Book review: Brothers at War (Empire of the Moghul, Book II)

(Published in the Business Standard, March 2010. I met and liked Michael and Diana Preston, co-authors of the Empire of the Moghul series, but as is apparent, I wasn't sold on the second volume. The Prestons have been travelling to India for over 30 years, and know their Mughals--but Humayun didn't come to life for me. Not that this is going to dent their impressive Indian sales, and both of them seem so enthusiastic about the Jahangir book, where Mehr-un-Nissa takes over the story, and the Akbar book, that I'm willing to stay with the series a while longer.
Loved Michael's story about travelling to Iran just after the Rushdie fatwa with a copy of the Baburnama. Just before he reached, he realised it had a foreword by Salman Rushdie, so he ripped out those pages; then searched the book frantically for more Rushdie mentions, and finally made Teheran airport with a bowdlerised Baburnama, title pages, foreword, back cover missing. After all that effort, Iran Customs showed no interest in the book.)


Empire of the Moghul: Brothers at War

Alex Rutherford,

Hachette, Rs 495, 436 pages

Edo Steinberg is an unsung, unpublished genius whose claim to fame rests on this contribution to the annual Bulwer-Lytton bad writing contest:

“Our tale takes place one century before the reign of Alboin, the Lombard king who would one day conquer most of Italy and who would end up being murdered by his own wife (quite rightfully, I'd say, since Alboin made a drinking cup out of her daddy's skull and forced her to drink from it), when our little Sonnebert was seven years old.”

Steinberg was one of the 2008 winners in the Historical Fiction category, and this entry sums up the pitfalls of trying to write in the epic vein. It’s tempting to adopt a sonorous style to fit the period, to introduce too much information too fast, and to try to sneak in a winsome minor character, usually of dubious value.

Contrast this with the quiet opening paragraph of Brothers at War, by Alex Rutherford: “The wind was chill. If Humayun closed his eyes he could almost imagine himself back among the pastures and mountains of the Kabul of his boyhood, rather than here on the battlements of Agra. But the short winter was ending. In a few weeks the plains of Hindustan would burn with heat and dust.”

In just two books, part of the grandly ambitious Empire of the Moghul series, the husband-and-wife team that make up the pseudonymous “Alex Rutherford” have made their mark on historical fiction in India. Diana and Michael Preston are both civil servants and enthusiastic travelers, and what drives Empire of the Moghul is their passion for the bloody lives and times of the emperors, from Babur to Aurangzeb. The first book, Raiders from the North, drew heavily from Babur’s writings to create a portrait of a young, ambitious king, exiled several times over in his fierce quest for a kingdom of his own; Brothers at War takes us into the far more internal struggles of Humayun.

In their account, Humayun emerges as a man of the senses, beguiled and betrayed by his appetites, embracing opium as passionately as he embraces the women of his harem. His virtues are also his weaknesses: the compassion and forgiveness he shows his warring brothers as they plot against him will drive him into exile for years. As with the first book in the series, it’s the Prestons’ attention to detail and their intimate knowledge of the workings of the Mughal empire that makes this a satisfying, meaty read. They’re great on the battle sequences, and when they offer details such as the astrological carpet Humayun has woven when his opium-fuddled mind wants the court to be governed by the planets, they bring the period alive.

But the really great historical novels, like really great literary novels, make their mark by creating unforgettable characters. Hillary Mantel did this in Wolf Hall by bringing Thomas Cromwell—the weaver’s brat who rose to become the king’s counselor—to life against the bloody, brutal background of Tudor England. George RR Martin, with a cast of fictional characters in an imaginary landscape in the Song of Ice and Fire, pulls off an awesome feat when he makes you believe in a country where the last of the dragons still terrorise the skies and direwolves roam an increasingly bitter winter landscape. He does this by making his protagonists—the young boy-king, Rob, the diabolically shrewd and kind dwarf Tyrion Lannister—as real as though they inhabited the pages of a history textbook.

The Prestons do their best, lacing Humayun’s struggle to reach, and hold, the throne of Hindustan with internal monologues: “An even deeper melancholy took hold of Humayun—not only grief at Maham’s death but a sense that many of the certainties of his youth were crumbling. All his life he’d been a pampered prince, brought up to expect great things as of right, confident of his place in the world. Never before had he felt so insignificant, so vulnerable to the buffeting of others’ actions.”

