When the Pen Slipped from My Hand →

Somewhere along the way, I stopped writing. Not the kind I do on screens, with taps and thumbs. I mean real writing—the kind that once required careful strokes, a quiet mind, and a fountain pen that demanded you show up fully. I was raised in a home where learning to write was a rite of passage. It marked entry into the world of meaning. Every letter held weight. But slowly, speed took over. Convenience won. And something human slipped away. This piece is my attempt to pause and remember what that loss feels like—not with bitterness, but with affection.

Why I write

I’m asked a question often: Why do I write? This is something thrown at me by family and friends. It is difficult to explain “The Writers High”, if I may call it that. As I start to write my screen stares back at me. There’s a blank cursor as well. It will start to fill with ideas if I begin to write something coherent. And then ideas will take shape. But when writing, it is inevitable I see consistencies and inconsistences. The battle in my head will be a silent one. But it will be intense, until all of this is hammered into a cohesive shape—and something I feel convinced about. And one that I believe my editors will be convinced about as well. And eventually, all of this will be transmitted to a larger audience, whose minds I hope to sway and shape. When looked at from that perspective, this piece of writing, to me, is an act of rebellion against silence.

In fact, if I’ll go so far to say, that every creative act, such as painting an image, clicking a good picture, crafting an piece of music, dancing to the sounds of it in a manner that is unique, are all acts of defiance and acts of bravery.

If all of this sounds laughable, let me put it this way: we live in an age called the “consumption economy”. I guess it isn’t difficult to figure why. Every desire is a click away. And there is competition to fulfil our desires faster. I remember this conversation a while ago with TN Hari, co-founder of the Artha School of Entrepreneurship. In an earlier avatar, he co-founded Big Basket. That was when he raised an interesting question: How did people live before 10-minute delivery become a business model in urban India? He was right then. We’ve become passive consumers. What most of us have forgotten on our way here is that a fundamental human joy: the joy of creation, has been eroding, quietly. Our lives are now filled with the products of what other people want it to filled by. This is not to say modern life has its conveniences, there is an opportunity as well—to transition from being shift from silent consumers to becoming the curators of our destinies.

This is why I started with the simple act of beginning to write. When thought about, it is one of the most powerful medium of creation. But how many people can actually engage with it? It’s a decision to crystallize thought into language, to share one’s inner world with the outer.

This thought isn’t an original one. I first came across this while looking up advice to writers when on a particularly lean patch. That’s when I stumbled across this outstanding passage by Ta-Nehisi Caoates, an African American writer. “I strongly believe that writing is an act of courage. It’s almost an act of physical courage. You get up and you have this great idea. Maybe you were hanging out with your friends—you guys were having beers and you were talking about something. You had this idea and they said, ‘Wow, that’s brilliant! Someone should go write it.’”

But, his point was, how many people actually do it? That’s when it occurred, I am among those who go it.  When thought about, this can be extrapolated to so many other domains. We don’t give it much thought. But the seemingly humble act of preparing a meal is pure alchemy. The transformation of raw ingredients into something far greater than the sum of its parts. It's a ritual that nourishes more than the body; it feeds the soul, and offers a canvas for creativity and a bridge to connect with others. I guess this is everyone means when they say, “I miss my home!”

I’ve seen this in technology. Take coding. People think of it as something nerds do. However, my interactions with people who write good code have it they are polymaths. And code offers them the tools to build new worlds, solve complex problems, and bring ideas to life. In coding, they find a language and the means to create and innovate in a world that is otherwise boring.

What I do know basis experience is that the path from consumption to creation is fraught with resistance. All narrative glorifies the end product. But it hides the messy, nonlinear process of creation. The fear of not being good enough, of failure, looms large. But it is in the act of creation itself that we find growth, not merely in the accolades that may follow. Every attempt, every failure, is a step on the journey of self-discovery and mastery. To get on this path requires a conscious choice. It necessitates a reevaluation of how we spend our time, energy, and attention. It asks us to prioritize not what is easy or immediately gratifying but what is meaningful and fulfilling.

And now that I reach the limits of my word count, I see I have created something. Hopefully, it will resonate with my editors. And you. Despite feeling tired, I have rebelled against it. And created something. I found the physical courage to do it. What I now feel is a high that I may otherwise not have.

