Preeti Singh or Pat Smith

When I moved to the US from Mumbai last year, I spent the first few months working on Unravel, a novel of linked short stories based in Mumbai. In NY, my writing workshop pals recommended that I explore the US market for the book, instead of focusing only on the Indian market. I thought it was worth a try. I took sessions to write an impressive query letter to reach out to literary agents. Based on the letter, the literary agents would decide if my book was worthy of representation! 

I got down to work - wrote a nice query letter , researched on what literary agents/agencies would be best suited for my book and sent it off to all of them. And sat down and waited. And waited. Not an email, not a word, for over three months, despite reminders in some cases.

Just for fun, one crazy day, I set up another email account - in the name of Pat Smith.Then I sent the same query letter, the blurb, the bio and the sample chapters of Unravel to the very same literary agents. I merely changed Preeti Singh to Pat Smith in the documents. 

What followed was amazing. Five of those literary agents responded within the space of 10 days. I was amused beyond belief!

 All things equal, what was so special about Pat Smith ? Why could Preeti Singh not elicit any response? 

I am still unraveling the mystery ofcourse, but here are some of the potential reasons I could come up with 

• Unravel by Preeti Singh is not an ‘immigrant’ story, therefore did not hold topical appeal. 
•  Unravel by Preeti Singh is not a story about persecuted Indian women - women burnt for dowry, women raped in broad daylight and so on. Things that happen to women in feudal societies. Who really wants to read about a of bunch of women on Pali Hill?
• Unravel by Pat Smith becomes exotic. Pat may be a Caucasian, a foreigner who was in India. She observed India closely, and wrote ‘insightfully‘ about Indian women.  She felt the pain of the common sisterhood of shared experiences between women across the world.
• Unravel by Pat Smith is a wonderful ‘commentary’ on ‘modern Indian women.’

(the words in the apostrophes were used by the literary agents.)

What could I have done better I thought? I could have changed the name to ‘Caged Bird’, ‘The Burnt Bride’, ‘Chained since Birth’ or some such name to show an ‘Indian’ woman’s trauma. Or I  could have written a terrible tale where the family and husband conspire to burn a  young bride to death; or a slum girl achieves her dreams despite being forced into prostitution.

Better still, I could have written about my immigrant experience in the US. Painted a sad picture subtle and outright racist behavior, how I lost my self esteem, and how I discovered myself through all the painful experiences!

Would that have worked I wonder? Is that what is expected when an ethnic sounding ‘Preeti Singh’ sends a query letter and sample chapters?

I don’t have an explanation  for this bizarre episode, but atleast I know this - my query letter was a well-crafted one,  and  Unravel is a good story. 

And ofcourse my work has increased. I have to wear two hats now. As Preeti Singh I have to figure what stories to write that will get accepted in the US. Or think as Pat Smith and create another Indian/exotic  experience! 

First things first though - I have to send this blog to those literary agents!!

What would you do?

The friday gone by, (18th July) , my 90 year old grandmother's health took a turn for the worse, and we were informed by the doctors that she would not last the weekend. My passport has been with BLS / Cox and Kings for the last three weeks for a simple booklet addition.On Friday, I called them - there was no one to take my call, and no one called back despite the innumerable voice mails I  left. I then rushed to the consulate in Manhattan, to try and figure if I could get my passport back, or some document that would enable me to leave for India that evening. 

And what transpired was a nightmare. 

The Consulate working hours at Manhattan are till 5.30 pm Monday through Friday, and I reached there to find the office shut from 3 to 4pm.  There was no one to explain what the reason was, and no officer available who I could speak with. Till 4.30 pm, no one came to the passport window where many people apart from me were also cooling their heels. 

Finally, I managed to catch someone’s attention and explained the nature of the problem and the emergency. With a sour puss expression, the ‘gentleman’  told me that there was nothing that he could do. When I asked to speak to someone in the embassy, he told me I could go to anyone and they would not help. I asked to speak to the Consular or some official  and he said they could not be bothered. I asked him if he understood the urgency. His response was that it was night time in India, and there was no emergency. I told him I would lose my granny over the weekend, and was he telling me he could not help me get to India? He snapped at me and told me to not be rude and  scampered away. No other official appeared .  At 5, we were told the consulate was shut for the day.

My granny passed away on Monday morning, and the reason I had wanted to come to India did not exist anymore. It  angered me first, and then saddened me that I am an Indian citizen, with a valid passport and visa, and yet I was denied the opportunity to meet my grandmother one last time. 

I tried to process what had just happened!  I figured there was a failure on two counts.

1. A systemic process failure - It is actually bizarre that  a mere booklet addition should take more than 3 weeks. It is even scarier that the Ministry of External Affairs has  not planned for serious emergencies. There should have been some process that enabled me to get temporary documentation to travel back home. I asked the ‘gentleman’ who had deigned to talk to me if I could receive a one way document, and my husband would take the passport and courier it  to India  in the following week. To which I received a brusque no.