This tiny section encapsulates the strengths and weaknesses of the Rutherford/ Preston approach. They manage, successfully, to avoid the kind of bombast and clichés that infest what might be called the school of the hysterical novel. But if these first two books are any indication, Empire of the Moghul will remain a satisfactory, page-turning read, never reaching the heights of the really great historical novels. As with Babur, Humayun in these pages emerges as slightly more interesting than he does from the history textbooks—but they remain flat characters.

One way around this for writers like Philippa Gregory has been to focus the action on minor characters, letting us see emperors and empire through the eyes of a footsoldier, or a skeptical vizier, or a lady of the harem. The trick, with this series, is to treat a historical character the way you would treat an imagined character, to reimagine the emperors of India. For all the virtues of this series, perhaps the Prestons will remain better historians than novelists.

Speaking Volumes: The desi roman-a-clef

(Published in the Business Standard, April 5, 2010. Any great Indian roman-a-clefs in languages other than Bengali or English?

“I read Glenarvon too, by Caro Lamb…/ Goddamn!” In 1816, when the Lady Caroline Lamb published her infamous roman à clef, Glenarvon, Lord Byron’s response summed up his dismay at discovering the history of their tempestuous romance preserved for posterity. Glenarvon, now barely read, went into multiple editions at the time; Caro Lamb was ostracized and condemned; Byron continued his devastating career despite the scandal.

The reviews were stern and moralistic (the British Critic lamented the sorry influence of the excesses of the wicked, depraved Continent—oh, those Italians!—upon staid, upright English society), and the sales were spectacular: in other words, Glenarvon surpassed the hopes that any publisher of a roman a clef may permit himself to harbour.

Good fiction and good gossip have a lot in common—so does bad fiction. James Wood once dismissed John Updike’s suburban-America stories as so much “gossip in gilt”. The pleasure of the roman à clef lies in the drawing-room thrill of the guessing game, as has happened with Hindutva, Sex and Adventure (Roli Books), by ‘John MacLithon’.

Hindutva, Sex and Adventure is a silly season book. At 166 pages, it fictionalizes the life, amours and journalistic biases of one of India’s best known adopted foreign journalists, Mark Tully, badly disguised as “Andrew Lyut”. It’s slight, but has enough insider dope to do well at the Foreign Correspondents Club, and bets on the author’s identity have been placed in the very best Delhi salons. (The smart money’s on Francois Gautier, despite his denials—Gautier hints that Tully himself wrote the novel, and Bernard Imhasly is the third favourite in the Identify MacLithon stakes.) How does it stack up against roman a clefs of the past?

Bengal Nights, Mircea Eliade: This lyrical, and I use the word with prejudice, lush and overblown 1933 novel romanticizes the relationship between Alain (Eliade himself) and Maitreyee Debi, poet, protégée of Tagore, and daughter of a renowned Bengal philosopher. Though Eliade refers in passing to the social world of 1930s Calcutta, most of his focus is on the ineffable, mystical aspects of his affair, where Maitreyi Debi stands in for the mysterious East. Decades later, she responded in kind with the equally sonorous It Does Not Die (Na Hanyate), making this a rare instance where the novel does duty as syrupy love letter.

Beethoven Among The Cows, Rukun Advani: Though this isn’t a classic roman a clef, this early novel by a highly respected publisher included an unforgettable portrait of the scholar Gayatri Spivak. “Professor [Lavatri] Alltheorie’s Collected Marxist Phonecalls had outsold Gone With The Wind… Her Collected Feminist Faxes was in press. Her opponents defined her subject-position with a law—Lavatri’s Law: Incredible Articulation + Incredible Incomprehension = Incredible Salary.”

The Insider, PV Narasimha Rao: This 1998 novel by a former Indian PM is now justly forgotten; Rao’s political revelations were overshadowed by his fondness for his upright, morally anguished protagonist, Anand. It was widely assumed that his characters were based on the politicians of the day-- Sanjeeva Reddy, Brahmananda Reddy, Lakshmikantamma and V.B. Raju, among others. At 767 pages, it suffered from the defects of a great deal of Indian political writing—the gossip wasn’t good enough to justify the prolixity.

