(Published in the Business Standard, August 24, 2010; revised to include corrections.)
As Siddhartha Sarma claimed the first Crossword award for Best Children’s Book in Bombay this week, a bunch of writers at the Jumpstart festival were asking a key question: should adults read books for children?
Technically, The Grasshopper’s Run is a children’s book—published by Scholastic last year in the emerging category of fiction for young adults. This is a growing segment of readers in India, and an important one: historically, despite the wide variety of literature for children, we haven’t had much literature for teenagers and young adults, across most Indian languages. But as writers from Paro Anand to Samit Basu know, writing for children or young adults effectively consigns the author to invisibility on the book review pages. This means that kids, and teens, will read Sarma’s book—but adults will miss out.
And that would be a shame. Sarma’s real audience, as he says on his blog, is “all you closet Commando readers”—or anyone interested in the almost-forgotten Japanese siege of Kohima in 1944. “The (Second World) war touched India in many places, but the only region invaded on the mainland was the North-east,” Sarma writes. “It was a time of great misery, great courage and remarkable events. But if you expect much fiction about India and the war, forget it. Mostly it is because a couple of years after the war we began a bigger adventure: Independence and the rest of the jing-bang. People weren’t really into what their soldiers did fighting for another country in some far-off place.”
Sarma tells his story through 15-year-old Gojen Rajkhowa, who loses his best friend and watches his village being wiped out by invading Japanese soldiers. It’s a gritty, unsentimental novel, and though Sarma toned down the violence in deference to his intended audience, he’s researched this as thoroughly as anyone could without being a veteran war journalist.
The last book that successfully crossed over, finding an adult as well as a teen audience, in India was probably Samit Basu’s The Simoqin Prophecies, the first book of the Gameworld Trilogy. But Basu’s book came out at a time when review space was both marginally more generous and more eclectic—to put it bluntly, today’s readers hear about fewer books, in fewer categories, than they did just five years ago.
Very few mainstream magazines or newspapers have room for children’s books, good academic writing, works in translation or poetry any more. So a book like Grasshopper’s Run flies under the radar—even though it works just as well for an adult audience as it does for teenagers, your kids are likelier to find it in their school libraries than you are in bookshops. Why else would adults not read a well-crafted, simply told story about one of the most fascinating conflicts in the history of our country?
Globally, the rise of what’s called crossover fiction has been a trend. At Jumpstart, the conference on writing for children and young adults that was held in Delhi last week, writers Payal Dhar, Paro Anand and Samit Basu discussed the implications of reading (and writing) books that are often mis-classified in the children’s section. Paro Anand, with Weed and No Guns At My Son’s Funeral, has written books that were marked “crossover”, though she pointed out that as the author, she had little thought of categories in mind when she wrote it.
Samit Basu’s Terror on The Titanic (a Morningstar Agency Adventure) continues his interest in fantasy writing—he’s often called a children’s writer because children like his work, but in the UK, he would probably be on the speculative fiction and fantasy shelf. (Disclaimer: Samit is a personal friend, whose work I’ve followed for years.) And Payal Dhar is on the borderline between SF and children’s writing, with her work comfortably straddling both genres.
Curiously, the Indian market is very open to reading crossover fiction from elsewhere—Philip Pullman, Stephenie Meyers’ Twilight series and the Harry Potter books all found adult readers here. The reason we’re not reading our own, homegrown crossover fiction is because they’re invisible to adult readers: promoted chiefly in schools, rarely discussed in the mainstream literary media. Perhaps Sarma’s win will change this—Banzai to him if it does.
The Crossword Awards: Kalpana Swaminathan’s Venus Crossing beat out Amit Chaudhuri and Mridula Koshy for the fiction in English prize. The non-fiction prize was jointly awarded to Rajni Bakshi for Bazaars, Conversations and Freedom and Sunanda K Datta-Ray’s Looking East To Look West, leaving Gurcharan Das’s The Difficulty of Being Good out in the cold. The award for fiction in translation went to Sarah Joseph for Othappu (Malayalam), translated by Valson Thampu.
Showing posts with label children's literature. Show all posts
Showing posts with label children's literature. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Friday, August 31, 2007
Fifty Nifty Years: The Cat in the Hat
(Published in the Business Standard, April 2nd, 2007)
How is that The Cat in the Hat is not out in the cold, though it’s fifty years old? It’s been translated into Yiddish for the benefit of some kiddish, and you can read it in Spanish and see that goldfish vanish.
At the Latin high table, it’s available as Cattus Petasatus, also known as the matus to the same translator’s look at another Dr Seuss book. (He did Green Eggs and Ham, starring Seuss’s SamIAm, as Virent Ova! Viret Perna!, for the beginner Latin learner.) Sadly, there’s no Sindhi, translation yet, nor Hindi, though Indian children might well fall under Seuss’ spell.
