrifice your investment banker career, your weekly kitty parties, your pseudo intellectual involvement with the neighbourhood library camp. You don't have to let your hair grow out and your nails get dirty while you scribble furiously at a burning manuscript. You don't have to subsist on a diet of coffee and cigarettes, and the writers who claim they do are usually just hamming a role they've chalked out in their heads. You don't have to lose relationships, shut yourself off from the world- in fact, one would argue that your very success- material, that is- as a writer depends on how well you keep up those connections. Working in the publishing industry (never mind that my experience has been limited to five months, or four and a half if you want to get picky), I get a ringside view of the commercialization of the writer figure. These people, many of them, are clients, like anyone else. They have a product, and they want to sell it. Each publishing house attempts to outbid or outwoo the other, hoping that the client will sign them on for the marketing of the product. One eventually succeeds, and then its all hands on deck to churn it out in a form that will please the maximum number of buyers. A writer is a person, just like anyone else. Up until even three years ago, I was in awe of almost every person who had ever written a book. I would gaze at them adoringly from across a lawn, trembling and giggly when it came time to ask for an autograph or just walk by their hastily bagged chair. The autographs I wrested were pasted carefully in a copy of one of their books, and sighed over for months to come. These people were WRITERS, you know, people I had read and worshipped and ached to BE. Seeing them was a surreal experience, talking to them even more so. Now, well, I'm not saying that all of them have lost their mystique, but maybe the act itself is no longer as mysterious and powerful seeming as it once was. The woman beside me on the Metro might just be composing her next plot as she types furiously on her mobile phone; the professor I just asked for a recommendation is probably knee deep in his latest character composition; the friend I met for coffee this morning is probably shopping around for her next publishing contract. It's everyman's game, the novel. Maybe it always was, and we're only just seeing it.

The James Potter Complex

A post in which I attempt to flex my literary muscles after what seems forever. Let’s face it. We all want to be fictional characters at some point in our lives (those of us who are not Arjo at least) and the more literary (or neurotic) among us strive to emulate, sometimes unconsciously, our favourites. Fictional people are so, well, organized. They have their lives mapped out for them by someone else, they sometimes look like they got their perfection/beauty/intelligence/Achiever Status without really working for it and, best of all, even the dullest, the stupidest, the most horrifyingly banal of them can boast of having people interested in his thoughts. I know many people, me included, would love to have that particular honour. Since we cannot actually be them (or maybe we all are, really, and the Universe is one big novel-setting and history a novel in which case everything I’m writing becomes metafictional and therefore profound and too deep to be taken seriously) we strive to live like them. If I’m as cursed and earnest as Harry Potter, surely people will give a damn about what I’m up to? If I’m as flitty-flighty as Holly Golightly, surely I’ll leave a string of yearning men behind me? And if I’m as steadfast and innocent as Anastasia Steele, I’ll definitely win the heart of a man as broken, handsome and rich as Christian Gray. Yes, I went there and made the reference. Of course, there are characters none of us want to be: Josef K, Julien Sorel, Kurtz- but that’s a concern for another day. ( It is strange that most of the characters that spring to mind as undesirable Objects of Emulation are found within the covers of D.U. prescribed books.) Who we want to be also changes with time, of course, and not just because of the changing nature of the books we read. For instance, nine years ago I wanted to be Lanfear from the Wheel of Time books. I wanted to be beautiful and powerful and I was a budding megalomaniac. Now I want to be Egwene from the same universe- beautiful and powerful and at the top of my professional ladder at the tender age of 20. Unfortunately, there doesn’t seem much chance of that happening. The people around me have ‘literarily’ grown up as well. The girls aren’t queuing up to be Belle from Disney’s ‘Beauty and the Beast’ or Ariel from ‘The Little Mermaid’. No, now we all, boys and girls alike, want to be one particular character, and we want to be him with a psychotic intensity that is profoundly disturbing. We all want to be James Potter. What’s that, you say? James Potter? Harry Potter’s DAD? Oh please, surely there are more popular choices in the series. Look at Hermione, Ron, Harry- even someone as random as Bill Weasley gets more screen time than James Potter. But I doubt anyone has had the effect that James has had on my budding psychoanalytical skills. Together, me and a friend diagnosed what we call the James Potter Complex, a serious condition that affects one out of every five Arts students in their postgrad. What are the characteristics of the James Potter Complex? Just think of James in his Hogwarts years, and you’ll start to get an idea of what I’m going to talk about. In case you are not familiar with the Potterverse, I will elaborate for you. James Potter is, to put it succinctly, bloody brilliant. He is top of his class, he is an ace Quidditch player, he has a band of loyal friends and an equally fabulous best friend , he is popular and, of course, he wins in the romance department as well. There is no category in which he loses out, unless you count his messy hair and nearsightedness, which I don’t. The best thing about him is his all-rounder status. He appears to be socially celebrated as well as academically brilliant- and he puts no apparent effort into the attainment of either status. When Sirius says he will be ‘surprised’ if he doesn’t get ‘an Outstanding at least’ in his DADA OWL exam, James drawls ‘me too’. Coming from him, we can believe it. He starts playing with a Snitch and bullying Snape right after the paper, while Remus tries to study for (what is presumably) an upcoming Transfiguration exam. James clearly has better things to do than cram for his board exams, but he will still do better than Remus probably ever will. The problem is, not everyone can be James Potter. Most of us know this, and are not ashamed to admit to Lupinesque hard work. And why should we be ashamed, anyway? There’s nothing wrong with being a geek, as Hermione has so admirably demonstrated. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with reading your books ahead of schedule, with staying up late nights to get that cramming done, to working yourself crazy in order to keep up with multiple classes. But it’s just not cool. Not in an age where Facebook rules our lives. We’re on display all the time, we’re finally starring in our own movies (complete with soundtracks in the form of status messages), we are fictional characters who check in and take pictures and like things. We can be as perfect and amazing and enviable as we want. We can be James Potter. And so begins the ‘I-don’t –study-see-I-just-went-for-a-movie’ or the ‘I-was-too-busy-making-out-with-my-new-partner-to-do-that-reading’ or ‘I-am-like-so-brilliant-I-scored-amazingly-in-my-exam-even-though-I-am-too-busy-snorkeling-in-Malaysia-to-read-my-course-books’. It’s absolute anathema to those in the grip of the JPC to be seen opening a book that is not far, far from the concerns of the academic moment. It is unthinkable that they admit to having read the assigned material the night before the tutorial- no, it must be read only half an hour before the scheduled meeting time, because otherwise, people would think they actually studied. Gasp. That is not to be borne. How would they continue to look cool? Where would the Jamesian spirit be in that? I could go into a long spiel about the decreasing value of hard work in a society that privileges snapshot success and quick thinking go-getters. I could spend a page boring you with faux sociological theses on the decline of Hufflepuffian ethics and the coolification of Gryffindor daring and Slytherin slickness. These things do tie into the proliferation of the JPC, but a thorough dissection will require a pseudo thesis , not something I think anyone wants to read on a social networking site. I don’t intend to condemn those who suffer the JPC, since I can sympathize with them. To be like James is to have it all, without trying very hard. For a long time, fantasy was held to be the domain of lonely little nerds, who needed tales of underdogs and unlikely foundlings becoming leaders of their people and succeeding where no one else had succeeded before. While the perception of the demographic has changed considerably, we’re still looking for the same things. We want someone who will convince us that no matter how small we are, how lost and confused, we can make a difference. So while we want to be James Potter, brilliant and popular, we will never admire him the way we admire Harry. For all my self proclaimed brilliance, I can never be James Potter. I’m just not good enough. But somewhere deep down is the hope that maybe, just maybe, I can be his much less impressive, but so much more heroic son.