This is a slightly modified and longer version of what was originally published in Hindustan Times. All copyrights vest with Hindustan Times

On Writing

Writing is thinking, distilled.

Everyone has ideas that hit every other second. And ideas are a dime a dozen. But when those ideas are written down, gaps in thinking are exposed and as the idea through emerges on paper, tough questions stare at the writer. There is no running away from it.

A good writer use the many tools of the craft to can fool the world, but not for long. More importantly still, you cannot fool yourself. That is also why, writing is pure meditation as well.

Ernest Hemmingway: 1954 Nobel Acceptance Speech

Having no facility for speech-making and no command of oratory nor any domination of rhetoric, I wish to thank the administrators of the generosity of Alfred Nobel for this Prize.

No writer who knows the great writers who did not receive the Prize can accept it other than with humility. There is no need to list these writers. Everyone here may make his own list according to his knowledge and his conscience.

It would be impossible for me to ask the Ambassador of my country to read a speech in which a writer said all of the things which are in his heart. Things may not be immediately discernible in what a man writes, and in this sometimes he is fortunate; but eventually they are quite clear and by these and the degree of alchemy that he possesses he will endure or be forgotten.

Writing, at its best, is a lonely life. Organizations for writers palliate the writer’s loneliness but I doubt if they improve his writing. He grows in public stature as he sheds his loneliness and often his work deteriorates. For he does his work alone and if he is a good enough writer he must face eternity, or the lack of it, each day.

For a true writer each book should be a new beginning where he tries again for something that is beyond attainment. He should always try for something that has never been done or that others have tried and failed. Then sometimes, with great luck, he will succeed.

How simple the writing of literature would be if it were only necessary to write in another way what has been well written. It is because we have had such great writers in the past that a writer is driven far out past where he can go, out to where no one can help him.

I have spoken too long for a writer. A writer should write what he has to say and not speak it. Again I thank you.

What happens at a Lit Fest

Some times, all a writer has to do is simply describe what he sees and the story tells itself, my friend and former colleague Manu Joseph told me. “It can be both amusing and insightful.” Most of us who are familiar with Manu’s body of work know he is a terrific writer with three best-selling books to his credit.

This conversation occurred last year when we met at the Bangalore Literature Festival. He was there as a speaker at the grand finale last to speak on a very controversial theme: “How do you define nationalism?”

I’ll come to that debate and the characters in a little while.

It didn’t occur to me until way after hearing Manu’s insight that I was in a sweet spot.

On the one hand, I was among an audience that would get to listen to some stars that included formidable public intellectuals like Ramchandra Guha (who opened the proceedings), Nitin Pai (who co-founded the Takshashila Institution), cricketers like Rahul Dravid and Anil Kumble, policy makers of consequence like Y.V. Reddy (former governor of the Reserve Bank of India), fiery writers in Indian languages like Perumal Murugan, and the glamourous actor-turned-writer Twinkle Khanna. 

Then, on the other hand, I was offered the privilege to moderate a discussion by an all-star panel around Aadhaar — a project around which controversy had peaked last year. It was also the time when The Aadhaar Effect, a book I had co-authored on the the theme had just hit the shelves.

Aadhaar was originally thought up to create a unique identity for 1.3 billion Indians. It has got the world’s attention and was under much scrutiny. On stage with me were Jairam Ramesh, a member of Parliament and author of multiple books, Arun Maira, writer and former member of the Planning Commission, and Sanjay Jain, chief innovation officer at IIM Ahmedabad. In an earlier avatar, Jain was part of the core team that worked on creating the infrastructure for Aadhaar.

With the benefit of hindsight, I now know Manu was right. I don’t have much to do here except describe the various kinds of creatures I saw off stage, on stage, behind the stage, and describe them. This story will tell itself.

Creature #1: The Politicians

Kanhaiya Kumar and Jairam Ramesh had the audiences—me included — eating out their hands. The former, a student leader, is perceived by some as having political ambitions. Manu was on stage with him as one of the speakers trying to define what may the idea of nationalism be. 

Jairam Ramesh is somebody whom I have been trying to reach out to for a while so I may engage in a conversation to understand what his stated position on Aadhaar is. For various reasons, though, we haven’t had a chance to meet. My understanding was that while he started out as a votary of the idea of a universal identity, he now belongs to the camp opposed to it. Why did his stated position change is something that remains unclear to me. That is why I was delighted to share the stage with him; it offered a chance to ask him point-blank about where he stands.

