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Pages from The Failure Handbook |
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14th September 2008 |
So here's a brief primer on what to do when your book has not won an
award it was shortlisted for. The first thing, when the winner's name
is announced, is to put on your least fake happy face and raise your
hands where the entire room can see them. Clap. The second thing is to
reach into your pocket and make sure that the acceptance speech you
had hurriedly scribbled that afternoon is still in your pocket, and
push it further in so that it doesn't fall out to be picked up
later. By the time you've done this your close friends will have
turned to you and inquired if you're okay. It's normally difficult to
have something witty ready for this unless you're one of those people
who prepares for failure, or one of those Kipling-inspired folks who
can actually treat those two imposters, failure and success, just the
same. So say something lame, like "maybe next time" or "it's okay, I
knew I wouldn't win". The judge who announced the winning book's name
is now listing its qualities. You will probably take each strength of
the winner, invert it and take it as an implicit weakness of your own
book, but if denial is your strong suit, conclude that one of the
other losing books has this particular shortcoming. Ensure that you
accept at least one of the strengths of the winner as your own
weakness. Not doing so might cause your denial mechanism to collapse
altogether.
Now comes the hard part, or the easy part: please join us for
cocktails. The wine might taste a little vinegary, the kathi rolls too
spicy, and the dessert not chocolaty enough. If you're lucky, one of
the judges might come up to you and privately whisper that they liked
your book in an attempt to make you feel less disheartened. If you
aren't that fortunate, the judges will either avoid you or just smile
when you pass by on the way to or from the snacks. Don't throw the
wine in their face, unless it's really vinegary.
Line up for the photo-op with good humour. Try not to be irritated
when the winner is delayed by a mob of autograph-seekers and
hand-pumpers. When the photo is finally taken, congratulate the winner
with a broad smile. Don't strain your cheek muscles too much; the last
thing you need right now is an aching jawbone.
The evening will finally end. You will return to the guesthouse and
begin to reflect on the nature of awards, and of writing. I don't
write for awards, you will tell yourself. I write because I must. I
write because I love language. But still, you will find yourself
thinking, it's good to get a little recognition. I don't think they
get my book, they don't really really get it. It will be quiet in the
room, just the soothing clatter of a fan overhead, and you will
perhaps fish out your acceptance speech from your pocket. You will
find yourself thanking quietly the people you were hoping to thank in
public, you will feel love for them that is perhaps stronger than you
might have felt if you were saying their names out in front of a
crowded room. You will feel again the power of the lessons you have
learned along this hard way. And as you are remembering everything
that this writer's life has brought to you, sleep will come and it
will be peaceful and dreamless.
The next day you will call the organizers on your way to the airport
and thank them profusely, and you will mean it. When you finally make
it to security check, the scanner will find a metal feather--the
memento the organizers thought fit to give you--and your bag will be
put to the side. The khaki-wearer will ask you what it's for. You'll
tell him that it's for a novel you wrote. He will then look up at you
and say: 'Aap Ekta Kapoor ko jaante hain?' You'll admit that you
haven't met her but suspect that you might somewhere done the
line. 'Kya aap unse sahmat hain?' he'll ask. You'll look at his face
and find the right answer: absolutely not. "Ye sab saas-bahu aur
machine gun. Is se ladies par psychological effect padta hai. Yeh
theek hai kya?" You will shake your head no. "Aap kuch kar rahe hain
iska?" Me? you will think. "Ek vakt ka khana miss ho jaye, serial
nahin miss hona chahiye. Mein bhugat raha hoon, na." Then he will
pause and again say: "Aap kuch kar rahe hain iske baare main?" Here's
someone who sees literature as something bigger than reviews and
awards and advances on royalty, you will think, someone who sees
writing as something that can solve his domestic problems. "I write
things the way they should be written," you will say, "and readers can
judge for themselves what is better." He will consider this for a
moment and then say: "Isse kuch nahin hoga."
This piece first appeared in Brunch on 14th September 2008. |
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| Aditya Pandey Says |
| 30th March 2009 |
| Hey Amitabha!! SSSup?? My question is just like that of Rahul Gupta...is this a personal experience?? |
| Rahul Gupta Says |
| 24th February 2009 |
| Hi Sir Though I didn't intend to read the entire article . But once started , I couldn't stop reading :) By the way , is this some sort of a personal experience of yours ?? :P |
| Shruti pandey Says |
| 13th December 2008 |
| Hi Amitabha , Your piece of writing is one that comes from heartfelt emotions. Unfortuantely I donot know what 'Brunch' is ? In which paper is it published? Are you writing another novel these days ? |
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