Bring up the Bodies by Hilary Mantel

Two months ago, I finished a much delayed reading of Hilary Mantel’s Booker Prize Winner, ‘Wolf Hall’. Two hours ago, I closed the covers of its celebrated and much anticipated sequel, ‘Bring up the Bodies’. I can honestly say that my reaction to both was the same: why do some books have to end? In ‘Wolf Hall’, Mantel began a project she claims to have conceived nearly forty years ago: to chronicle the life and times of one of England’s most famously reviled figures, Thomas Cromwell. The first book ends with Anne Boleyn crowned Queen, and Cromwell basking in what seems to be reflected glory. The second book begins with quite the opposite: Anne’s star is falling, but it is clear that Cromwell in no manner intends to be tarnished by this. His own position in court and at the king’s side only gets more strongly cemented while the Queen and her cronies (incidentally the same men who had insulted the memory of Cromwell’s former employer, Cardinal Wolsey) bleed their ‘flat little presence(s)’ out upon freshly erected scaffolds. ‘Bring up the Bodies’ charts what an enthusiastic blurb writer has called ‘the bloody theatre of Anne’s final days’, drawing in its full complexity the role assumed by Cromwell in the execution and disposal of the king’s one time sweetheart. Mantel’s greatest achievement is the humanization of this political genius, a figure who has all too often been viewed as nothing more (and nothing less) than the epitome of the Renaissance Machiavel. Cromwell, in Mantel’s hands, loves and incites love; loses and grieves for those lost; feels anger, betrayal, fear, but also pride, loyalty, pity. With a sure, delicate hand, Mantel weaves the portrait of a man who fashioned his daughter a pair of peacock feather wings, but never ceases to remind us that it is the same man who witnessed, indeed, orchestrated, the perhaps undeserved and innocent death of a Queen of England. Though she is the pivotal point about which events in the book turn, Anne Boleyn herself has very little screen time. She is reported on, spied on, eavesdropped upon and repeated in third person, her words filtered through a number of (not entirely impartial) speakers before they are fed into Cromwell’s and the readers’ ears. In contrast to this stands Jane Seymour, who speaks considerably more, but is spoken of less. Jane, for all her quiet sharpness, remains an enigma, as mysterious and difficult to pin down as her unfortunate predecessor. Does she play a willing game with Henry, or is she a mere pawn in a political ploy much larger than herself? Much like the truth of Anne Boleyn’s crimes, the answer is what the reader chooses to make of it. It’s not every day that a writer can take an event that is so celebrated and investigated and hold it up to flash an entirely new light. Mantel takes over the history, takes over the once-living characters and gives them a verve and vitality that is all her own. It takes magic to make a reader sit on the edge of their seat in suspense when he or she knows (or is a mere Wikipedia page away from knowing) how the ‘story’ will end. For all the background reading I had done, all the pages of Anne Boleyn related text I had read, I was still waiting, breathless, for the sword to swing, hoping against hope, like Anne herself, that I would be mistaken: that history would rewrite itself in Mantel’s flowing language and that she would be saved. Alas, that did not happen. But it is a mark of Mantel’s genius that for a few moments, I forgot the bloody tracks of history. ‘Bring up the Bodies’ resounds with creative energy, its language compressing deeper allusions and metaphors that spangle out of the readers’ grasp just when focus is brought to bear upon them. The best way, I believe, to describe Mantel’s style is to quote Mantel herself. Here, Cromwell reflects on the work of Thomas Wyatt: When Wyatt writes, his lines fledge feathers, and unfolding this plumage they dive below their meaning and skim above it. They tell us that the rules of power and the rules of war are the same, the art is to deceive; and you will deceive, and be deceived in your turn, whether you are an ambassador or a suitor. Now, if a man’s subject is deception, you are deceived if you think you grasp his meaning. You close your hand as it flies away. A statute it written to entrap meaning, a poem to escape it. A quill, sharpened, can stir and rustle like the pinions of angels. Angels are messengers. They are creatures with a mind and a will. The inability to grasp and pin down meaning is exactly what the reader encounters in Mantel’s language. The narrative seems to skim the surface of a wealth of emotion and intrigue, dipping daintily into this swelter in order to paint a quaint picture of a bygone time. Beneath the words and the half-glimpsed gestures lies the morass of desire and danger that laces this court, a morass that Cromwell, like his creator, negotiates with grace and ease, giving hardly a hint of the scum his finely tailored robes have brushed through. Mantel seems to strive to be impartial, privileging neither Jane Seymour nor Anne in her novel, not making it clear whether she herself believes Anne to be guilty as fearfully charged. This is no easy feat- scores of novels and films have been built around this fantastic episode, each weighted either with blind admiration or withering disgust for the executed queen. Anne is passionate, but given to childish outbursts, admirably courageous but stupid and (at the close) self defeating. Jane is plain, quiet, but strangely acerbic. Her intelligence, cloaked for the most part behind placid boredom, is revealed in razor sharp repartee with Cromwell and her brothers. Witness this exchange: ‘My belief is,’ Edward says, ‘this modesty could pall. Look up at me, Jane. I want to see your expression.’ ‘But what makes you think,’ Jane murmurs, ‘that I want to see yours?’ I am a woman who wholeheartedly loves reading about and celebrating Anne Boleyn, and would throw my support behind the contemporary move to absolve her of all allegations (for more details, read Alison Weir’s excellent chronicle of Anne’s final days, ‘The Lady in the Tower’). And yet, even I could not hate Jane in this novel. I found myself admiring her, rather grudgingly, true, but admiring her nonetheless. One closes ‘Bring up the Bodies’ with a sense of having run a lengthy, tiring race. Your brain has been spinning alongside Cromwell’s for four hundred pages, watching its ceaseless convolutions as it churns out a plan to depose one queen and raise another. Your emotions have ravelled and unravelled through complicated skeins as you watch Henry and Anne pull together and then pull away from each other, a six year long courtship soured in what seems an instant of marriage. It is an exercise well worth undertaking, and one that I cannot wait to repeat when the third and (alas) final instalment of the Cromwell trilogy arrives. Until then, it’s back to the History books for me.