A Suitable Boy, Vikram Seth: Seth’s magnum opus included a vast array of cleverly executed sketches of post-Independence politicians—GB Pant, CB Gupta and Fakhruddin Ali Ahmed appeared under various pseudonyms. The novel had ambitions beyond the scope of the conventional roman a clef, and lived up to them, but he was devastatingly accurate—especially in the Calcutta sections. The lady intellectual who speaks of Duality and Oneness, the father-and-son lawyer pair known as the Bony Bespectacled Banerjis and the gorgeous, unfaithful boxwallah’s wife were among the many characters based on real persons, which may explain why A Suitable Boy continues to sell like sandesh in Bengal.

With the exception of Seth’s fiction, most Indian roman a clefs have followed the Glenarvon route. Mrinal Pande’s My Own Witness touched on the early years of TV stardom in India, with Prannoy Roy and Pritish Nandy easily identifiable in her cast of characters. It made a brief stir in 2001, just as Aatish Taseer’s The Temple-Goers (with characters loosely based on V S Naipaul, Vasundhara Raje Scindia and Mala Singh is receiving some critical attention today. Back in 1816, C Lemon wrote to Lady Frampton of Glenarvon that there was “no connection between any two ideas in the book”, and expressed further disapproval. Having done so, she provided a key to the characters—so and so was Lady Oxford, such and such Lady Holland—that made it clear she had read her way avidly through the novel, despite her criticism.

Hindutva, Adventures and Sex, like Kanika Gahlaut’s 2002 expose of Eminence Greases and fashion victims in Delhi, Among The Chatterati, is unlikely to last more than a season; a better roman a clef may last a decade; but they’re not meant to last. The roman a clef promises entertainment for the moment, insider gossip and perhaps a little in the way of snapshot wisdom. It’s as serious, and as frivolous, as the changing fashions of the day.

Speaking Volumes: Faith and free speech

(Published in the Business Standard, March 30, 2010)

“As for Jesus, there isn't any single Jesus. There are Jesuses and Jesuses and Jesuses and Jesuses.”
Harold Bloom, in a 2005 interview for his book, Jesus and Yahweh: The Names Divine.







Philip Pullman’s The Good Man Jesus and The Scoundrel Christ is part of Canongate’s excellent Myths series. Pullman is better known as the author of the controversial His Dark Materials trilogy for children, and his sceptic’s view of Christianity and faith have often caused controversy. Before the publication of The Good Man Jesus, he had already attracted hate mail from the faithful.

Strictly speaking, Pullman’s perspective in The Good Man Jesus and The Scoundrel Christ is that of the heretic, not the blasphemer. His fictionalized rendering of the Gospels creates a twin brother for Jesus—the scoundrel Christ—who tempts Jesus in the wilderness, rewrites and manipulates his story, and will ultimately engineer his betrayal. Not so long ago, Pullman would have been cast out of the Church for his writings; and just a few centuries ago, he would have been introduced to either the stake or the torturer.

The world’s great religions have an ebb and flow in their levels of tolerance. Pullman may be denounced from the modern-day pulpit we call the TV talk show, and his mailbox will probably carry the whiff of brimstone for a while. But he is unlikely to have to face down death threats, permanent bans on his book or howling mobs. If you take a look at how the world’s major religions have handled an author’s right to express his/ her own, possibly even blasphemous, views on faith and religion, it seems that the three major faiths are in very different places.

Christianity: In 1960, when Nikos Kazantzakis published The Last Temptation of Christ, there were still six years to go before the Pope would formally abolish the Index Librorum Prohibitorum. The Church’s official index of prohibited books had last been updated in 1948, and Christianity’s history of relative tolerance is very newly minted indeed. Calls for book bans in the US still come chiefly from the Bible Belt, and Pullman, like Kazantzakis before him, is likely to trigger fierce reactions. The Last Temptation was a narrative of Christ’s life from the perspective of a fallible, human Jesus; it remains one of the great literary works of its time, but was banned on several occasions.

Islam: Perhaps no religion has been more strongly involved in the free speech-versus-faith debate than Islam. True believers argue that their religion is often misunderstood and misrepresented, and the debate over who has the right to speak for the faithful is a thorny one. Ayatollah Khomeini’s fatwa against Salman Rushdie’s Satanic Verses was not approved of by many Muslims; but few believers would defend Rushdie’s right to explore the Satanic verses of the Koran in literary form, or his right to create his own version of the Prophet. Taslima Nasreen’s Lajja triggered death threats from Islamic fundamentalists, and sent the author into exile.

