Virtual Realities

by Neelum Saran Gour

  ‘Did you hear from him?’

  ‘No. Embarrassment shut him up forever.’

  ‘I wish I had your resilience.’

  Sravan stretched, yawned. ‘It’s got to be built up, Vyas. Doesn’t come in a day. When my first books appeared they said I was like Murdoch, Maugham, Huxley—but, of course, less than them all. In short, I was a poor copy of every passé British or American author on the shelf. Not mature enough, sneered my seniors. Too intellectual, said my friends. Not original, said the academics. Nothing new, said others. Forgodssake, didn’t André Gide write somewhere that nothing real can be new or original? The earth’s too old for that. Every good work is a plagiarism from God, as a friend used to tell me. Does that mean it has no flavour? The old experiences have to be known again with a shock of personal truth. We pluck the fruit from the tree of knowledge and say—This is mine. I plucked it. I know the sharpness of its taste, its sourness or sweetness or bitterness on my tongue …’

  ‘You were always rhetorical with me, Sravanji,’ observed Vyas cynically.

  ‘Sorry.’ Sravan checked himself. ‘You’re one of the people I feel comfortable talking to.’

  ‘I’m flattered.’

  ‘By now I’ve worked out a technique for handling adverse criticism: I make myself a drink. Tell myself—By the time I finish sipping this, it’ll stop rankling.’

  ‘Does it work?’

  ‘Unfailingly.’

  ‘Good for you, then. I’d use it—if I were still writing, but I’m not.’

  Sravan unfolded his arms, put his elbows on the table. ‘That’s why I called you today.’

  Vyas looked at him steadily. Sullen. ‘I feel no need to write any more, thank you.’

  ‘Ofo! Hear me out, please. You might not need writing, but writing might need you …’

  Vyas smiled crookedly. ‘Rhetorical again. Why do your words always sound as though they have makeup on, Sravanji?’

  Why did he so much want things to go right for this man? It was not that he specially liked him. But he desperately needed proof that things went right as often as not, even for the defeated and lapsed. That unexpected solutions arrived. He wanted to engineer and bear personal witness to this romantic improbability. To plot out a satisfactory end for a story gone wrong.

  ‘I wouldn’t want you to end as an extinct author.’

  Vyas tried the ice before he stepped on it. One step at a time. ‘Very kind of you, but it’s possibly escaped your attention, Sravanji, that you were the writer to end all writers. You ended me.’

  Sravan betrayed no confusion. He was expecting this. ‘Nonsense.’ He swept Vyas’s bitter reproach aside. ‘You know I did my best to improve your book. As I believed a book should be written, especially a first book. Then. I was twenty years younger in my beliefs, remember.’

  ‘And I twenty years younger in my trust,’ muttered Vyas.

  ‘Don’t go on like that. Let me tell you—I once reviewed a book by a second-rate author and came down very heavily upon it. I specially attacked a passage describing an old man’s death. I called it trite, stale, pulp, mediocre, boring and plain bad. Much later, when my father died, I realized the accuracy of that passage I’d dismissed. It reminded me of you, Vyas, and your book.’

  Vyas said nothing.

  ‘I wish you’d realize that, after all these years. I did the best I knew—at that point in time.’ This had become a disquieting internal question. ‘And anyway, your second book was applauded,’ he added, defiant under imaginary threat.

  ‘Yes, a polite patter of applause.’

  ‘Did you know that it was put on the shortlist for the Asian Vanguard Book of the Year?’

  Did Vyas know that he had been first on the shortlist and Sravan second? That the delay in informing Vyas and getting his consent for the reading tour wasn’t only a postal one? That Sravan went on the reading tour when Vyas’s consent missed the deadline?

  ‘Yes. I got a letter from the Academy of Letters,’ said Vyas in a colourless voice.

  This was the toughest moment of all. Meeting Vyas’s eye. Resisting the immediate temptation to find a glib explanation. Sravan sat still. How much more did Vyas know? Did he know that he, Sravan, had been on the Adhunik Upanyas Puraskar jury? That he’d turned the vote deliberately against Vyas? He’d never told anyone these things. Editing the truth—he was good at that.