A Michikookan Adventure

JAUNA’S BIRTHDAY: A MICHIKOOKAN ADVENTURE

When she turned six months old, Jauna was about as big as a snail shell.
Her mother gifted her a sling bag, and she carried it with her to the school where she, and all the other Michikookans learned Spelling, Grammar and the rudiments of Arithmetic. The teacher, an old Snorkalump, was frequently absent, accompanying his wife on her regular trips to the Himalfan range to photograph destringas. As a result, the little Michikookans spent more time playing tag and snowfield angel than actually studying, a practice they had no problem with at all.
It was on her six month birthday that something astonishing happened to Jauna. For one thing, the Snorkalump teacher actually turned up, and insisted on taking classes that day. The Michikookans were none too happy, especially Jauna. She’d planned what she insisted was an ‘amazingly dorypajglain’ trip across the theysofna plains to the city of rawassati, where they would dine on breads and cheeses and lirgac sauces. After this scrumptious meal, they were to play radeshac, her favourite game. And now it was all ruined because of that stupid Snorkalump.
Jauna was so angry that she decided to do something utterly uncharacteristic. The class was seated, pert and tidy at their desks, waiting for the Snorkalump to come back from a roghting break (a peculiar ritual that only Snorkalumps indulged in, involving trouser legs and trunk caressing). Jauna seized the moment to put her plan into action, and mounted, with some difficulty, her desk.
All the Michikookans turned around in surprise, and excitement. Something was happening!
‘Fellow Michikookans!’ Jauna squeaked, her hands cupped around her mouth. ‘Let’s revolt!’
It was a new word they’d learnt the last time they had had school.
‘But why?’ The question was asked by Yeshar, a Michikookan girl who was rather slow on the uptake.
‘Because we can.’ This was from Pijarata , who usually took pride in informing others of the latest developments in the Michikookan social scene. ‘Why not?’
‘That’s like the Lediawn principle!’ Another little Michikookan girl trilled. ‘Like Rats for Rats sake. Revolt for Revolts’ sake!’
Jauna rapped the desk with her foot before the conversation could glide on to irrelevant topics. ‘The reason we should revolt is...’ here she paused dramatically, and looked around, eyes twinkling. ‘Because it’s my birthday!’ she finished.
‘Oh! Happy Birthday!’ the Michikookan class chorused and smiled and clapped. A few started singing the traditional Michikookan birthday anthem, which went something like this:
It’s a happy dappy cappy day!
It’s your semi-annual birthday!
Six months are past since the last
And now you’re older!

The days went fast, the weeks just flashed
Are your bones colder?
It’s a happy dappy cappy day!
It’s your semi annual birthday!