The stereotype of the Islamic reaction to any kind of literary or artistic dissection of the faith is exaggerated, especially in the West. But in this century, the fanatic fringe of Islam have been more willing to use violence—mob violence, bombings, death threats and fatwas—than most other believers. In the same period, research into the origins of the Koran has grown—and it seems necessary for modern-day Islam to find and create the space for debate rather than violence, which is ultimately just an extreme refusal to engage in debate.

Hinduism: In 1997, it was still possible for Kiran Nagarkar to write Cuckold—which dissected the relationship between Mirabai and Krishna from the point of view of Mirabai’s cuckolded husband—without attracting consequences more damaging than heated debate. And back in the 1970s, Gore Vidal’s admittedly bizarre Kalki could create a cult leader who claimed to be the final avatar of Vishnu, without consequence. Much of the protests from fanatic Hindus have focused on academic works since then—but there have also been very few works of fiction that question Hindu beliefs. Scholars such as DN Jha, James Laine and Wendy Doniger have been repeatedly attacked by what Ashok Malik calls “a collective of the intellectually inadequate, the professionally frustrated and the plain bigoted”, who “represent the collapse of Hindu politico-intellectual space into a caricature of the very Talibanism it opposes”.

Three religions, three evolving approaches to artistic freedom and tolerance. As the Pullman protests gather force this week, perhaps the path for readers to follow would be the Buddhist path—mindful engagement, an abjuration of violence and an awareness of the impermanence of both skepticism and fanaticism. At least, I can't remember the last time there was a Buddhist fatwa.

Delhi: a partial reading list

(This is an old story--compiled this list in 2006 for Outlook, but can't find it in my archives. It needs updating, but I still love most of the books featured here.)

The Delhi reading list









City of Djinns: William Dalrymple (Penguin)



First published in 1993, William Dalrymple's exuberant account of a year in Delhi wears its age lightly. As the writer and his wife meet eunuchs, gently sozzled taxi drivers, nostalgic Anglo-Indians and the mandatory batty landlord, Delhi's exasperations and comforts become theirs to claim. Running parallel to the personal story of the Dalrymples is the crisp account of historical Delhi, from the first city of the British Empire to the heart of Mughal rule to Indraprastha. Necessary reading for the outsider; pure entertainment for the insider.



The Delhi Omnibus (Percival Spear, Narayani Gupta, R E Frykenberg) (OUP)



If you have room for only one reader about the city, this is it. Percival Spear's two books were published between 1945-1950, but still offer an authoritative account of the history of Delhi, and of the city's ups and downs in the twilight of the Mughal Empire. Narayani Gupta's account of Delhi covers the last years of the Mughals, examines Delhi's role in the 1857 uprising, and looks at the city after Independence. The essays collated and edited by R E Frykenberg cover personalities as disparate as Nizamuddin Auliya and Herbert Baker, and look at Delhi's architecture, population and cultural growth.



The Oxford India Mirza Ghalib (Editor, Ralph Russell; OUP)



Ghalib came to Delhi from Agra around 1810, as a newly married man aged thirteen, wrote prolifically if rarely lucratively, sparred with his rival Zauq at Bahadur Shah Zafar's court, and survived the savage upheavals of 1857, dying in 1869 in poverty. Ralph Russell's reader is perhaps the most comprehensive introduction to Ghalib's life, times and work, blending scholarship with lighter anecdotes about Ghalib's famous love of mangoes. If Russell's voluminous tome is too daunting, try Gulzar's slim 221-page life of Ghalib (Rupa & Co), which explores Ghalib's Delhi in detail, from the world of the courts to the crowded Old Delhi mohalla the poet lived in.



