| ashu |
Posted
on 20-Nov-01 07:15 AM
This appeared in today's The Kathmandu Post. I am delighted to see Samrat having fun with his sucess. I must say that his sense of humor seems somwhat
American -- i.e. an ability to laugh at yourself.
Enjoy,
oohi
ashu
*********************
‘God of Small Dingalings’ and other things
By Samrat Upadhyay
Since the publication, in July, of my story collection Arresting God in Kathmandu and the subsequent book tour that took me to several US cities, I have often paused to think about where it all started. I mean, how did this damn thing happen?
There has been a stunned quality to my experience, almost like Robert De Niro’s query to the mirror, and to the world at large: "You talkin’ to me?" Except, of course, my experience doesn’t have that tinge of terror that skittered above De Niro’s eyebrows in "Taxi Driver." No, my feelings are more along the lines of, "Who? Me?" like the nerdy boy who can’t believe when the most beautiful girl
in the school traipses across the dance floor, smiling, to ask his hand for a waltz.
That booklovers of this world (well, only America, but what with the war and everything these days don’t we get the feeling that America is the world?), have paused by my book in bookstores, found the cover irresistible, picked it up, patted the bald head of the gentleman looking out of the window in the cover photograph, drooled over the exotic name of the author, and finally doled out a whopping twelve dollars of their hard-earned money so that I can get some royalties—the entire scenario leaves me breathless.
I mean, when was the last time I myself meted out twelve dollars for a book? As a graduate student, I always managed to procure assigned textbooks from the library, and now, as an English professor, I get books for free by merely asking. Examination copies, or "freebies" as we fondly call them in academic parlance, arrive in my department mailbox every alternate days. I get exotic titles such as "The Eye of the Poet," "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius" (David Egger’s highly lauded postmodernist novel, but the title a veiled reference to my own book, I’m sure), and even, in a bizarre unconscious craving for professional switcheroo, "A Short Guide to Writing About Biology" and "A Short Guide to Writing About Chemistry."
Sometimes I get books I haven’t asked for, with a note from the publisher: "Dear Professor Upadhyay. Enclosed please find examination copies of the books you requested." This trick relies on the age-old stereotype of the absent-minded professor, and at times I have fallen into this trap. Only last week I sent a note to Nutty Professor Publications, thanking them for their sixth edition of "The Idiot’s Guide to Living in a Cave in Afghanistan And Discussing Vedanta with Osama."
Despite my shock, when reviewers started pontificating about Arresting God in Kathmandu in US newspapers, I got hold of myself and instantly divided the reviewers into three categories: The Highly Intelligent Reviewers (those who praised my book); The Rookie Reviewers (those who liked most stories, and either disliked or weren’t sure about a few); and the Dumbasses of This World (those who panned my book).
Of the last, I especially had very strong opinions. First, that the Dumbasses of This World didn’t understand high art. If they had, they’d have noticed how skillfully I wove in an image of the marble phallus in all of my stories—a subtle, poignant symbol that depicted the repressed sexuality of postcolonial Third World peoples, folks who had the beauty and serenity of marble but couldn’t ejaculate their frustrations at their corrupt leaders.
Second, the Dumbasses of This World were frustrated writers themselves, and they simply couldn’t bear to see one more writer—especially from a Third World country where everyone was supposedly to be terribly spiritually happy but not so smart—in print. For years, the Dumbasses had been trying to publish their own dog-eared manuscripts with titles such as "A Staggering Work of A Fartbreaking Genius" or "Arresting Dad in Swayambhu—With a Prostitute" or even "God of Small Dingalings," the last one a sonorous reference to their own impotence.
As I discovered on my book tour, the audience of my book, too, fall into distinct categories. The doe-eyed ones sit like good students in the front seats, as if awaiting instructions on The Art of Writing.
There is invariably an old Indian lady in the audience, smiling, eyes slightly damp in memory of her own son, who no doubt looks just like me. There’s the guffawing reader, who laughs at every other word, at even the articles of speech, so that I say "The" and there’s laughter. There’s the suspicious reader, possibly a young Nepali lad whose student visa has expired and who is surviving on Ramen noodles, who sits somewhere in the middle rows, hand on chin, not really listening (he has no intention of buying my book) but trying to decide whether my accent is more American or Nepali or—if he’s managed to talk to the old Indian lady beforehand—Indian.
And in the midst of my reading, the Thai green curry I had for dinner rumbles in my stomach, and I let out a small phooey. The doe-eyed students translate the sound and the smell into an important lesson on how to evoke the senses; the Indian lady misses her son even more; the laughing reader is hurting from laughter; and our Nepali Ramen noodles expert finally nails down my accent—Nepali.
(By special arrangement)
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