by Sudha Murty
So, that was that. After some thought, I made some inquiries with various colleagues at work and observed the ‘rich’ women that I could see on Juhu beach, in tow with their children and ayahs.
The result of the imagination and research led to my first novel, Athirikthe, in Kannada. As I wrote it, I allowed myself to enter the lead character’s mind and feel the joy and pain of her circumstances. At the end, I had to make an effort to exit from the character’s life and return to my own. Thus began my journey in Kannada literature. This time, I went through another publisher who was located in Mysore.
I continued to write. My subsequent novels, however, were rejected. I figured that if I wanted to grab more eyeballs, I must try my hand at writing a series for a newspaper. To my surprise, even these were rejected. Some papers did not respond at all while others said that my writing wasn’t series material.
Years passed, and I continued to read avidly.
One day, I went to a wedding where I saw a young girl with leucoderma sitting in front of me, having a meal. Just then, someone from the family came and said to her, ‘You cannot sit here with the others. You have leucoderma. Please get up.’
Humiliated, the girl cried and left immediately.
This behaviour hurt me. I am the daughter of a doctor and I know that unlike leprosy, leucoderma is only a cosmetic disease. It is not contagious and not proven to be hereditary either. Then why do people behave this way with fellow beings?
The incident provoked me into undertaking some research. As I spoke to people, I realized that many engagements were broken and marriages called off, especially in cases where one or more of the bride’s relatives had the disease but she did not. I had long chats with dermatologists and rebelled strongly against this heinous treatment which does nothing but kill confidence.
For the first time in my life, I thought of writing about this to create awareness, but in the form of a story. This is how my novel Mahashweta was born.
Many, many years later, I was at another wedding. To my pleasant surprise, the groom came up to me and said, ‘I have read Mahashweta and today I am marrying a girl who has leucoderma. The book completely changed my perspective.’
It was the day that I realized that perhaps I could make a difference if I continued to write about issues I was passionate about.
In the seventies and the eighties, going to America was an outstanding achievement. India wasn’t close to liberalization yet and the number of job opportunities was very low in the country. The American dollar, however, was a magic wand—one dollar equalled ten rupees. People who settled there and came back to India for a vacation almost always looked down upon those here. Even the local families differentiated between the children and grandchildren who were in the US and those who stayed here. It was but natural that the wives and daughters who lived in America got much more attention and importance.
But I knew by then that life in America wasn’t as green as it was made out to be. Living there wasn’t devoid of struggles.
So, I wrote Dollar Bahu (or Dollar Sose) in Kannada. The manuscript first became a series in a newspaper, then a book and then a television series. It was even translated into Italian along with other Indian languages. Today, it is still widely available in bookshops.
My journey with Kannada continued, and the thought of writing in English didn’t even cross my mind.
The year 1980 marked my very first book launch for Atlanticadacheyinda. The event was held at Mayo Hall in Bangalore. To me, it was like a small wedding signifying the marriage of my book to the publisher. I invited many people. All kith and kin fond of literature came for the launch, including some of my wonderful friends who couldn’t even read Kannada. But they loved me and were proud of the fact that I was an author. One of them gifted me a silver idol of Saraswati, the goddess and symbol of knowledge. For the first time, and what I thought may also be the last, I stood on stage, spoke to my readers and expressed my love for books and Kannada. Little did I know that this would be the first of many public events.
One day, T.J.S. George, the editor of the New Indian Express, sent word that I should write my columns in English. He simply said, ‘A language is but a vehicle. It’s the person inside who’s weaving the story that’s more important. You are a storyteller. So, just get on with your story and the language will fall into place.’
With his kind words and encouragement, I began writing in English. My columns, named ‘Episodes’, started to appear in the New Indian Express on 12 November 2000. I was in Shimoga the day I heard someone in a hotel say, ‘Sudha Murty has written a column in English.’ Instantly, I was elevated to being an English writer by a stranger. It took me some time to believe that people wanted to read my columns. This journey continued with other avenues like the Times of India, The Hindu and the Week.
One advantage of writing in English was that it led me to form friendships with people from different states and walks of life. One of those turned out to be the late President A.P.J. Abdul Kalam. This was 2001, and he wasn’t our President yet. He was a scientist at the Defence Research and Development Organization (DRDO). He happened to read one of my columns in the Week, an Indian news magazine, and said that the humour in my writing was nice and the message strong. He asked how I had learnt the art of ending an article with a gist of the story and expressed interest in meeting me.
A year later, my first book in English came out as a collection of my columns thanks to George, who introduced me to East West Books Pvt. Ltd in Chennai. George, with his genuine encouragement, wrote the foreword for the book and gave it an enchanting title: Wise and Otherwise.
I realized that when a book is released in English, it is read by more people and translations into regional languages happen more easily. Today, my books have been translated into all major Indian languages and are read in most states of India.