Back to Kanhaiya Kumar. On stage at the finale on Sunday evening were people of all kinds, including Makarand Paranjape (a teacher from JNU), Manu Joseph, and Suketu Mehta, another globally acclaimed writer. Paranjape is a teacher, author and, in the public domain, is known as someone who leans to the “right wing". All of them were there to articulate their views on where to draw the thin line that separates nationalism and jingoism.

Each speaker was given five minutes to make their opening remarks. Paranjape opened with a measured tone on a scholarly note. By the time the mike reached Kanhaiya Kumar, he had heard pretty much everyone speak, Manu and Mehta included.

I watched with much fascination as Kanhaiya Kumar gently asked the moderator if he could stand up to make his opening remarks. Everybody had made their points while seated. Initially, the moderator politely declined. But Kanhaiya’s “humble" demeanour, amplified by his simple kurta and frayed trousers, conveyed to the audience an impression that he was the “outsider", the kind who inevitably gets “left out". That was his calling card.

He addressed everyone on stage as “sir" to drive home the point that he is indeed the “outsider". I thought I could see the audience members’ heads stop working as Kanhaiya started to speak and their hearts go into overdrive—mine included. All of us shouted that he be allowed to stand up to speak. Kanhaiya got what he wanted.

He made his opening remarks in broken English as opposed to the urbane language deployed by everyone else on stage. Those remarks in English sounded like prepared ones. He then apologized to the audience and told everyone his native tongue isn’t English and that he grew up in the hinterlands of Bihar. So, Hindi is the language he is most comfortable in and asked for permission to speak in Hindi.

In South India, Hindi is an imposition. But coming as an “earnest plea" from a young boy, our hearts went out to him. “Yes, yes!" we screamed. 

That was the only opening he needed. My colleague Ramnath, who doesn’t understand Hindi, stood in awe of all that Kanhaiya Kumar said. I admit I was taken in too and tweeted about it while he spoke. “My idea of nationalism does not include imposing Hindi on everyone," he said in chaste Hindi. I don’t know how many people understood all of what he said.

Unlike everyone else, he wasn’t speaking to a script, but unleashing rebuttals to those whom he didn’t agree with, most of which were directed at Paranjape. To do that, he was deploying rhetoric, not logic. The nuances were all lost. For instance, “If you think I lean to the Left, yes, I lean to the left, because I am among those who got left out."

With the benefit of hindsight, I now know he said nothing of consequence. But we applauded wildly as he went on a monologue that lasted all of 12 minutes—way past the mandated brief. Clearly, he was in political career-launch mode. I wonder how far he may go! 

I would have loved to talk with him. I ran into him later in the evening. We were staying at the hotel and on the same floor. It was time to exchange pleasantries. But he seemed tired and reluctant to engage. When I told him, though, that I write for a good part of my living, I thought I could see his demeanor change to suggest he may be amenable to conversing. I cannot be too sure. It is entirely possible I may have imagined the change. But gut feel told me there is a supremely confident politician in the making here. I shared my contact details with a companion the Supreme Court has mandated must accompany him at all times. He didn’t share his details. But I wait in the hope he may touch base sometime. I like listening to stories of all kinds.

It was much the same thing with Jairam Ramesh. I was naïve to imagine I could corner him. Just when I thought I had bowled a googly at him on stage about how the Congress party, which he represents, was in power when Aadhaar was thought up and first deployed, and that his voice as a critic now comes across as rather grating and politically-motivated, it didn’t take him much thinking to fend the googly off with a straight bat. “It’s a great idea. But badly implemented," he said, to much applause.

In response to a question from someone in the audience on whether they ought to get themselves an Aadhaar number and link everything to it as is now being mandated, he got away by saying that the law must be obeyed. But to oppose anything you do not agree with is part of the fundamental fabric of a democracy. The flourish with which he said it had me flustered and the audience on his side.

And I don’t know when and how he slipped in that his position changes as his role changes. This was a line I had heard from another member of Parliament while researching the project. Ramesh’s stated position went unchallenged and unanswered. I felt compelled to ask everyone to applaud for him. 

You don’t get to be politician by being stupid. You get to be one because you are smarter than everyone else.