Theodore Geisel, who was the real voice of the man whom we know as plain Dr Seuss, began his career drawing cartoons for the adult, but it was when he wrote for children that he spawned a new cult.
Geisel was a good listener; he listened a lot, to the rhymes his mother made up about selling pies, hot (Henrietta Seuss Geisel, an excellent baker, was also a nifty verse-maker). He listened to ships, and wrote a book to their beat, the famous To Think I Saw It on Mulberry Street. But though by this time he was a well-liked shamus, he was nothing close to being famous.
Then in 1954 John Hersey wrote to complain about those boring books starring Dick and Jane. Of course kids didn’t read, their books were too bland; perhaps Disney (or Geisel?) should take this matter in hand? Besides most authors used too many words without thinking; children should be able to read pages without blinking. Geisel’s publisher was a bright sort of chap and after much thought he wrote a word map. It didn’t have words by the yard, oh no; after his work, he had only 400 words to show. But these were the key words, the ones that would matter to children used to listening to normal chat and patter. “Dr Seuss,” he asked, “Do you think you could twist a book out of the 400 words on this list?”
Dr Seuss figured he could do maybe even better; he cut that list down, letter by letter. Of those 400 words, he thought he could fix a mighty fine story using just 236. He took a year, with a map and a doodle, until he thought he had his “stroodle-less stroodle”. But he was stuck on one thing, and that was line one; he couldn’t do the story until line one was done. One day, by which time he knew his word-list pat, he saw the first two words: “cat” and “hat”. Would that cat be on a mat wearing a hat? Or would it be a bat on a hat under a cat? “I’ve got it!” he thought with much glee—“A cat in the hat sounds good to me!” His 236 words, used in different combinations, were enough to please kids—and adults—of all nations.
Now that cat was no sweet little furball or placid old tabby; when the cat in the hat came in, there’d be chaos and all the adults got crabby. The cat, and his friends, Thing One and Thing Two, were very good examples of what not to do. They turned the house upside down and inside out; they scared everyone, and made the goldfish shout. But the kids loved it, bad-behaved cat or not; in fact, they loved it, they loved it a lot.
Art Spiegelman, a cartoonist, had drawn the famous Maus, so he knew something about cats in hats or in the house. “This cat looks familiar, in fact—why damn, if it isn’t a lot like the poster of Uncle Sam.” It may or may not have been that, but Uncle and Cat do have the same kind of hat.
As children bought books and clamoured for more, Dr Seuss found publishers lining up at his door. He wrote One Fish Two Fish, he wrote Hop on Pop: Dr Seuss was the best, for always and ever on top. He loved writing, but he was beginning to think—was 236 words a waste of ink? He settled on fifty, which sounded pretty nifty. That’s all he could cram into Green Eggs and Ham, but we loved the words and the plot, we loved Seuss a lot. And that’s why fifty years on, though Theodore Geisel’s gone, children still rejoice when you read them Dr Seuss. “It’s fun to have fun, but you have to know how”—he knew, and thanks to him, we still have fun now.
How is that The Cat in the Hat is not out in the cold, though it’s fifty years old? It’s been translated into Yiddish for the benefit of some kiddish, and you can read it in Spanish and see that goldfish vanish.
At the Latin high table, it’s available as Cattus Petasatus, also known as the matus to the same translator’s look at another Dr Seuss book. (He did Green Eggs and Ham, starring Seuss’s SamIAm, as Virent Ova! Viret Perna!, for the beginner Latin learner.) Sadly, there’s no Sindhi, translation yet, nor Hindi, though Indian children might well fall under Seuss’ spell.
Theodore Geisel, who was the real voice of the man whom we know as plain Dr Seuss, began his career drawing cartoons for the adult, but it was when he wrote for children that he spawned a new cult.
Geisel was a good listener; he listened a lot, to the rhymes his mother made up about selling pies, hot (Henrietta Seuss Geisel, an excellent baker, was also a nifty verse-maker). He listened to ships, and wrote a book to their beat, the famous To Think I Saw It on Mulberry Street. But though by this time he was a well-liked shamus, he was nothing close to being famous.
Then in 1954 John Hersey wrote to complain about those boring books starring Dick and Jane. Of course kids didn’t read, their books were too bland; perhaps Disney (or Geisel?) should take this matter in hand? Besides most authors used too many words without thinking; children should be able to read pages without blinking. Geisel’s publisher was a bright sort of chap and after much thought he wrote a word map. It didn’t have words by the yard, oh no; after his work, he had only 400 words to show. But these were the key words, the ones that would matter to children used to listening to normal chat and patter. “Dr Seuss,” he asked, “Do you think you could twist a book out of the 400 words on this list?”
