Writer's Anvil

"A first look at Rishab, one would exclaim, 'Jesus, he looks like the son of Mary.' He sports long straight hair, with a beard, more than an average height for an Indian male; his appearance looks straight out of a picture of the Lord of Heaven. The only thing that differs is the age factor.

He is single, and one is not sure if he is ready to mingle. He describes himself as an engineering dropout. Now he is a freelance content writer. He has his nest in Chandigarh but like a free bird, he roams around.

At the monastery when Rajat walked in with his baggage, he asked, 'Are you here for the writers’ workshop?'

Rajat said, 'Yes.'

'Me too, I am Rishab,' he introduced himself.

Rajat did likewise.

As it was already time for dinner, Rajat freshened himself and proceeded for dinner. He looked askance at Rishab, who said, 'I am skipping dinner; I had a late lunch outside.'

 Rajat came back to his room after dinner. Rishab was still standing at the foyer and looking at the distant hills. Hills looked  as if it were a Diwali night.

Rishab pointed his mobile upwards towards the sky, and Rajat could see the star constellation on the mobile. Rishab explained, 'It is a star gazer App. One could study the constellation and identify the stars.'

'Is this your first time here?' asked Rajat to Rishab.

'Yes, but I have been many times to their sister institution in Bir, in Himachal Pradesh,' replied Rishab.  He continued, 'I came here from Gangtok to attend the writers’ workshop.'

During the workshop, all the participants had to share one writing project idea they had in mind. Rishab talked of a woman, Shyamili, who was the heroine of his project. Later, Rajat was teasing Rishab about her.

It was during the bonfire, which Rishab had organized later, he disclosed Shyamili’s story. Once he was driving from Chandigarh to Bir and he reached Kangda Valley in the middle of the night. It was pitch dark, and Rishab, on a whim, rode up towards the hill, the highest point in that area. He stopped his bike and climbed to the top. He lay down there, and soon a dog joined him. He was star gazing, and the moon appeared to be so close that he thought he could touch it.

He got a shock when he heard a hello. And a girl had appeared from nowhere. She introduced herself as Shyamili. Moonlight reflected on her face, and she looked enchanting in the moment. Rishab instantly lost his heart. They talked for a while, and he left; the girl declined his invite to go with him to Bir.

From then on, Rishab often thought of her. He had then decided to make her the heroine in his story, yet to be written. Rajat, thinking of this narration, wondered if it was a spin by Rishab. When a writer tells a story, who could know if it was real or imaginary?

Rajat has been writing for some time, mostly short stories and poems. He thought this writing workshop could revive his mojo for writing. On the second day early morning, he got inspired to write about the workshop itself.

A motley group of budding writers ready to blossom,

Future Booker prize winners, wouldn’t it be awesome.

They have learned the tricks of the trade, ready to make the grade.

At the retreat, to each other, goodbye they bade.

Secrets of the code of writing they did crack.

Their writing, when they get back home, will be on track.

Publishing world taken by storm, these writers in a hurry.

Make way, move over Rushdie and Lahiri.

As Rajat was having lunch that morning, Khivraj, the administrator of the monastery, walked up to him and said, 'I liked the poem, and could I share this on our Instagram handle?' 'By all means,' replied a delighted Rajat.

He continued to write more poems in the context of the workshop and the sights he saw at the monastery.

Over tea time, Rajat asked Rishab, 'Where will you go next?'

Rishab replied, 'I am thinking of Nepal. I understand it is a four-hour journey from here. I got the idea from the shopkeeper lady I was talking to earlier. She went to Nepal for her spectacles. The exchange rate is favorable for Indian rupees.'

'A modern nomad, that you are,' commented Rajat.

He met a girl called Shikka who was staying at the monastery. She was doing her dissertation for her master's degree, and she was spending time in and around Kalimpong interviewing students. Her dissertation focused on the field of education. She told Rajat that she was from a very modest background and studied in Hindi medium. But through her diligent efforts, she joined a good post-graduate institution in Bangalore. She had guided her brother to get admission and a scholarship at England. She added that she was able to help him financially too with her savings. She wants to do guide other students in a similar way.