‘Thank you, thank you!’ Jauna smiled painfully, but looked worriedly at the door. ‘But we can’t make a noise, otherwise Snorkalump will be back!’
The Michikookans’ faces took on looks of anxiety at the mention of that name. One of them even went so far as to gulp nervously.
Jauna was amazed at the immediate effect her words produced, and was not a little proud because of it. She waved her hands magisterially and continued, ‘So we are going?’
‘We are revolting!’ the Michikookans were shouting and jumping about again. It was enough to bring the besastos roof down over their little heads, but luckily, the foundations were strong enough to take it. Also, the Snorkalump was too involved in his rituals to pay attention to a number of piping little voices screaming in joy, so all was well.
‘We are revolting, in every way.’ Jauna grinned at her own cleverness. She knew such big words! Her mother would be proud. The sling bag was certainly well merited. ‘Follow me! I know the way to Rawassati.’
The Michikookans formed a tight little line and marched after their leader. By the time the Snorkalump came back to the classroom, they were long gone.
‘Oh botheration.’ The Snorkalump fumed a bit, but then recollected that this left him more time to himself. Perhaps he would go rouse Mrs. Snorkalump and head off on another photographic adventure. The thought brought a grin to his usually immobile face and he left the classroom, flappers rubbing gleefully at the prospect of another ill deserved holiday.
Meanwhile, the Michikookans were trekking across the Theysofian plains to the city of Rawassati. More than one of them had already expressed tiredness and complained of aching pedals. Jauna didn’t let that disconcert her, or the group at large. ‘We’ll have fun when we get there, you’ll see!’ she insisted in her piping little voice. ‘I promise!’
‘But I’m so tired and bored!’ Rihac, one of her closest friends, whined. ‘Must we go all the way to Rawassati?’
‘My parents will be angry.’ Pijarata squeaked. ‘I’m not allowed to cross the plain on my own.’
‘But you’re not on your own.’ Jauna pointed out (quite logically, too). ‘We’re all with you.’
‘Hm.’ Pijarata pondered this for a bit before brightening up. ‘That’s true.’
‘Are we there yet?’ the chorus was getting more frequent with every step. ‘Are we there yet? How far is it? What’s so great about this place? I want to go home!’ Jauna rounded on her class, her fists on her hips.
‘Whoever wants to go home, go home!’ dead silence greeted her words. They were unused to seeing this little bundle of sunshine erupt in anger. ‘I want to go to Rawassati, and it’s MY birthday, so you follow me!’
The Michikookans looked at her for a while, their big eyes expressing the contriteness and shame that they felt for crossing her wishes. Then Nana finally spoke. ‘We’re sorry Jauna. We’re being petty, i.e., small.’
The Michikookans were intensely proud of the fact that they’d all just learned and understood what those mysterious, punctuated letters stood for and hence lost no opportunity to use it.
‘You ARE.’ Jauna pouted. But then she brightened immediately. ‘But it’s okay! Let’s go!’
With ‘Yayees’ the Michikookan band started off again, stirring up the sand of the Plain in their pursuit of a dorypajglain time. Unfortunately, they were stopped once again, but this time it was by external forces.
‘Hello there Michikookans.’
It was the Gahgnatan Hinderbinde, the relic of the Morancitian Empire! Jauna and her friends were brought up short, and stared, wide eyed at the heaving morass of slime and bad poetry. ‘Oh no.’ One of them whispered, but Jauna could not tell who.
‘I was looking for an audience.’ The Hinderbinde grinned, revealing its pearly white teeth. ‘You came right on cue.’
The Michikookans drew close together in one body and shivered. ‘What do we do?’ Rihac quavered. ‘He’s going to read to us!’
The Hinderbinde’s grin just widened, and it pulled a thick sheaf of paper from one of its scaly pockets. ‘Prepare to be amazed!’ it croaked, and the torture began:
Dropping pills
I wandered, lonely and so loud
Screaming across vales and hills
When all at once, there was a cloud
Above my head, dropping pills!
My mouth agape, I stared amazed
Nor moved myself from that there spot
Planted thither, I gazed and gazed
Until an aspirin fell- aha! And was caught!
I searched for water, to drink it down
Twas nowhere to be found
This lack brought on a terrible frown
I dashed the pill to the ground!
Alas, alack what could I do?
There was no quick fix for me
So I sat and cried boo-hoo, boo-hoo
And that’s my tragedy.
For a moment after it finished, no one spoke. The Michikookans were reeling from the impact of the terrible rhyme scheme and the obvious lack of ‘purpose’ behind the Hinderbinde’s poetic venture. Noting their silence, the monster grew angry.
‘You did not like it?’
Jauna looked around at her companions, desperately and silently beseeching one of them, any one of them, to reply. When no one opened their mouths, she decided to take matters into her own hands.
‘Of course we did, sir. It really was wonderful of you to share that piece with us. Did you write it yourself?’
The Hinderbinde looked slightly mollified and puffed its scaly chest out in pride. ‘You children think I’m awfully clever, don’t you?’ it chuckled in a rather avuncular fashion. ‘Terribly sorry to disappoint you, but that piece was by a very famous poet- Mr Lilimaw Droswroth. He is my favourite artiste. Once grand Prince of the Morantic empire.’ A tear trembled at the edge of his eye, and it wiped at it delicately with a claw. ‘Alas, those days of glory are past, and now I am the only one who pays any heed to those great masters.’
‘Sir, you are truly selfless to spend your days honouring the dead.’ Nana said. Jauna threw her a look of thanks. ‘Perhaps you would favour us with one other piece?’ Jauna’s look quickly changed into one of fury, but before she could throw in insinuations about the lateness of the hour and the far trek they had ahead of them, the Hinderbinde was beginning once again:
Ode on the Birthday of a Favourite Bat
Oh little bat flying fine and free
You know not you belong to me
And are my ickle pet
Today’s the day you were born so wee
And your mother went away you see
While you were still small and wet

The jackals were gathering around
And staring at you from the ground
Their teeth were very sharp
Luckily I’d heard the sound
Of those ugly snivelling hounds
And you didn’t have long to carp!