Dr Seuss figured he could do maybe even better; he cut that list down, letter by letter. Of those 400 words, he thought he could fix a mighty fine story using just 236. He took a year, with a map and a doodle, until he thought he had his “stroodle-less stroodle”. But he was stuck on one thing, and that was line one; he couldn’t do the story until line one was done. One day, by which time he knew his word-list pat, he saw the first two words: “cat” and “hat”. Would that cat be on a mat wearing a hat? Or would it be a bat on a hat under a cat? “I’ve got it!” he thought with much glee—“A cat in the hat sounds good to me!” His 236 words, used in different combinations, were enough to please kids—and adults—of all nations.
Now that cat was no sweet little furball or placid old tabby; when the cat in the hat came in, there’d be chaos and all the adults got crabby. The cat, and his friends, Thing One and Thing Two, were very good examples of what not to do. They turned the house upside down and inside out; they scared everyone, and made the goldfish shout. But the kids loved it, bad-behaved cat or not; in fact, they loved it, they loved it a lot.
Art Spiegelman, a cartoonist, had drawn the famous Maus, so he knew something about cats in hats or in the house. “This cat looks familiar, in fact—why damn, if it isn’t a lot like the poster of Uncle Sam.” It may or may not have been that, but Uncle and Cat do have the same kind of hat.
As children bought books and clamoured for more, Dr Seuss found publishers lining up at his door. He wrote One Fish Two Fish, he wrote Hop on Pop: Dr Seuss was the best, for always and ever on top. He loved writing, but he was beginning to think—was 236 words a waste of ink? He settled on fifty, which sounded pretty nifty. That’s all he could cram into Green Eggs and Ham, but we loved the words and the plot, we loved Seuss a lot. And that’s why fifty years on, though Theodore Geisel’s gone, children still rejoice when you read them Dr Seuss. “It’s fun to have fun, but you have to know how”—he knew, and thanks to him, we still have fun now.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
The Tale of Beatrix Potter
(Published in the Business Standard, January 08, 2007)
Nothing about Miss Potter, the film version of Beatrix Potter's life, is likely to dispel the "fluffy bunny" image that surrounds one of the world's most successful children's authors. As played by Renee Zellwegger, the creator of Peter Rabbit, Miss Tiggywinkle, Tom Kitten and Jemima Puddleduck comes across as sweet and woolly, much the way most of us remember her creations.
Up to a point, Beatrix Potter lived a very Victorian life. Her parents were remote figures during her childhood and oppressive, overbearing guardians for most of her adult life, fiercely opposing her romance with her publisher, and resisting her few quiet attempts at independence. Those of us who read the Peter Rabbit series remember the drawings best, as adults—charming watercolours of a rabbit in a blue jacket, a hedgehog seamstress clad in demure skirts, a duck puddling around with a red scarf askew on her head.
Beatrix Potter loved nature, aspired to be an illustrator of fungi, and once the Peter Rabbit books and merchandise brought in enough money to make her independent, retreated to the country to raise sheep. The love of her life died of leukemia a few short months after her parents had reluctantly consented to their engagement; it took many decades before Potter formed another, more lasting, relationship.
There was another side to Beatrix Potter, though, which displayed itself early on, shortly after the first Peter Rabbit book had been published. "My stories will be as immortal as those of Hans Christian Anderson," Potter told a relative. It was a surprisingly self-assured claim coming from a writer who had written the Tale of Peter Rabbit to cheer up a sick child, illustrating her letter with whimsical drawings. Once the books were launched, though, it was Potter's idea to create Peter Rabbit dolls, calendars and wallpaper—and this was back in 1902. (Walt Disney was a one-year-old toddler then, and his successful merchandising franchise was many decades away—Beatrix Potter was something of a pioneer in book marketing terms!)
She was professional about her books, continuing to churn out one success after another. Potter never had children of her own, but got on very well with children all the same, and in a letter to one of her young friends, she writes "I was very ill last spring - I thought it was the last of Peter Rabbit and since then I have been drawing - dozens of pigs. I have been so tired of them, but the printers said all the little friends would be disappointed if I did not screw out my normal Christmas book. I'm afraid it is not very good this time but I have done my best, now am well again I will hope to do better next year."
Potter was considerably sharper with her publishers. In 1920, she grumbled, "You don't suppose I shall be able to continue these d----d little books when I am dead and buried!! I am utterly tired of doing them, and my eyes are wearing out.
What makes the Beatrix Potter books—and the souvenir industry built around them—endure? Another great children's writer, Philippa Pearce, had a partial answer: "Really, there is very much unpleasantness in childhood that we adults forget — and much that some simply dare not remember. For, let's face it, a good deal of childhood is strong stuff for adults and totally unsuitable for children."