Rich Like Us: Nayantara Sahgal (HarperCollins)



Published in 1985, Rich Like Us was Sahgal's blistering analysis of the Emergency imposed by her first cousin, Indira Gandhi. Several of Sahgal's novels have explored the politics of newly independent India, and readers might want to read Rich Like Us alongside A Situation in New Delhi. Sonali, a young, idealistic civil servant, is made to suffer for objecting to the establishment of a new soft-drink factory; the deal exposes much of the ruthless corruption of the Emergency regime. Rose is an Englishwoman here to be part of a family that doesn't want her; when she stumbles across too much information, her stepson, a government minister, seeks to have her removed. Sahgal was scathing about the involvement of the elite, from bureaucrats to lawyers to politicians, in the cruelty and oppressiveness of the Emergency, and she made her points in style.



Delhi: Khushwant Singh (Penguin)



The grand old sardar of Indian literature is something of an icon in Delhi, and his fondness for Scotch, scholarship and gossip is legendary. "I return to Delhi as I return to my mistress Bhagmati when I have had my fill of whoring in foreign lands," begins Delhi: A Novel. This bawdy, lubricious, ambitious work fell short of his early novels--I Shall Not Hear the Nightingale and Train to Pakistan, but it's still fun to read. The narrator is an ageing journalist attempting to cover 700 years of Delhi's history with help from courtesans, eunuchs and the odd foreign lady archaeologist, but as he warns, this often reads like "The Fucking Man's Guide to Delhi".



The Brainfever Bird: I Allan Sealy (Picador)



Brain Fever Bird shifts between St Petersburg and Delhi, and I don't know about the citizens of St Petersburg , but the citizens of Delhi have rarely been the recipients of such a wonderful love letter. The story, a tangled tale of biological warfare, puppetry and plague, pales before Sealy's descriptions of the city, from the "shrunken, much-molested stream"of the Yamuna to the grimy alleys of the Old City, where Razia's ancient story may still be played out through a puppet show, to Dilli, its brashness softened by the "pear-coloured light". "Of all loves city love comes slowest. Compare country love: quick, hot, easy. Or the sudden deep love of a woman." In a later novel, Sealy would write of Delhi that it was a wonderful mistress but a bad wife; but this book commemorated his affair to remember with the city.



Dil-O-Daanish: Krishna Sobti (Katha Books)



Translated into The Heart Has Its Reasons, this award-winning novel follows the fortunes of a joint family in the Chandni Chowk of the early 19th century. Sobti knows the twists and turns of relationships in a large Indian family as well as she knows the twisting, crowded, lively alleyways of Old Delhi.



The Last Mushaira of Delhi: Farhatullah Beg



Farhatullah Beg's quirky The Last Mushaira of Delhi is hard to find, but worth the search. Farhatullah used the true account of one of the last great gatherings of poets in Delhi, in the time of Bahadur Shah Zafar, as the backdrop, weaving fictionalised tales of the great masters of the couplet and the ghazal into the picture. The title is sometimes translated as "The Last Candle", referring to the practice of setting a lighted candle before the poet whose turn it is to recite.



Twilight in Delhi: Ahmed Ali (New Directions Press; Norton Books)



Ahmed Ali's classic account of the living city walled off and rendered a pale shadow of itself when Delhi became New Delhi was written in 1940. He follows the tribulations of Mir Nihal, a nobleman living in Old Delhi whose childhood memories of 1857 revive when the British begin to replace the Mughals as the rulers of the city, and when their "New Delhi" gradually leaches Old Delhi of its colour and power. Through shifting relationships, descriptions of kite battles in the skies, tales of courtesans and a poignant account of the slaughter of a pigeon fancier's beloved birds, Ali captures a Delhi that no longer survives except in memory. Anita Desai fans might see a resemblance between Mir Nihal, condemned to see his world crumble around him, and Nur, the ageing Urdu poet of In Custody, who has also found a final refuge in the lanes of Old Delhi even as he loses language, poetry and the past.



Trees of Delhi: Pradeep Krishen (Dorling Kindersley)



There are many reasons to hoard your copy of Trees in Delhi: the beautiful drawings, the intelligent leaf guide that allows even neophytes to identify unusual and common varieties of trees, the dollops of linguistic and cultural history that lace the descriptions of trees. The best reason of all is that this book, almost a decade in the making, allows you to rediscover the city, its avenues, monuments and small pockets of peace, in the company of an enthusiastic and passionately knowledgeable guide.