‘Um, sir, what does that word mean?’
The Hinderbinde looked up from its paper, amazed at the presumption of the Michikookan who’d dared to interrupt. ‘Which word?’
‘Carp.’ Yeshar blinked at him, oblivious to the storm she was unleashing within that slimily green exterior. ‘As far as I know, it means a kind of fish.’
‘It means two things, a fish and an action.’ The Hinderbinde barely squeaked the words out, its eyes large and ferocious on the Michikookan. ‘Moving on...’
I dispatched them with a steely glare
I cried out to them ‘Beware, beware!’
In my loudest, most dangerous voice
They slunk away, to their hideout repaired

‘That’s not a perfect rhyme.’ Yeshar pointed out.
This time, the Hinderbinde didn’t even pretend to be fine with the interruption.
‘YOU UNGRATEFUL IMBECILES!’ it screamed, drawing himself up to his full and rather terrifying height. ‘You do not appreciate good Morantic poetry! O for a dose of tinvage!’ Sobbing, he ran away, his tail flying after.
‘Thank you, Yeshar!’ The little Michikookans crowed. ‘You did it!’
Yeshar blinked at them. ‘Oh. I did.’
They continued on their journey, revitalized after the defeat of their first dangerous monster. Luckily for them, he didn’t have any siblings or angry parents to take up the cause for him, and they were unmolested by any of Hinderbindean kind for the rest of their journey.
(Now here, the Storyteller would like to remind her listeners that she is removing monsters of the Hinderbindean kind. She said nothing of any others.)
‘Hup two three four, hup two three four...’
Marching for long minutes made the Michikookans burst into songs from various Yisned films that were screened in their free hours (which were many) at the Snorkalump’s school. Jauna was thrilled at the way the Michikookans harmonized among themselves- the boy’s taking the low pitch while the girls screeched gaily in the higher. If the Snorkalump had heard them, he would have been proud.
(As a matter of fact, the Snorkalump could hear them, having ears that were finely tuned to catch sustained Michikookan misbehaviour. Luckily for them, however, he was too busy packing his jungle kit to worry about disciplining them.)
‘Are we there yet?’
One of the Michikookans broke the beautiful harmony that had built itself up with that annoying question. Jauna turned around and faced the Michikookan (a boy, this time- Ilen) down. ‘No!’
‘When are we going to be there?’
‘When we get there!’
‘Which is when?’
Ilen was a persistent little one.
‘Do you realise we’re slowing down each time someone asks that question?’ Jauna was furious.
‘Oh.’ Ilen’s face turned pink and fell. ‘I didn’t.’
‘Now you know.’ Jauna turned back around and kept marching, sure that the others would follow. She was their leader for the day after all. True to her belief, they did, Ilen meekly bringing up the rear.
After a good five minutes of marching, they came to the Drura Bridge. It was the farthest the little Michikookans had been.
‘Oooooh.’ They chorused. Some pulled out tiny catchem-contraptions and aimed them at the sight, intending to capture the moment for all eternity. On the pressing of buttons, little birds darted out and squalled, the sounds reverberating against the Canyon walls. The echoes bounced right back into the respective maker’s open beak. Cry collected, they flew back into the catchems.
(Do not ask the Storyteller how this works. She hasn’t figured it out yet.)
‘Cross the Bridge! Cross the Bridge!’ The little Michikookans began to yell to no one in particular, themselves perhaps. Runja, a rather daring Michikookan, stepped out of the mass and moved towards the Drura. ‘I’ll do it!’ he said, loudly and firmly.
‘Yay for Runja!’ The Michikookans called. Smiling, the boy stepped ahead, onto the rickety bridge, and vanished.
‘Where’s Runja?’ There was panic, the Michikookans screaming and crying fit to wake the catchem birds in their nest contraptions. ‘Where’s Runja gone? I don’t want to cross if I’m going to vanish! Where’s Runja?’
Jauna didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t tell where Runja had gone either. ‘Keep calm people,’ she said, ‘He’ll turn up.’
And sure enough, as soon as the words were out of her mouth, someone yelled- ‘There he is!’
She looked up to see Runja, all two inches of him, waving from the other side of the Canyon.
‘The Bridge makes you disappear and then takes you where you want to go!’ Nana was elated. ‘That’s totally dorypajglain!’
‘I know, right?’ Jauna grinned and stepped onto the wooden planks. ‘Follow me-‘ and whoosh! Before she knew it, she was on the other side.
‘Quite the experience, isn’t it?’ Runja smiled at her. ‘It was positively enervating.’
Runja was the only Michikookan who periodically used big words and understood what they meant.
‘Hey you guys, step on to the bridge!’ Jauna called out to her fellows. One by one, the Michikookans stepped onto the planks and appeared magically on her side.
Once they were all gathered, they took their catchem contraptions out again and collected echoes of the view from the other side.
And then they moved on.
‘Wow, the suns really have moved!’ Pijarata said, her eyes on the sky. ‘How far is Rawassati?’
‘I have to be back by dark!’ Rihac looked terrified. ‘Will we make it?’
‘I need to work out.’ Yeshar blinked. ‘Can I find the time for that?’
‘I have an appointment.’ Ilen looked mysterious. ‘I can’t do this.’
‘There’s a conference I have to attend.’ Runja postulated. None of the others knew what that word meant, but it sounded like something awfully important and unavoidable.
One by one, each of the Michikookans put forward a different excuse for needing to be home- one even went so far as to say that the Snorkalump was a frequent visitor and would penalize her if she were not in bed when he went to have his habitual snafflegurmp glass with her parents.
‘STOP IT!’ Jauna yelled. ‘STOP IT, all of you! If you have problems, just head back home! Go, do it! But then, you have braved the sun, the Hinderbinde and now the Drura Bridge for nothing!’
The Michikookans stared at her. And then, one of them asked,
‘What’s that behind you?’
Jauna’s brows contracted in confusion, but then she spun around, to see-
THE END

















A Note from the Author

Dear Reader,

I know, you want to kill me right? I left you dangling on the edge, uncertain of whether the Michikookans are about to be swallowed by the revenge of the aggrieved Hinderbinde, whether the Snorkalump has caught them after all, or if indeed they face more challenges- but finally win through to their bread and cheese and lirgac sauce. My point is though, that we writers make it too easy for you. Use your imagination- how would you like the story of Jauna’s birthday trek to end? The power, for once, is with you, reader.

I call it the creation of a new school of writing- that of the open-enders. We will be big someday, trust me. Critics will have a field day with us, for they have not only the author’s text to analyse, but the infinite number of endings that various readers will put forward, that they themselves will offer as superb closures to the book. Can’t you see the psychoanalytical reading already: ‘Upendran’s text is swallowed by the unutterable fears of the unconscious. Closure, finality, Death- these are not notions that an Ego avidly contemplates. By denying her work that artistic ‘little death’, she not only keeps readers hovering forever on the verge of orgasm, but ensures that the textual and tropological aspects of the novella are anchored firmly in the realms of the Eros.’ Whatever you say Mr. Freud.