Beatrix Potter's furry rabbits and talking mice blended sweet fantasy with a great deal of unpleasantness. Peter Rabbit may wear a blue velvet coat and live in a cosily domestic rabbit hole, but his mother warns him casually not to end up like his father, who "was put in a pie by Mr McGregor". Pickles and Ginger, the cat and the terrier who run a village shop, must remind each other when the mice and rats come to buy things that "it would never do to eat our own customers".
Potter had the country woman's attitude to nature, which was not at all a sentimental one. Writing to another child, Winifred, she mourned the end of "Smutty", a "wonderful clever black cat" who went for a walk and never returned: "I am afraid she met a bad man with a gun, early in the morning..."
Perhaps it was just this combination of cuteness brushing up against hard reality that still makes the Beatrix Potter books work. She understood, as the best children's writers do, that a child's world may welcome fantasy, magic and whimsy, but that childhood itself is a terrifying place. Potter used folk songs and echoes from fairy tales in her stories quite liberally, but there was one line she eschewed: "And they all lived happily ever after." The apparently tranquil natural world she loved so much had little time for happy endings.
Nothing about Miss Potter, the film version of Beatrix Potter's life, is likely to dispel the "fluffy bunny" image that surrounds one of the world's most successful children's authors. As played by Renee Zellwegger, the creator of Peter Rabbit, Miss Tiggywinkle, Tom Kitten and Jemima Puddleduck comes across as sweet and woolly, much the way most of us remember her creations.
Up to a point, Beatrix Potter lived a very Victorian life. Her parents were remote figures during her childhood and oppressive, overbearing guardians for most of her adult life, fiercely opposing her romance with her publisher, and resisting her few quiet attempts at independence. Those of us who read the Peter Rabbit series remember the drawings best, as adults—charming watercolours of a rabbit in a blue jacket, a hedgehog seamstress clad in demure skirts, a duck puddling around with a red scarf askew on her head.
Beatrix Potter loved nature, aspired to be an illustrator of fungi, and once the Peter Rabbit books and merchandise brought in enough money to make her independent, retreated to the country to raise sheep. The love of her life died of leukemia a few short months after her parents had reluctantly consented to their engagement; it took many decades before Potter formed another, more lasting, relationship.
There was another side to Beatrix Potter, though, which displayed itself early on, shortly after the first Peter Rabbit book had been published. "My stories will be as immortal as those of Hans Christian Anderson," Potter told a relative. It was a surprisingly self-assured claim coming from a writer who had written the Tale of Peter Rabbit to cheer up a sick child, illustrating her letter with whimsical drawings. Once the books were launched, though, it was Potter's idea to create Peter Rabbit dolls, calendars and wallpaper—and this was back in 1902. (Walt Disney was a one-year-old toddler then, and his successful merchandising franchise was many decades away—Beatrix Potter was something of a pioneer in book marketing terms!)
She was professional about her books, continuing to churn out one success after another. Potter never had children of her own, but got on very well with children all the same, and in a letter to one of her young friends, she writes "I was very ill last spring - I thought it was the last of Peter Rabbit and since then I have been drawing - dozens of pigs. I have been so tired of them, but the printers said all the little friends would be disappointed if I did not screw out my normal Christmas book. I'm afraid it is not very good this time but I have done my best, now am well again I will hope to do better next year."
Potter was considerably sharper with her publishers. In 1920, she grumbled, "You don't suppose I shall be able to continue these d----d little books when I am dead and buried!! I am utterly tired of doing them, and my eyes are wearing out.
What makes the Beatrix Potter books—and the souvenir industry built around them—endure? Another great children's writer, Philippa Pearce, had a partial answer: "Really, there is very much unpleasantness in childhood that we adults forget — and much that some simply dare not remember. For, let's face it, a good deal of childhood is strong stuff for adults and totally unsuitable for children."
Beatrix Potter's furry rabbits and talking mice blended sweet fantasy with a great deal of unpleasantness. Peter Rabbit may wear a blue velvet coat and live in a cosily domestic rabbit hole, but his mother warns him casually not to end up like his father, who "was put in a pie by Mr McGregor". Pickles and Ginger, the cat and the terrier who run a village shop, must remind each other when the mice and rats come to buy things that "it would never do to eat our own customers".
Potter had the country woman's attitude to nature, which was not at all a sentimental one. Writing to another child, Winifred, she mourned the end of "Smutty", a "wonderful clever black cat" who went for a walk and never returned: "I am afraid she met a bad man with a gun, early in the morning..."
Perhaps it was just this combination of cuteness brushing up against hard reality that still makes the Beatrix Potter books work. She understood, as the best children's writers do, that a child's world may welcome fantasy, magic and whimsy, but that childhood itself is a terrifying place. Potter used folk songs and echoes from fairy tales in her stories quite liberally, but there was one line she eschewed: "And they all lived happily ever after." The apparently tranquil natural world she loved so much had little time for happy endings.
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