  But the editing that disturbed him most was the book he’d hacked and mauled. Mayur Vriksha often sent him scripts to edit. His reasons for accepting the job were unconfessed: he took it on because often there was a lot to learn from these freshmen writers, no matter how unpolished they were at first. Vyas’s novel had agitated him beyond measure. His own book was due to be released at about the same time. He recalled his shock, displeasure, panic—those breathtakingly brilliant passages. Balzac’s hands.

  The silence had extended itself to an unnatural length.

  ‘I asked you to bring me your original script—the one before I edited it. I’d like to read it again.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘I don’t know—I’ve been thinking about it. Maybe we could bring out a fresh edition. I’d suggest it to the Vriksha editorial office—a reprint. Put all those passages back. Give Balzac’s statue its living arms again …’ It wasn’t coming out too well.

  ‘A reprint—twenty years later?’

  ‘Nothing unusual about that.’

  Vyas was faintly mocking. ‘Please yourself. I brought it anyway. Do as you see fit. To be honest I’ve lost interest in that book.’ As he handed the script across, Vyas’s hands actually appeared to wince, wary of the exposure. He drew them quickly back into the shelter of his waistcoat pockets.

  ‘There’s one more thing,’ Sravan added. ‘A favour I’m asking.’

  ‘Of me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I have to tell you what’s happened to me lately. It has a direct bearing on what I’m asking of you.’

  Vyas nodded. Sravan told him the story.

  ‘That’s when this idea for a new book hit me,’ he finished. ‘See it this way—a man, middle-aged, has a secret. He makes trips to a distant city. Keeps sending sums of money. For years. His wife and sons keep trying to find out what’s going on. They suspect a woman, a second family somewhere. He is tight-lipped. Finally, he’s trapped by his elder son. It comes out that his “other” family isn’t a woman but a brain-damaged childhood friend, a kid he’d pushed off a high balcony in school. The idea’s obsessed me. Not for what it is at face value but because it spells out a partial answer to a question that’s bothered me for years: whether humanity can ever rise beyond its inherent instinct for violence. It seems to me that one can do little about the chronic impulse to injure. The best one can do is step up the empathy levels of the human psyche. Even a microscopically tiny advance is a betterment of spiritual stock. Strange—a stray situation crosses your path, arrests your imagination, becomes the touchstone of your whole life …’

  ‘What do you want?’ asked Vyas flatly.

  ‘How do I explain this to a cynic like you?’

  Vyas looked through the dusty window. The road sparking hot light. The shavings of light slipping in through the jacaranda leaves. His eyes travelled to Sravan’s bookshelves, fixed reflectively on the small ivory Saraswati, then back to Sravan’s waiting face. The seconds beat in Vyas’s stare like a pulse.

  ‘You’re a strange guy, Sravan,’ he said at last. ‘How selfimportant you’ve always been. Doling out your precious ideas for the poor dolts to scramble for. The kindness of your heart, no doubt.’ His voice took on a biting note. ‘And what if I say it’s not up to my standard? I don’t pick up the leavings of others. I’m quite used to having others scramble for my leavings, Sravanji. For a big price.’ His manner had changed abruptly. Turned sneering. Arrogant. ‘I suppose you can’t help it. In your own vainglorious way, you might even be meaning well, I suppose it’s years of smugness—this insufferable patronizing voice. But let me
put you right on one point, Sravanji. When I said I haven’t written for years, I was lying, of course. And you knew it. But I’m not into art stuff now. I’m in big business—doing very well for myself, thank you. Want to know more?’

  He surveyed Sravan thoughtfully. Assessing the wisdom of impetuous self-disclosure. Then he began to speak, still in that biting voice.

  ‘It’s like being in computer software, or molasses or teak plantations or property development. No, more like running an exclusive boutique …’

  Sravan gaped, not getting the drift. Vyas smiled balefully. ‘Designer writing—my line. Made to order. My own spring, summer, autumn, winter collections. For a discreet, exclusive clientele that knows a good thing when it sees one, and doesn’t mind paying for it. Only the label isn’t mine once the payment’s made and the product changes hands. The label becomes the customer’s. That’s why my products are highly priced. Steep, some feel.’

  ‘Vyas—do I get you right? You’re selling your work?’ gasped Sravan.