So it is NOT laziness or lack of imagination, rather, it is an excess of the latter and the inability to curtail readers’ mindscapes that leads me to leave the novella open. Jauna and her friends have been a fine bunch to work with, providing me many a minute of hilarity while pursuing less delectable tasks. I hope to return to Michikookan lands someday. I look forward however, to seeing many of my readers there before me.

To keeping your imaginations alive,

Achala Upendran.

The 11th hour

Every day, I feel like I've taken the wrong route.

From the smallest of choices (a piece of Nutella toast- to eat or not to eat?), to ones that really weren't under my control (ought we to have moved back the US at all?)- every day I catch myself wondering if, unlike Frost, I'd made all the difference with the road I've taken, but not in the very positive manner his choice appeared to affect him. Doubts, confusions, and a nagging sense of 'this is wrong, this isn't what I want'- all this comes with the terrible, terrible memory of a choice.

The biggest one is probably the same that assails most people- what do I really want to do? What to do I really care about? One month ago, I was sure English Literature was the course I was cut out for, the path I wanted my life to follow. I'm not so sure anymore.

I've always prided myself on love for the 'environment', always spoken (more than a little boastful of my own perceived sensitivity) of the torments the human race inflicts on Gaia, and other poetic lines that conveyed the urgency and the supreme catastrophe the Earth seems to be heading towards. It's only when I watch documentaries, or read articles or books that really deal with the crises (various as they are) that threatens our globe that that seriousness of my own boasts hits me. And that's what I'm worried about now. What do I want to do?

I want to help. Not necessarily help people (I'm not a community person), but perhaps, indirectly. I want to be a part of the band that wants to make a difference to what's happening to the Earth, I want to help heal her, or get her on the road to recovery. Of course, I'm not impertinent enough to assume that Gaia can't take care of herself, but it's what I want to do: at least help her, in any way I can.

Marx once said that a problem only arises when the materials necessary for its solution already exist/are in the making. I never really enjoyed what I read of the man, but this is one reassuring thought that's stuck with me. Perhaps we can make a difference, all of us. Perhaps we can hope to make amends for what we've done, are still doing, to this planet.

I've rambled from where I began, something about choices. Well, as I see it, we're all suffering that indecision now. It's time to put regrets behind and pitch ourselves into the present. Carpe diem, as one of my teachers shouted exuberantly, often enough.

There's no reason I can't enjoy Milton and help stop deforestation at the same time. In fact, I think the two go hand in hand. Save the best of the past, but also, invest in the best of the future.

I sincerely hope Marx was right. But hey, so many people seem to think he was absolutly dead on in other things, mayhaps he's not so far off the mark here.

That, as Gandalf once said, is an encouraging thought.

My Last Duchess

My Last Duchess
(Ferrara)

Robert Browning
That's my last duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now; Fra Pandolf's hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will't please you sit and look at her? I said
"Fra Pandolf" by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
That depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain drawn for you, but I) [10]
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 't was not
Her husband's presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps
Fra Pandolf chanced to say "Her mantle laps
Over my lady's wrist too much" or "Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat:" such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough [20]
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart - how shall I say? - too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed: she liked whate'er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, 't was all one! My favour at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace -all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech, [30]
Or blush,at least. She thanked men - good! but thanked
Somehow - I know not how - as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech - (which I have not) - to make your will
Quite clear to such a one, and say, "Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss
Or there exceed the mark"- and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set [40]
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse
- E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will 't please you rise? We'll meet
The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your master's known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretence [50]
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed
At starting is my object. Nay, we'll go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

There was no use. She had made up her mind to die.

Alfonso drew his silk-lined rabbit skin gloves over his hands, his eyes fixed on the lurid glow of the sunset above him. The clouds were still being scattered across the firmament, tugged around by the depleted remainders of the storm that had hit the land last night. The same winds played among the branches of the newly fuzzed pear and cherry trees, their sighing strangely soft and almost wistful compared to the gusto with which they had raged.

He paid hardly any attention to the beauty of his surroundings, though. Wrapped in his dark daydreams, they skirted the edges of his mind, unable to break through the bleak wall of resentment, rage and revenge that he had built up there. The faint cooing of the tame doves, the clip-clop of the white pony’s hooves on the paved paths below, the tinkling of the fountain as the water cascaded around the battling god and into its sculpted basin- none of these held any joy for him.

She occupied his thoughts completely.

‘My Lord?’

Alfonso turned his head at the voice. Imperious eyes lighting on the entrant, he frowned.

‘Yes, Giotto?’

The lad looked nervous, as well he might, coming into the presence of the Duke of Ferrara unannounced. ‘My Lord, Fra Pandolf sent me. He, he said to tell you that the portrait is complete.’

‘Is it now?’ Alfonso turned away, his eyes rising once more to the painted sky. ‘Very well, tell him I will meet him in the Blue Room.’

‘Yes my lord.’ The boy bowed to his back, and prepared to leave. When he was halfway to the balcony door, Alfonso stretched back an elegant hand. ‘A moment, Giotto.’

He could hear the stilling of footsteps. An expectant hush filled the air.
‘What did you think of the portrait?’

Giotto hesitated for a moment. Then, he responded. ‘It is a fine likeness, my lord.’

‘Indeed? How fine?’

The boy seemed to be struggling for an answer; Alfonso could tell without even turning around. Growing up in the court of Ferrara had taught him that much could be read of a person’s thoughts and feelings by paying close attention to their breathing. It was that knowledge that he called upon now, though the learning was so ingrained in him that it came almost by second nature.

‘How fine, boy?’