Creature #2: The Critics

Most people at literary fests are the genuinely curious kinds who want to know more about the world. These form the quiet majority. They are keen to listen to people talk, engage in conversations with others, participate in events, buy books, engage in banter with assorted people, try out all kinds of food, and pick some trinkets with much gusto at events the organizers put together after much thought.

It is the vocal minority, though, which gets written about. These are the critics and regulars at all lit fests and are a peculiar breed. There are some traits that bind them.

• They carry an impression of themselves—that they are created of a different mud as opposed to the “masses" who frequent cinema halls to watch Shah Rukh Khan serenade his love interests in the Bollywood version of Switzerland.

• They also imagine themselves as more intelligent than everybody else because they are professional critics often employed at a media house. So, they think it incumbent to criticize everything. 

• These creatures get invited to events like these and are put up at plush places. They talk well, look good, and carry a certain demeanor. And, for all practical purposes, they “travel in a pack". But the serious critics are often ignored and work in mofussil places.

• Funnier still is that, unlike the Shah Rukh Khan fan who will pay hard-earned money to watch a movie first day first show, this vocal minority pays nothing for anything. But their criticism is taken seriously. “The rooms at Cannes last week were so much more better than the crap ones here," for instance.

That is why I assumed I’d be up against a “hostile audience" because by all accounts, they have decided that Aadhaar is evil. Why, I wondered, and poked around a bit. Some interesting nuggets emerged. 

Take the media critic for instance. This creature is of two kinds — the uninformed and the idiot. The uninformed exists because it hasn’t done its homework and lucked out to get to where it is.

The idiot exists because it can scream from the rooftops, but lacks substance. That is the tragedy with both Indian liberals and those on the right wing. Push them hard and they cannot defend their position beyond 500 words in print. But their decibel levels are high on television they are parasites to boot. Their existence is incumbent on real critics who do the hard work and offer feedback from the ground. Idiots don’t have the muscle to do the hard work. So, they wait until the homework is done by real reporters who go to the field to find out what may the deficiencies be and file meticulous reports.

Idiots then pick and choose what can cause the most impact, craft it to suit their interests, and bomb the place with it. All else is ignored conveniently. When questioned, they have a standard question to throw: who funds you?

Popular narratives on most media platforms are shaped by either the uninformed or the idiot.

So, as a moderator of a panel discussion on Aadhaar, my job was to place a complex theme into perspective. And through all the time I was there, I was asked by various people what I think of Project Aadhaar because I had a “Speaker" tag on my neck and many knew I am there as a moderator. 

Just that I may place the conversation into perspective, I had to state it in as many words on a public forum—that I think to provide a unique identity to over a billion people is a staggering accomplishment. And to completely diss the project is stupid. I could see a few angry faces in the front grunt in disagreement and yell that I shut up. This was stuff they didn’t want to hear. It doesn’t fit the narratives that the uninformed and the idiots believe in.

Some media outlets and social media handles reported the next morning that I was heckled by a packed audience. This was in contrast to what I could see from stage. I thought I could see an audience keen to listen to different perspectives. Because, until then, the only narrative most people have been told is that Aadhaar is a dystopian idea and intended to hijack their lives.

But because local media reports had it that I was heckled, I thought I’d check with a few friends who were in the audience. They told me the only dissonant notes were by some angry voices in the front. Darned right I was. The larger audience wanted to listen in to the multiple perspectives. But if it got reported, it would hijack the contemporary narrative now controlled by a vocal minority.

Manu thought the audience was a receptive one as well. That is why my initial irritation gave way to much amusement when my colleague Ramnath reminded me of a quote by Oscar Wilde. “There is much to be said in favour of modern journalism. By giving us opinions of the uneducated, it keeps us in touch with the ignorance of the community."

This is not to suggest I have no biases. “Why," I argued in my head, “does Twinkle Khanna have to be at a lit fest? What is her claim to fame? Is it because she is pretty? What were the organizers thinking? Or smoking? And why is she always surrounded by people who want selfies with her?" I always maintained her book sold as many copies as it did because she is pretty and was a popular actor.

Another part of me confronted myself, though, and said that it is a terribly unfair thing to suggest. I haven’t read her book and arrived at a conclusion based on some assumptions—not the truth. I haven’t met her or made any attempt to meet her either. But later in the evening, over dinner, Manu told me that he has met her while on an assignment and thinks of her as an intelligent and beautiful woman. 