  ‘Aren’t we all? Aren’t you? Selling to a publisher or selling to their so-called writers—one and the same thing, no?’ It was Vyas’s turn to relax, play games with his host’s disturbance.

  ‘You’re joking. Or lying.’

  ‘Why should I want to do that?’

  ‘But … for how long?’

  ‘About six years now.’

  ‘And who’re your … your select customers?’

  ‘Sorry, Sravanji, no names. Professional discretion, breach of trust, etc.’

  Sravan couldn’t digest this. Caught entirely off guard, he struggled to get a grip on Vyas’s astounding confession.

  ‘But you can tell me your tariff, at least?’

  Vyas uttered a laconic laugh. ‘That depends on the piece. It’s a hard line. Plenty of discernment needed. I have to spot the likely customer first, get his drift—his choice of subject, his vocabulary, timbre, right? The same piece can’t be shown to other customers. It’s got to be altered according to the next man’s writerly measurements. My rates take account of all the labour involved, and the risks. Say, two thousand to five thousand for roughly every ten pages. Poetry is priced by the word—I have a price list …’

  Sravan had no words.

  ‘Vyas, this is totally bizarre.’

  ‘Is it your faith in my unspoilt virtue that’s causing you problems, Sravanji?’ asked Vyas sardonically.

  ‘How many works’ve you sold?’

  Vyas thought. ‘More than a hundred.’ He laughed in Sravan’s face. Malignant. ‘The name of the game’s money, Sravanji. Don’t we know it? You with your big sales and awards and promos, and me with my little writing emporium. Next time I’m expanding my business, I’ll take up your offer of that charming idea you just outlined for my succour. Maybe that’ll be your next book.’

  Sravan decided to ignore the slight. It was the least he could do.

  ‘Bit late for new books, Vyas. I’m tarting it my own way. Mortgaged myself to the Katrak Group. Doing a biography for J.B. What’s that saying? In trouble, even the donkey must be adopted as one’s dad … I’m doing it in return for doctored reports of that incident concerning my son—you get the idea? So much for my artistic freedom. But you: I’m impressed. A hundred works! At two to five thousand for ten pages. Neat.’

  Vyas’s face was dark with savage mirth. ‘That’s just the customer’s initial outlay.’

  ‘I don’t understand you.’

  ‘There are subsequent small instalments he or she has to cough up from time to time. Maintenance costs for personal reputation … in the face of possible exposure. I retain copies of all works. I also have some taped conversations …’

  This was so explosive a revelation, uttered in a low, halting voice, that Sravan’s own voice broke into a stammer.

  ‘You’re … you’re into blackmail, too?’

  Vyas leaned across. ‘Mind if I bum a cigarette, Sravan?’ He extracted one with finicky care, picked up Sravan’s lighter, flicked.

  ‘Blackmail doesn’t have an aesthetically pleasing sound. Unbecoming. I have a sensitive choice of words. Let’s give it another name—penitentiary account? Caution money? Precaution money, rather. Please yourself, so long as it sounds right.’

  But Sravan was sick with the outrage of this decay. The enormity. He stared dumbly at the man across the desk.

  ‘Vyas, what’ve you let it do to you? So much going for you. You could’ve been … one of the biggest names. A literary star. Solid, real stuff. I’d even risk the word “genius”. You could’ve done so much …’

  His voice tailed off lamely.

  ‘Except that you didn’t let me.’

  The words were spoken without rancour. Toneless.

  ‘Oh, I’m not being dramatic, not blaming you, Sravan. I know I’m good—why else does my work sell? Mark my words—half the scribblers in your literary circuit have bought my work—and don’t know that the others have bought it, too. It’s damnably funny—like women who visit the same jeweller or tailor in secret! Or,’ he laughed bitterly, ‘the minister and the terrorist sharing the same slut!’

  ‘It’s not funny,’ remarked Sravan weakly.

  ‘Oh, I know it’s all terribly sad,’ Vyas mocked gently. ‘A heartbreaking business. A bloody shame. The shipwreck of a major talent. A genius cut down in his flower. A great voice destroyed. And worse—the tragic compromise of an artist’s conscience. I know the pained emotions troubling your heart.’ His mouth twitched in a soundless laugh. ‘All I can say, Sravanji, bare bhai sahib, is don’t mind me. I’m perfectly pleased with myself.’