The note of harshness that he allowed to creep into his voice provided just the right prod for the dunce. ‘Very, very fine my Lord. In the portrait, she stands as if, as if she were alive.’

‘Is that so?’ Alfonso allowed a small smile to tug at the corners of his mouth. ‘You think Fra Pandolf has merited such commendations?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘I wonder why.’ The smile changed into a diabolic sneer. ‘I greatly wonder why.’

***
With a flourish, Pandolf whipped aside the cloth that hung over the canvas. Alfonso was momentarily stunned. The likeness was indeed remarkable.

‘What think you, sir?’

He blinked once, twice, to clear his mind of the maelstrom of emotions that had begun to rampage on the sight of her face. ‘It is what I paid you create.’

Fra Pandolf bowed respectfully, but couldn’t manage to keep a tiny smirk off his face. It was not every day that a young painter received even a modicum of praise from discerning patrons of art. The Duke of Ferrera was widely regarded as one of the most critical of connoisseurs to be found in any of the city states.

‘Thank you, sir. It has been an honor working for you.’

The sunlight glanced becomingly off the young man’s hair, setting the golden highlights within it aflame. His eyes were a clear, aquamarine blue, his hands strong and long fingered. Standing there, he seemed to mock the conventional image of the starved, bird limbed artist, scrabbling about on hands and knees for any pittance of a commission that might come his way. Even Alfonso, who had had many dealings with artists, had never seen one so healthy, so young and so confident as Pandolf.

Doubtless, the Duchess had noticed his beauty too.

‘Tell me Fra Pandolf, how did you enjoy the making of this marvel?’

The smirk was erased from his face, and Pandolf looked genuinely confused for a few moments. ‘I would hardly call it a marvel, sir.’ He answered, his face smooth once more.

‘I think you are being too modest.’ Alfonso smiled and reached for the decanter that stood on the table between them. ‘Sit down my friend. You have earned a rest from your labors.’

Pandolf sat, his hand stretching out to grasp the glass Alfonso extended to him. Lowering his eyes, Alfonso feigned intense concentration on his own wine, but watched avidly under his long lashes as Pandolf (stealing a quick glance at the Duke) sniffed cautiously around the rim. So the boy was suspicious. Suspicious that the master knew he had something to hide? Alfonso would have to play his cards correctly to see this through. He would have to call all his courtly skills to his service once again.

‘Was the Duchess a good sitter?’

The young man looked surprised at the question. ‘Why, yes sir. She hardly fidgeted at all.’

‘Indeed.’ Alfonso stroked his chin. ‘I would have thought her restless, not like to stay still for a long while.’

Pandolf shook his head with a laugh. ‘No, no sir. She was as quiet as a mouse, really.’

‘Hm.’ Alfonso strode from his chair to view the portrait. ‘That explains the faint rosy blush upon her cheeks I suppose.’

Pandolf’s hands shook imperceptibly as he raised the wine to his lips. When he had wet his mouth, the artist lowered the glass again and answered ‘Rosy, sir? That is the usual complexion of well bred ladies, I assumed.’

Alfonso gazed at the painting for a while longer, allowing the tension in the room to grow. ‘Tell me, Fra Pandolf,’ he said finally, ‘did the Duchess ever speak to you during your sessions?’

He turned around sharply, just in time to catch the flicker of fear that flashed across his face. ‘She did, yes. Sometimes.’

‘What did she speak of?’ Alfonso waved a hand to stop Pandolf’s splutters. ‘No, no, nothing is too small for me, Fra Pandolf. Tell me everything. I dearly love my wife, but she is extremely, shall I say, closemouthed with me. I wish to know whether she would speak to someone who is not her husband, not bound to her. Maybe, then, I would consider providing her a companion of some kind. She is lonely, do you think?’

The young man’s hands clenched and unclenched around his glass. ‘Sir, I think, she is.’

‘Ah. How did this come up in your conversation?’

‘I would ask her what she had been doing that day, before the sitting, and she would tell me. I’ve found it the best thing to do, in order to get that flush of life in a sitter’s face, to speak to them, to treat them as living beings and not mere objects to be painted. The eagerness with which she spoke, sir, it was a trifle…’

‘Trifle what, man?’

‘Sad.’ Pandolf finished rather lamely, and drained his glass. ‘It was sad.’

Alfonso looked down at his own untouched cup. ‘You think she needs company, then?’

Pandolf nodded. He looked questioningly at the decanter.

‘Drink, drink to your heart’s content. You have earned it.’

Filling his cup, Pandolf asked the pensive Duke, ‘Sir, do you think I have done wrong to speak to her?’

‘Why would I think that?’

Pandolf shrugged. ‘Many men are jealous of their wives. That was what I first thought, when you began to question me. I was afraid you harbored some suspicions about my conduct with your wife. I assure you sir, it was nothing less than perfectly honorable.’

Alfonso forced a laugh onto his face. ‘I did not suspect you, my friend. Why would I withhold any gratitude from you, who have given me this marvelous piece of work?’

The young artist blushed. ‘It is my best sir, I hope it stands for long years in your house.’

‘I am certain it will, my man.’ Alfonso downed the contents of his glass in a single gulp. Pandolf did the same, and laughed. Outside, the birds continued to shrill and twitter in the branches of the orchard trees, as they had done earlier that evening. There was one note in particular that irked the Duke, one plaintive voice that was raised slightly louder than all the cacophony that surrounded it. He yearned to throw something at the dratted bird that disturbed the peace of his wine so. Then again, he reflected, his grip tightening about the cup’s stem, perhaps the poor little winged thing could be excused. Perhaps it was just, what was the word he had used? - Lonely.

***
‘Send the Duchess to me.’

The serving man bowed and exited the room on silent feet. Turning to the window, Alfonso mentally rehearsed the lines he would greet her with, the confessions he would wring from her, and then finally…

‘My Lord? You sent for me?’