Altu-Faaltu: Ranjit Lal (IndiaInk)



If Delhi is the city of politicians, migrants, khandaani families and artists, it is also home to monkeys—often more entertaining and better-behaved than any of the above. Ranjit Lal's delightful saga romps through the deserted monuments of old Tughlaqabad and the greenery of the Ridge as you follow the adventures of Altu-Faltu, the insidious Suna Hai and a bunch of simians struggling to establish who will be primates inter pares.

Speaking Volumes: Under construction-the great Delhi novel

(Published in the Business Standard, March 22, 2010)

Drawing a literary map of Bombay, or Calcutta, is a relatively straightforward exercise: writers fall into neat categories, and time periods, and claim their neighbourhoods easily.

But as a recent collection of writings on Delhi indicates, this is the original Trickster City. In most of its centuries, Delhi has hosted more writers than it has nurtured them: the capital has been the resting place, the halt between stages of a writer’s career rather than the inspiration for great writing. Foreign correspondents and old Asia hands pass through Dilli on their way to Ayodhya or Kashmir or Maoist Chattisgarh. After the last mushaira in Bahadur Shah Zafar’s time, Delhi has housed poets, but there has been no great outpouring of Delhi poetry—nothing to match Bombay’s line-up of Nissim Ezekiel, Dom Moraes, Arun Kolatkar, Adil Jussawala and Jeet Thayil.

At Penguin’s Spring Fever festival, a final session was dedicated to the Trickster City. That’s also the title of a collection of writings, translated from Bahurupiya Shahar, which illustrates one of the big problems of writing about this city. Literary Delhi is usually either South Delhi or Old Dilli, with the party palaces, bleak concrete jungles and constantly resettled slums of North Delhi unchronicled, until now.

For some of us, listening to William Dalrymple and Mahmood Farooqui brought in a sense of déjà vu. Dalrymple was at the threshold of his career as a flamboyant historian when he wrote City of Djinns in 1994, and as he said, the city he captured in that book doesn’t exist any more. Mahmood Farooqui began his dastangoi performances several years ago, as a kind of literary curiosity, a revival of the storytelling traditions of the past: his book on Delhi in 1857 will soon be out. For Dilliwallas, much as we celebrate the achievements of Dalrymple or Farooqui, watching them in performances that have become familiar over a decade is a reminder of how few Delhi writers, and great Delhi novels, there have been.

Part of this is what might be called the Great Washington Novel conundrum: there are great writers from Washington, but no iconic fiction to match the great New York novels. Nayantara Sahgal chronicled political Delhi in novels like Rich Like Us and A Situation in New Delhi, but it is hard to pull off truly great writing about administrative capitals—it’s like pulling off the great oil novel, as Amitav Ghosh once remarked. It is theoretically possible, but it doesn’t happen that often.

Among younger writers, there’s been something of a shift. An earlier collection of short stories, Delhi Noir, had a rocking premise—capturing the underbelly of a city that has only a thin barrier of gated communities dividing its pleasant surface from its extreme darkness. But its version of Delhi was closer to flabby paunch than dark underbelly; Trickster City with its blend of rough-hewn, unstylised writing and sharp, acute observations offers a much more disturbing take on Dilli.

Aatish Taseer and Mridula Koshy have both produced debut works of fiction that take you into the complexities of Delhi: instead of the seven (or thirteen) cities of its historical past, today’s Delhi offers seven (or more) cities co-existing uneasily with one another. And novelist Rana Dasgupta is working on a non-fiction narrative about the city—it’s hard to capture a city that is constantly reinventing itself, a city always Under Construction, but Dasgupta has the skills and vision to pull it off.

The classic, iconic Delhi novel was evoked by Dalrymple in his reading—Ahmad Ali never published another book after Twilight in Delhi, and was an unhappy exile who felt himself neglected in Lahore. But he refused to come back to Delhi, because his city—the city of his past, and the city of his imagination—no longer existed for him. He didn’t want to see what it had become.

In the Delhi of the 1980s, bahurupiyas could still be found in the Old City. A bahurupiya is, literally, a person of many faces, an inhabitant of many avatars. Most bahurupiyas stuck to imitating the gods and goddesses—more money in that—but sometimes, they also commented, behind their shifting masks, on the political scandals and struggles of the day. In the Delhi of 2010, there are few practicing bahurupiyas left, but few images capture this city better. It’s a trickster city, a shapeshifter, occupying many versions of itself at any given point of time—and it may finally be finding its chroniclers.