  ‘But when your work appears under another signature? When it gets rave reviews?’

  Vyas pulled a grimace. ‘I’ve taught myself to enjoy the irony. What’s the old gag?—The real artist isn’t bothered with signatures.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. I just don’t believe you.’

  ‘That’s your problem.’

  ‘Can’t you retrieve it all somehow? Recover it? Pay back the money and …’

  ‘It runs into quite a bit.’

  ‘I could help …’

  Vyas eyed him keenly. ‘I’m a mean guy, Sravanji.’ He mimicked a Bollywood bad-guy voice. ‘I’m in no mood to help you unwrite that sorry chapter between us. If you aren’t easy about me, you can just live with the discomfort. But no noble gestures, please. I won’t give you the chance.’

  ‘I was only suggesting recovering your work. Lending, not donating you the cash …’

  ‘Impossible. Published under too many names. Scandal. Copyright litigation.’ He shuddered. ‘Hardly worth my while. Now, if you don’t mind …’ He stood up. ‘I see no point in discussing this.’

  Neither did Sravan.

  ‘I’ll leave this manuscript here if you like, but I lost interest in it long ago.’

  ‘I haven’t,’ was Sravan’s limp protest.

  ‘Do as you wish.’

  Sravan walked him down the stairs and saw him start up his old TVS champ.

  ‘Just one small question, Vyas. Why the fuck did you tell me those things? How d’you know I shan’t talk?’

  Vyas stood, considering, one foot on the pedal. ‘I don’t know why,’ he said slowly. ‘I guess there’s a kind of … honour among thieves.’

  He buzzed away on his moped. Sravan climbed the stairs, pondering those last words. He felt an unpleasant heaviness upon him.

  It was hard getting started on the Katrak assignment. A pile of tedious contextual material to wade through and sift. Did I really think I could quit writing? The acid taste came up his throat again. No, sir, no such relief. It’s use it or lose it, this writing business, and the terror of losing exceeds the agony of using. No creative Viagra for writer’s block. Fellows have shot themselves—or lost their minds—trying to cope with it. Even when you know you’re burnt up—like your father. Even when you know you stopped being a real storyteller ages back. The real storytellers aren’t sitting at PCs or typewriters; they’re
still in the tea stalls, kitchens, courtyards, coffee houses. The footpaths, dhabas, highways, barber shops. No writer’s block for them, by the way—that sort of storytelling enjoys natural immunity, for it’s seldom such a selfintensive trip. As for me, I’m a literary technician now, and what’s wrong with being a paid hack to a newspaper company? I was a good liar, on-page, off-page, so it’s custom-made lies from me now. A reader-friendly fictional autobiography it’s got to be. Still, it’s depressing to be doing nothing better.

  He didn’t know exactly when the images began to appear. In a mind floodlit with amazement, snatches of language blew in, slack and imprecise, mirroring the asymmetries of knowing. There was no word for it except the old one—inspiration! An alpha rhythm in the brain. A pollinating breeze. A frequency in the sensorium, a kinesis in the psycho-plasma of the mind. Awaiting the witchery of an uncanny hand. He waited a week to be sure. To test the idea, turn it over in his head. Confirm its substance against the litmus of each passing day. Seven days of gathering drama in his head while Katrak’s bio waited.

  He phoned Vyas again.

  ‘Come and pick up your manuscript.’

  ‘Done with it?’ Vyas sounded faintly derisive.

  ‘Yes. Come down and let’s discuss it.’

  ‘You were right, Vyas,’ he opened when Vyas turned up the following evening. ‘It’s twenty years too late. What sounded strong stuff then seems excessive now. That’s the law of styles, I guess. What’s natural and just-right now will sound featureless and lacklustre in another twenty years. Style’s an inconstant thing. Sorry to have bothered you.’

  Vyas picked up the script without comment and dropped it into his saddlebag.

  ‘But before you go,’ Sravan went on, ‘the more I reflect upon your upbeat business firm, the more interesting it seems to me.’

  A glimmer of amusement came on to Vyas’s expressionless face.

  ‘Considering a rival company, Sravanji?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A partnership?’