Back home in Rajasthan, her relatives consider her to be wild. When she goes home once a year, all they do is talk about her marriage and kids. She herself wanted to pursue a doctorate degree in the field of education.

Shikka said she had taken an oath to become a Buddhist. She explained to Rajat the tradition of Hinayana that Dr. Ambedkar had shown. Rajat knew that many from the lower caste had followed Dr. Ambedkar in converting to the Buddhist faith. Whether this had any merit or not, it was to escape the treatment meted out by the majority religion.

Rajat was telling his wife and daughter about his workshop experience. The difference between ‘show’ and ‘tell’ he found particularly endearing. He explained in his call 'tell involved conveying information. For example,' he continued 'Radhika is scared of cockroaches; it is a phobia for her.' When it comes to show, he added, 'the writer would say as Radhika entered the kitchen, she came out screaming, "Mom! A cockroach is flying around. Please kill it." The sentence captures Radhika’s fear. His wife and daughter agreed in understanding of Rajat’s description.

Another concept that Chintan had introduced was about 'slow-motion' writing. It is about a dramatic event that happens under five to ten seconds, and the writer takes a few paragraphs to describe the event. 'In effect,' Chintan explained, 'the writer expands time in which the event takes place.'

In the practice session, Rajat wrote:

'Assailant came at me with his swinging knife at the end of the foyer. He was about 5 and a half feet tall and of medium-built. He was slow compared to me. It was obvious to me he had no training but blinded with rage.

I could smell death. It is going to be one of us. Years of Cop training had instilled a sense of preservation and anticipation of the enemy’s move. In one quick movement, I swung low and with my right leg kicked at his knees hard enough with my steel-covered toe shoes. The shoes imported from England, especially made for use in such operations. A thousand pound force of steel hitting the bones. I could hear the knee crack. He cried out as he dropped the knife and fell towards my waiting knife, that too a German steel knife. Henckles is the best of the brand among the German ones. It costed about Rs 20,000 to the unwary taxpayer. The knife had tasted a bigot’s blood not for the first time. Two inches below his rib and the heart gets punctured, page 21 in the self-defence manual. My knife entered his rib cage and pierced his heart as if entering into a bar of butter. Blood came out like a jet. In medical terms, one would call it arterial spurting. Blood loss being copious, death occurs within ten seconds. Doctors would call the process as exsanguination.

He lay limp as he hit the floor. I closed his eyes that conveyed shock and fear. I could almost sense his soul escaping his body. I checked his pulse and confirmed it had stopped. Another wasted human life.'

The tutor felt that Rajat had captured the 'slow-motion' concept quite well.

One of the quotes that deeply got etched in Rajat’s mind was 'write without fear and edit without mercy.' He never liked editing. But it is starkly clear that eighty percent of the writer’s work is about editing and revising what one writes in the first draft.

On the penultimate of his stay, Rajat ate out for lunch and had a 'buff thukpa.' Now buff is a short form of buffalo, or one could describe it as a euphemism for beef. It makes sense in the present times in the country. Back in Bangalore, in Malayalee restaurants one could ask for 'Mallapuram,' and one would be served a beef dish. The owner of the food joint, a curious sort, wanted to know from Rajat details of stay. The conversation went like this:

Owner: how much are you paying for stay?

Rajat: a single room cost Rs 1000 per day.

Owner: so much? What about food?

Rajat: it costs Rs 500 per day.

Owner: so for a month, you spend Rs 45k. who can spend that much?

Rajat felt as if he was a well-heeled man. He thought the cost to be reasonable. He felt a bit guilty too as he knew most of the fellow citizens cannot afford to spend so much for mere stay and food. India he thought was many countries inside a country.

He went back to the monastery to resume his writing. He started to weave a story about the workshop itself and some people he had met. As he thought, in everything and everyone, there is a story. It is about how good the narration one could achieve?

In his last supper at the monastery, the dinner was clear soup, momos, and chutney. In the wintery evening, food tasted heavenly. He thanked the stars as he looked up in the nightly sky. It was a clear sky, and a star or two winked at Rajat."