Speaking Volumes: @famouswriter

(Published in the Business Standard, March 15, 2010)

If you track Facebook, Twitter and the arcane world of author sites, you’ll find more ghosts there than in the average cemetery. The hulks of sites circa the early 2000s, with their unlovely designs and basic, TimesNewRoman fonts, speak of books that have long since tumbled off the bestseller lists.

Closer to our time, Facebook is littered with invitations to book launches, book discussion groups, about-the-author sites—most of them have the lifespan of fireflies. Authors come and go on Twitter, the social media site where you post your life in 140-character “tweets”. Some leave Twitter after being tweetburned—being indiscreet on the Internet is like getting drunk at a book launch, embarrassing fodder for the gossips—or discover that it takes more than a random weekly update to draw in fans.

In the previous generation of writers, the big filter was the media. If you worked your interviews well, gave good soundbytes and made the correct literary festival appearances, that was enough. For the generation of writers working today, the ones who learn to manage their online presence have an edge over their peers. Most authors do the basics: get the website up, start a blog, get onto one of the big social networking sites like Facebook or Twitter. But learning how to survive on the Internet is a different matter—here’s a look at three different approaches.

Margaret Atwood: Like Salman Rushdie and a few other writers who grew up long before the Net did, Atwood remained a fascinated observer of life online for a while. Back in 2006, Atwood invented the LongPen: a device that allows authors to sign books in faraway locations using a stylus and the Internet.

In 2009, she became one of the first authors of her generation to join the likes of Harlan Coben and Neil Gaiman on Twitter. With over 30,000 followers, her Twitter feed is both popular and eminently useful. She will send greetings to “Delhi students” after one tweets her, link to book readings and chat with readers about everything from her book The Edible Woman to Twestivals (Twitter festivals). Atwood seems to have found the perfect balance between tweeting and sticking to her extremely busy writer’s schedule.

Richard Dawkins: Like Stephen King and Neil Gaiman, Richard Dawkins was an early Netevangelist. His site, RichardDawkins.Net, operates like a cross between a blog and a forum, and for years was a wonderful space in which to follow the Darwin debates, or the clashing of swords between atheists and true believers. Very recently, Dawkins hit the headlines when he announced that he now needed to take over comments moderation from the previous forum moderator, after receiving increasingly abusive responses. (One comment referred to him as a “"a suppurating rat’s rectum inside a dead skunk”.)

His decision kicked off a brief storm and accusations of censorship, but that outcry is based on a fundamental misunderstanding of the nature of free speech—and the nature of the Internet. Most of the good blogs and forums are moderated, to keep out Spam, and also to keep out Internet trolls—abusive, often anonymous, commentators who are often responsible for the degeneration of a good argument into an exchange of insults.

Most serious Netizens take the view that their forum, blog or website is an extension of their homes: you’re welcome to join in the discussion, but if you’re abusive, expect to be kicked out. As blogger Great Bong (Arnab Ray) put it at the launch of his book, May I Heb Your Attention Pliss, “Don’t take a dump in my drawing room.” Dawkins hopes that comments moderation will allow for a healthier and less pointlessly vicious exchange of views, and since he has one of the great science writing forums, we’ll watch that space with interest.

Laila Lalami: In the online literary world, Lalami became famous as the blogger Moorish Girl long before she started her career as a young and promising writer. Her blog demonstrates the best way to use a blog to further your work: instead of seeing it as an advertisement for the book (“yet another great review for my work!! How cool is that!!!”), blog for fun, share your passions, and share your life. Fantasy writer Neil Gaiman does this to great effect on his blog, sharing work, his relationship with his cats, and the secrets of bee-keeping with thousands of fans.

What’s lovely about Moorish Girl as a blog is that it’s kept pace with Lalami’s growth as a writer. As her writing schedule demands more time, her posts have focused less on literary links, and more on the writing life—it’s a fascinating way to chart the emergence and growth of a writer, and it keeps her fans loyal.

Three different approaches, on three different forums—Twitter, a discussion board and a blog—but at the heart of them is something elementally simple. Dawkins, Atwood and Lalami—the century’s greatest science writer, one of our literary mavens, and a rising novelist—really like the Net, and feel at home online. It’s the only way to build a genuine fan-base on the web.