But the media can shape popular narrative and informed opinions are hard to come by. To that extent, I suspect I am the kind of liberal who give liberals a bad name.

It was driven home harder still when I walked over to the table where Makarand Paranjape was having a quiet drink. He asked me my name. And then went on to tell me the historical significance of its origins and why I ought to be happy to possess it. When I told him I am not a practicing Catholic, he went on to offer me a brief treatise on the history of Catholicism and asked me some tough questions on why I gave up my faith. So much for all narratives of him being called a right winger. If he is on the right wing, give me a right winger like him any day, as opposed to a shallow liberal. (Update: His posturing on social media continue to come across as boorish in stark contrast)

The other nugget that came my way is that there are “paid critics" who are “professional socialites". After having spent two decades in journalism, it was only then that I discovered this species exists and that there is a reason they get invited to these dos. They have large followings on social medias platforms and columns as well in popular newspapers — usually tabloids or on Page 3. 

A tweet from them or a line insidiously implying a brand is a good one can get their accounts credited with as much as Rs. 5 lakh. In much the same way, they can destroy a carefully crafted reputation as well with a single line. They must be humoured and kept in the good books.

Now I know why one of them has me blocked on Twitter. I’d called him a few names on Twitter in a fit of anger after reading some rather ridiculous tweets on his timeline. The other is a creature always in the news, has answers to everybody’s problems, knows all the gossip, and I don’t bother to read. But the missus thinks of her as somebody worth emulating. All said, both live a nice, “cheap" life of the kind I envy.

Creature #3: The Writers

Everybody wants to write a book. The Bangalore Literature Festival was full of writers. Authors were being looked at in awe. Some people asked me what is it that I do for a living. When told I spend a good part of my time writing, I was often told how they have this idea for a book in their mind and if I can offer any pointers on how may they go about it.

Manu and I were catching up after a long while and the both of us laughed at how miserable a writer’s life is. It is hard work and the return on investment (ROI) is terribly low. If you may need perspective, allow me to offer some unsolicited advice on why you ought not to write a book.

• Good books aren’t whipped out of thin air. But it took Manu’s most recent book, a thin volume if size is a metric, three years to complete. We didn’t get into each other’s personal financials. But he and I know writing is lonely, takes awfully long, nobody outside the business understands why does it take as long to write one, and why we expend so much time on what pays as little as it does.

• Then there are the perverted economics of it all. In India, a book that can sell 5,000 copies is considered a bestseller. Assuming each book is priced at Rs500, a best-selling writer can hope to earn Rs2.5 lakh in royalties from the publisher—that is assuming he manages to negotiate royalties in the region of 10% for each copy sold. This too may be set off against the advance paid by a publisher.

• Reality is, thousands of books are written each year. Not all are priced at Rs500, royalties at 10% don’t kick in from the first copy sold, and only a handful make it to the bestseller list.

  So why do you write? The both of us agreed on that the only reason we continue to write is because we love to write. And that the time spent in writing is the only time we feel pure and sacred. I suspect it may be the kind of moment the spiritually-inclined may feel when in prayer.

  When reality kicks in, though, we know the only reason we can write is because there are other streams that allow us to carry on with life. Until then, we continue to delude ourselves to believe the law of averages may tilt in our favour and that what we write may someday make us rich and famous.

  So how do you get to be a full-time writer? My friend Ramnath again pointed me to a passage from Nicholas Nassim Taleb’s book Anti-Fragile. “There is a tradition with French and other European literary writers to look for a sinecure, say, the anxiety-free profession of civil servant, with few intellectual demands and high job security, the kind of low-risk job that ceases to exist when you leave the office, then spend their spare time writing, free to write whatever they want, under their own standards. There is a shockingly small number of academics among French authors."

  “American writers, on the other hand, tend to become members of the media or academics, which makes them prisoners of a system and corrupts their writing, and, in the case of research academics, makes them live under continuous anxiety, pressures, and indeed, severe bastardization of the soul."

  My observations can go on and on. But I must stop. Because, as a speaker at the festival cheekily told Ramnath and me backstage before getting onstage, “Current discourses now sound like the Arnab Monologues."

This is an edited & updated version of a piece that was first published in Mint on Sunday