Me writing (Photo by me)
Writing four books simultaneously on four completely unconnected subjects, like I am doing now, is a fascinating experience. I am not sure if I will pull this off but while I am in the midst of it, jumping themes from gravity (nonfiction) to a political thriller (fiction) to a memoir (well) to a biography of a city (nonfiction) is exhilarating.
Perhaps the toughest part has been not to unconsciously repeat literary constructs or sentences or phrases. Between the four I have written over 200,000 words and I think I have managed not to repeat any yet. It remains to be seen how long I can keep this up. I am generally a very fast writer. For instance, I wrote my critically acclaimed biography of the Dalai Lama titled ‘Man, Monk, Mystic’, published by Doubleday/Random House, in a month. This is not counting the time I spent on research, interviews and travel that preceded the actual, physical act of writing. I remember I had finished my first book, a bestselling biography, in a month and a half. I must point out here that that one I wrote on a Remington typewriter.
These four books are taking much longer not because I have slowed down but because one keeps stepping on one’s dick as it were thanks to a penurious life. To get around some of that penury I have ghost-written two books in the last couple of years or so. Those certainly played a role in slowing me down.
I enjoy writing all four but if I were to list them in the order of my joy, I would say the one about gravity wins the top prize because it keeps me intellectually sharp. That would be followed by my memoirs and the other two being close third.
I was reading some of the passages this morning from all four which I think might be of some interest to you.
From my memoirs which I originally called ‘What does Jupiter really do?’ but changed it to ‘A Tangential Life’:
A sense of futility about everything in the universe, including my own existence, has paralyzed me throughout my life. For instance, I see no reason at all for me to have been born. None.
I used to ask my mother Snehlata, admittedly to her chagrin and amusement both, why she and my father Manharray did not stop at the second child. (I am the youngest of the four). What answer can a mother possibly give her son who asks why she gave birth to him?
On balance, I am aware that I have brought nothing of value to the human discourse. Nothing. Yet I feel prompted to write this book.
It may seem as if through this book, I am seeking some identifiable purpose to the universe, but the truth is that I am not. Since the age of 13, when I started being drawn to the themes addressed here, I have never thought of the universe in terms of meaning or purpose. Just as I am most likely here, the universe is most likely here too and that’s that. Until one of us ceases that will be that.
From the book about Gravity:
For a force that is the weakest of the four fundamental forces, gravity is remarkably defining of the universe. It is hard to decide whether the universe is a consequence of gravity or gravity is a consequence of the universe. Either way, it is omnipresent across the universe in a way that is both subtle and yet profound.
From a biography of Ahmedabad:
For a city that is India’s seventh largest, Ahmedabad exerts surprisingly light urban gravity. It is a city that gives one the impression that it is either unaware of or unconcerned about its impact on India’s national life, both throughout history and in modern times. Few metros of Ahmedabad’s size and historical significance are as unselfconscious and untouched by their relevance and, in some sense, notoriety. Long used to being counted out of the list of important Indian cities, Ahmedabad has developed a detached demeanor about its many great accomplishments and contributions. By the same logic, it is equally unencumbered by its many profound flaws. Its disinterest in showcasing itself can often be mistaken for natural diffidence. It is anything but.
From a political thriller titled ‘Mayor of Mochipore’
It is only at predawn that Mochipore is free from the stench of rotting entrails.
As night hands over the realm to day odors cease for an imperceptibly brief moment. They say you have to be born here to know when to capture that moment.
The odors never really leave Mochipore. They merely change their direction and intensity depending on the time of the day and how much sea breeze is blowing. By noon the summer sun has cooked the odors which are seasoned by the humid air so thoroughly that cases of people fainting in the middle of the town’s main square are not altogether unheard of.
Although it sits in the midst of hundreds of mango orchards Mochipore remains remarkably untouched by the heady fragrances of the fruit in various stages of ripening unlocked during the summer. Locals have a wistful saying here which goes: “Even decaying mangos inside my armpit smell better than perfumes of Mochipore.”