Speaking Volumes: Mieville's Rules

(Published in the Business Standard, March 8, 2010)

Most readers hoard the memories of books that were turning points in their lives—the brief, fleeting crushes that left little lasting imprint, the ones that dented your heart, and the ones that rampaged like tsunamis through your tidily ordered universe.

China Mieville’s Perdido Street Station was one of these. It was light years away from sword-and-sorcery, wizards-and-orcs fantasy. His imaginary metropolis, New Crobuzon, is corrupt and filled with wonders; his monsters draw from mythology but also from the stuff of urban nightmare. Like Mervyn Peake’s Gormenghast, Perdido Street Station changed the rules of epic fantasy, sealing Mieville’s reputation as one of the great modern mythmakers.

For the fanboys—and fanwomen—who showed up for each leg of Mieville’s India tour, it’s not just his fiction that’s a draw, impressive as his oeuvre of genre-bending novels from King Rat to The City & The City have been. Mieville teaches writing, and has some of the sharpest and most acute views on craft, genre and the changing shape of fantasy and SF today—and is outspoken about his Leftist political views.

The epigraph to The City & The City cites, among the “countless writers” he’s indebted to, Raymond Chandler, Franz Kafka, Alfred Kubin, Jan Morris, and Bruno Schulz. One of the greats of crime noir, a master of existentialist literary writing, a surrealist illustrator, a travel maven and a Polish critic and writer—there are no literary ghettos in Mieville’s mind. Here’s a look at some of the literary debates of the day, via Mieville.



On the war between genre fiction and “literary” fiction: “There was a war. We won. But almost nobody noticed,” Mieville commented at one reading. He’s right on both counts. Fantasy and SF are too easily—and too often—dismissed by lazy readers, though both genres have a heritage stretching back to the earliest forms of mythology and myth-making in human literature.

Last year, veteran SF writer Kim Stanley Robinson sparked a debate when he argued that present-day SF was increasingly sophisticated and far more “about now” than most literary novels. Robinson’s take on the blindness of a literary prize like the Booker attracted frankly ignorant reactions, as when critic and Booker judge John Mullan said he “was not aware of science fiction”. Mullan continued with the classic, offensive stereotype of SF readers and writers, “It is in a special room in book shops, bought by a special kind of person who has special weird things they go to and meet each other.”

This, as writers like Mieville and on the fantasy side, George RR Martin, know, has never prevented SF and fantasy from having a vast, engaged and often fiercely bright readership—but as Mieville points out, nobody on the “literary” side noticed.

On the difference between genre and literary writing: “We lost the war when they stole the adjective ‘literary’,” Mieville commented at another reading. This is true: “literary” has become shorthand either as a kind of stamp of approval and a seal of lasting worth, or, in the last decade, as a kind of putdown of pretentiousness, in much the same way “academic” briefly became shorthand for “jargonized”. But the underlying assumption is that a work classified as SF or fantasy cannot possibly be literary, despite the presence of stylists like Gaiman, Martin and Mieville himself.

On literary fiction usurping genre territory: In a now-classic interview in The Believer, Mieville spoke of the Atwood manouevre, referring to writers who “write things that are clearly weird or in the fantastic tradition and then bend over backwards to try to distance themselves from genre”.

For a literary reader who has no exposure to genre writing, the post-apocalypse world in Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, or Margaret Atwood’s excursions into dystopias, or Ian McEwan’s referencing of neurology and physics, are startlingly new. For many genre readers, these writers are rehashing old tropes—sometimes, as in McCarthy’s case, very well, but often, as in Atwood’s case, reinventing the wheel. But as Mieville and others have also commented, it’s an uneven playing field—the best of literary fiction is almost always compared to the worst of genre fiction. Perhaps one way out would be to have a no-holds barred Best of the Best competition—and I suspect literary fiction would lose.

On the many rules of writing: Mieville’s basic point is that most of the “rules”, barring the grammar tips, don’t work. Lush, rich writing is different from overwrought prose; and terse, laconic prose is not necessarily better than either. I’ll leave you with his comment on the often-repeated commandment to keep your prose spare and precise: “Spare. Is the English language running out of words? Do we have a word shortage?” As long as he’s around, not a chance.