As the years passed, the Infosys Foundation’s work provided me with experiences that enlarged my canvas even as the writing continued. I approached many publishers who rejected my manuscripts. They said, ‘Your language is too simple. It is not flowery or sophisticated and comes across as too simple and even naive. Our opinion is that people will not appreciate it.’ A few suggested, ‘You tell your story to someone who has a good command over the English language. They will rewrite it and, together, you both can co-author.’
But I didn’t agree. I wanted to keep my style distinctive and portray it exactly the way I am.
Along the way, I realized the importance of a good editor—someone who can take the book to greater heights. I have learnt that a great editor must be a reflection of the author, someone who understands the author. I am extremely lucky to have found these qualities in my young and bright editor Shrutkeerti Khurana, who is a talented engineer and a management graduate with an immense love for the English language. I have known Shrutee since the day she was born because I was friends with her parents even then. I have seen her growing up, she has seen me getting old, and our bond has deepened with each passing day over the years. She reads my mind, tells me frankly where I am wrong, where she is getting bored with my writing and edits as required. In addition to work, we both love reading and discuss countless things—things that are here, there and everywhere.
I also want to thank my wonderful family who knew of my love for writing and understood it and allowed me to prioritize it over their needs.
In time, Penguin Random House became my sole English publisher. I was also fortunate enough to get interest from publishers who worked in regional languages, and I have remained with them since the beginning. For the Marathi language, there is Mehta Publishing House in Pune, R.R. Sheth in Ahmedabad for Gujarati, Prabhat Prakashan in Delhi for Hindi translations, DC Books in Kottayam for Malayalam and Alakananda Prachuranalu in Vijayawada for Telugu translations, among others.
One day, I received an email from a Gujarati reader who asked, ‘Sudha Ben, you look like a Gujarati and you even eat like one. Your books are really wonderf
ul. I am very curious: how did you get married to a south Indian?’
The email made me smile. I responded to the reader that I was a south Indian myself and that the quality of the translations in Gujarati was so good that she thought that I belonged to her land.
During one of my international trips, I was pleasantly surprised to come across my books in New Jersey. As I beamed and picked one of them up, the Gujarati shopkeeper looked at me and commented, ‘Take it. Saras che.’ He meant that the book was nice and that I should buy it.
Happily, I nodded.
As I heard my name being called on stage again for the Lifetime Achievement Award, my mind returned to the present and I slowly climbed the steps leading up to the stage. Each step was a reminder of the journey that has lasted over forty years. It was a journey filled with rejections, negative comments and disapprovals, along with appreciation, a lot of love and affection. I hope that I have somehow been the voice for people who remain shy, hidden, unknown and yearn for an outlet of their expression.
I have lost count of the number of times people have said to me, ‘I can’t write. But I want to share my story. Will you write it and share it with the world?’
Some of my students have frequently remarked, ‘Madam, each of us has faltered and made mistakes during the course of our lives. We don’t want the next generation to go through trying times that can be avoided with just a little bit of advice and wisdom. Will you tell our stories in your book?’
I am always hesitant. I don’t want to take anyone’s privacy for granted or share anything without his or her permission and faith. But powerful stories, no matter where they come from, are meant to be told. So, I fancy myself as only a carrier.
My vast experience with the truly underprivileged in India, my publishers who had unwavering faith in me, my excellent editor and my readers have made me what I am today. So, my journey is not mine alone. It is also about the people around me. There’s a part of me that realizes that my writing emanates from Saraswati, the goddess of knowledge, learning and writing, and that I am only her scribe. Without her assent and blessing, I can’t write even one line.
Today, I have a résumé of twenty-nine books and am a bilingual writer in both English and Kannada with writings across categories such as novels, non-fiction, fiction, children’s books, travelogues and technical books. My books have been translated into twenty languages and one Braille system. This book is my 200th title. As many as 26 million copies of my books have been sold, of which 1.5 million are in English alone.
But I have also learnt the hard way that nothing succeeds like success. The proof, I’ve been told, lies in the sales and the number of reprints sold in the last decade and more. Despite the numbers, I know that I am not an author for the English elite and that I cannot spin words like the books from the West or some Indian authors. But English is no longer a language meant only for the elite, as it was in the days before. Somehow, the common people of India have found a way to welcome English into their daily lives, and that includes me too. I can only tell stories from the heart and in a simple manner. That’s all I really know, and that is also the only thing in the world that is truly mine.
2
‘Amma, What Is Your Duty?’
At that time, my daughter, Akshata, was a teenager. By nature she was very sensitive. On her own, she started reading for blind children at Ramana Maharishi Academy for the Blind at Bangalore. She was a scribe too. She used to come home and tell me about the world of blind people. Later she wrote an essay on them, called ‘I Saw the World through the Blind Eyes of Mary’. Mary was a student at the academy who was about to appear for the pre-university exam. Once, Akshata took Mary to Lalbagh for a change. The conversation between them was quite unusual.
‘Mary, there are different types of red roses in this park,’ Akshata told her.
Mary was surprised. ‘Akshata, what do you mean by red?’