Alfonso glanced over his shoulder, and beheld his wife.

The Duchess was a small woman, barely reaching his shoulder even when she reared herself as straight as possible. Her skin was like translucent marble- pale but seeming to encase a great light within itself. Today her dark brown tresses had been pinned in elaborate coils at the top of her head and pierced through with jeweled clips. She smiled, pleased, as ever, to be near him.

Lonely. Yes, that is plausible.

‘Come here, Lucetta.’ He smiled and held out his arms to her. She stepped into his embrace and nuzzled close, encircling him with her arms. For a moment, Alfonso was content to hold her.

Then she began to hum and the illusion shattered.

‘Lucetta?’

‘Hm?’ Mid-bar, the Duchess looked up at her husband, her eyes curious.

‘Are you, lonely?’

Lucetta frowned. ‘Why do you ask, my lord?’

‘A little bird brought the news to me.’

‘A little bird?’ Lucetta stepped away, her eyes lighting in suspicion. Alfonso fancied he could see a tinge of guilt there as well. ‘Who has been telling you these things?’

‘It matters not. Just answer my query.’

‘Well, I have to admit, sometimes, when you are away…’

Alfonso cocked his head forward, the better to convince her of his interest.

‘…the days grow long.’

‘So you are lonely.’

‘It is only human to feel so, husband.’

‘Is it?’ He spun away from her, and looked out upon his balcony. ‘I wonder then, why I do not feel it?’

‘My Lord, you must be of a sterner constitution than I.’

‘What do you then, to abate this loneliness?’

He heard the faint rustle of her gown as she twitched it about in nervous hands. ‘I read, my Lord. And pray.’

‘Is that all?’

‘There is naught I can do, besides that.’

‘You do not speak to others then?’

When he looked at her, her brows had contracted, her eyes showing the faint stirrings of anger. ‘Of course I speak with others, my lord. The servants would not be able to get through a day’s routine smoothly if I did not chide them about their tasks. Donna Bianca is useless when it comes to managing household affairs. I have a good mind to rid this place of her.’

‘Do you consort with men in my absence, Lucetta?’

She flashed him a look of pure annoyance, which slowly subsided behind an ironic smile. ‘Of course I do, husband. That is, unless you consider Signor Angelo and his son female.’

The kitchen help and the gardener. Of course she would taunt him with mention of them. Could the woman not see that he was serious in his questioning?

‘You know what I mean, wife.’

‘Of course I do. And I have answered your question.’

He took a step forward, his fist rising. ‘Do you presume to mock me?’

‘Mock you?’ The duchess shrank back, but a trace of rebellion was yet burnt clear across her features. ‘My Lord, are you accusing me of being unfaithful to you?’

‘What else could produce this?’ he demanded, and in one clean, practiced sweep, he unveiled the blushing portrait.

‘Behold those cheeks, those sparkling eyes! Why does that harlot’s smile decorate your face, woman? Why should your face colour in the presence of any man but your husband?’

The Duchess gazed upon the picture for a long while, and then finally raised her eyes to her husband to answer. ‘It is a masterpiece. I trust you paid Fra Pandolf well.’

Alfonso could contain himself no longer. With a growl, he struck her backhanded across her face and she fell, gasping, to the cold floor. Slowly, she put up a hand to feel at her lip. It came away red.

‘Alfonso, what has come over you?’ her voice was pitched high, nearly hysterical with rage. ‘Has the storm whirled away your wits?’

‘Silence!’ he bellowed, and slapped her again. The sound rang and redounded off the stone walls, not even the old tapestries managed to muffle it. For a moment, he was shocked at his own violence, but that evaporated when she turned her face to him again.

‘What have I done to you?’

She presumed to ask! If she had been anyone but his wife, Alfonso would have admired her, admitted to her bravery and courage under fire. Not now, though.

‘What have you done? What have you done? You have dragged the name, the ancient name I have given you through the dirt! You have coupled, like a pagan witch, with lowborn, sweaty artists and gardeners in my bed! You have laughed behind my back, you are and your mongrel lover, and forced me to pay for this- the fruit of your debaucheries! You whore!’

The Duchess had risen by the time he yelled the last word, and she stood, calm and resolute. ‘Nothing will convince you that I have done no wrong.’

It was not a question, and Alfonso would not stoop to present her an answer she did not wish to hear, nor that he wished to give.

‘What would you have me do?’

He took a step forward, he was directly before her once again. He raised his hands slowly, and placed them gently, almost lovingly about her white neck. ‘I would have you give yourself to me, forever.’

A cold smile wreathed across the Duchess’ face. She stared into his eyes, silent.

And then spat into his face.

***
‘You have my condolences, sir.’

Alfonso sighed and nodded. The envoy watched him, unsure whether he had said the right thing or not. The Duke was known to be touchy when it came to his last wife, the one who had died in such mysterious circumstances. It had been given out that she taken a chill from the summer storms, and expired shortly after. Whispers, mostly from the servants’ quarters, hinted at something much darker.

‘She was a beautiful woman, my friend. There are not many like to her.’

‘I am sure, sir. It is a great loss.’

‘Would you like to see her?’

The envoy was taken aback, momentarily. ‘It, it would be an honor sir.’

‘Come with me.’

Wending his way almost unconsciously through the passages, Alfonso allowed his mind to wander towards an anticipation of what was to come. The moment when he stood before her, the corner of the cloth grasped in his hand, what power seemed to reside in him then. His very existence seemed attuned to it.

‘Here we are.’

A sweep, and there she stood. He turned to judge the man’s reaction. He looked entranced, and well he might. She was certainly a beauty, the earnest glance struck right to the heart of the beholder. A smile curled about his lips. Ensnaring beholders even in death, the harlotry hadn’t been put aside. She must certainly be burning in hell.

‘This is her, sir?’

Alfonso nodded. ‘That is her, man. That’s my last Duchess.’

***