Akshata did not know how to explain what was red. She took a rose and a jasmine, and gave them to Mary.
‘Mary, smell these two flowers in your hand. They have different smells. The first one is a rose. It is red in colour. The second one is jasmine. It is white. Mary, it is difficult to explain what is red and what is white. But I can tell you that in this world there are many colours, which can be seen and differentiated only through the eyes and not by touch. I am sorry.’
After that incident Akshata told me, ‘Amma, never talk about colours when you talk to blind people. They feel frustrated. I felt so helpless when I was trying to explain to Mary. Now I always describe the world to them by describing smells and sounds which they understand easily.’
Akshata also used to help a blind boy called Anand Sharma at this school. He was the only child of a schoolteacher from Bihar. He was bright and jolly. He was about to appear for his second pre-university exam.
One day, I was heading for an examination committee meeting. At that time, I was head of the department of computer science at a local college. It was almost the end of February. Winter was slowly ending and there was a trace of summer setting in. Bangalore is blessed with beautiful weather. The many trees lining the roads were flowering and the city was swathed in different shades of violet, yellow and red.
I was busy getting ready to attend the meeting, hence I was collecting old syllabi, question papers and reference books. Akshata came upstairs to my room. She looked worried and tired. She was then studying in class ten. I thought she was tired preparing for her exams. As a mother, I have never insisted my children study too much. My parents never did that. They always believed the child has to be responsible. A responsible child will sit down to study on his or her own.
I told Akshata, ‘Don’t worry about the exams. Trying is in your hands. The results are not with you.’ She was annoyed and irritated by my advice. ‘Amma, I didn’t talk about any examination. Why are you reminding me of that?’
I was surprised at her irritation. But I was also busy gathering old question papers so I did not say anything. Absently, I looked at her face. Was there a trace of sadness on it? Or was it my imagination?
‘Amma, you know Anand Sharma. He came to our house once. He is a bright boy. I am confident that he will do very well in his final examination. He is also confident about it. He wants to study further.’
She stopped. By this time I had found the old question papers I had been looking for, but not the syllabus. My search was on. Akshata stood facing me and continued, ‘Amma, he wants to study at St Stephen’s in Delhi. He does not have anybody. He is poor. It is an expensive place. What should he do? Who will support him? I am worried.’
It was getting late for my meeting so I casually remarked, ‘Akshata, why don’t you support him?’
‘Amma, where do I have the money to support a boy in a Delhi hostel?’
My search was still on.
‘You can forfeit your birthday party and save money and sponsor him.’
At home, even now both our children do not get pocket money. Whenever they want to buy anything they ask me and I give the money. We don’t have big birthday parties. Akshata’s birthday party would mean calling a few of her friends to the house and ordering food from the nearby fast-food joint, Shanthi Sagar.
‘Amma, when an educated person like you, well travelled, well read and without love for money does not help poor people, then don’t expect anyone else to do. Is it not your duty to give back to those unfortunate people? What are you looking for in life? Are you looking for glamour or fame? You are the daughter of a doctor, granddaughter of a schoolteacher and come from a distinguished teaching family. If you cannot help poor people then don’t expect anyone else to do it.’
Her words made me abandon my search. I turned around and looked at my daughter. I saw a sensitive young girl pleading for the future of a poor blind boy. Or was she someone reminding me of my duty towards society? I had received so much from that society and country but in what way was I giving back? For a minute I was frozen. Then I re
alized I was holding the syllabus I was looking for in my hand and it was getting late for the meeting.
Akshata went away with anger and sadness in her eyes. I too left for college in a confused state of mind.
When I reached, I saw that as usual the meeting was delayed. Now I was all alone. I settled down in my chair in one of the lofty rooms of the college. There is a difference between loneliness and solitude. Loneliness is boring, whereas in solitude you can inspect and examine your deeds and your thoughts.
I sat and recollected what had happened that afternoon. Akshata’s words were still ringing in my mind.
I was forty-five years old. What was my duty at this age? What was I looking for in life?
I did not start out in life with a lot of money. A great deal of hard work had been put in to get to where we were today. What had I learnt from the hard journey that was my life? Did I work for money, fame or glamour? No, I did not work for those; they came accidentally to me. Initially I worked for myself, excelling in studies. After that I was devoted to Infosys and my family. Should not the remaining part of my life be used to help those people who were suffering for no fault of theirs? Was that not my duty? Suddenly I remembered JRD’s parting advice to me: ‘Give back to society.’
I decided that was what I was going to do for the rest of my life. I felt relieved and years younger.
I firmly believe no decision should be taken emotionally. It should be taken with a cool mind and when you are aware of the consequences. After a week, I wrote my resignation letter as head of the department and opted only for a teacher’s post.
I am ever grateful to Akshata for helping to bring this happiness and satisfaction to my work and life. It means more to me than the good ranks I got in school, and my wealth.
When I see hope in the eyes of a destitute person, see the warm smile on the faces of once helpless people, I feel so satisfied. They tell me that I am making a difference.