1. Incompetent and callous behavior - Perhaps what galled me even more was that there was no one to listen and help.Why is it that I could not access any of the officials who are supposed to be representing me in another country?  I can understand if they could not help, but the arrogance of officials in refusing to meet is unacceptable. An embassy conducts business on behalf of its country, but it is also responsible for the welfare of its citizens in a foreign land.  Or am I missing a point here?

So here is my contention - Why is it that we choose to send such arrogant people to represent our country abroad? Is it because the great bureaucratic machinery is so secure in itself that it chooses to be badly behaved? India is full of amazingly hard working , considerate people and we can’t recruit them?  In a country where the system fails us all the time, it is our people who rise up time and again to help and lend a shoulder. Surely our bureaucracy, and the people who are selected to represent us need to be of a higher calibre. And those people can make contingency plans that assist citizens far away from home. 

In the US, if I faced discrimination from US citizens, I would take it in my stride. After all, this is not my country, and these are not my people. I am here for a brief period and don’t really care for its citizenship because I love India and being Indian. But when, in an alien land,  my own country representatives choose to be callous and unhelpful, who can I turn to blame? Is it any wonder that Indians do not get the respect due to them in foreign countries? It is because we have no respect or regard for our own…and we have the audacity to want better from the rest of the world? 

I still remain a proud Indian. Except that I am ashamed that Incredible India chooses such shoddy representatives for itself.

That Friday evening, totally disconsolate and inconsolable, all  I could tell  my NRI, ABCD and American friends in NYC was this -  The Consulate is  NOT representative India. This is not what India is. This is not what Indian people are. Don’t think negatively about my India because of a wretched few souls. Mera Bharat is Mahan, and the Indian Consulate people are not true Indians. 

I never got to meet my granny, and could only 'see' her on Skype. But I hope that this does not happen to other proud , tax paying Indians, who  may not be there for their parents, children or loved ones,all because  Indian External Affairs failed them miserably. 

My Rockstar

I never thought it was the last time I was seeing her. Had I known that, I would have gathered her frail, small body in a hug and breathed her in one last time.   I would have held on to her - tight. I would have told her how much I loved her.

Instead, the last memory I have of my granny is her clutching on to the warm socks I had taken for her, as her chair was lifted to take her down the stairs.  

If it is difficult to see your strong parents grow old and become frail with age, it is even more distressing to see loved grandparents slide into old age,become sick , dependent and helpless.  Nani was full of boundless energy (Praneet often jokes that my restlessness comes from her) and yet, in the last few years, even if her mind and heart were willing, the body was not. When Rano was detected with  cancer, at the frail age of 88, Nani made the trip to Mumbai. She had to be with Rano, but the trip tired her out, and she was unwell most of the time. She stopped going out with my aunt on kitty parties because her body could not handle it. She was unhappy that we were moving to the US because it was so far away. Surrounded as she was by a family that loved and respected her, did she feel lonely, with few of her peers alive anymore? I often wondered what went on in my Nani’s mind. Did she think often of my grand-dad who passed away 25 years ago? Did she think of her family and her childhood? Did she miss her siblings? What did she think, when she tuned out of all conversation?

There is precious little I regret in my life - all my bad choices make for interesting stories. But the one thing I deeply regret is not spending enough time with Nani. In the last 10 years when I was in Mumbai, I made only fleeting visits to meet Nani in Delhi. I called her at irregular intervals. I did not go for her birthday last year...for the life of me , I can’t remember what was so important that I did not attend it!

I regret that I did not find the right pair of slip-ons for her in time. She loved my pair and wanted a similar one. But her foot was a baby sized one, and by the time I finally found her a pair, her toes had become too gnarled to wear them. I regret the fact that I did not spend enough time with her at the wedding last year. I watched her, felt horrible at seeing her so frail but did not ‘talk’ too much to her. I drew her attention to her earrings that Mom had passed on to me. She nodded and told me to not sell them, or use them to make another piece of jewelry because my grand-dad had given them to her. I kissed and hugged her and told her they were my precious memory of her and I would keep them forever. I had wanted to record her experience of partition, but she was so fragile that I decided against it. Even though she was mentally alert, Nani did not have the energy for conversations anymore. 

I regret that such a piece of my family history is lost to me. That I will never know ever, what she felt when my Grandfather went missing or when she lost her young daughter. I will never learn the secret of her amazing mutton curry and pickles. 

I regret that my passport had gone for additional leaflets, and I could not travel back to India to see her one last time. It was a weekend, and there was no way to get the passport from the horrid Indian Consulate.I fought hard but to no avail. All I could do was watch her on FT and Skype...and not be able to reach out my hand to touch her one last time.

I will never see her in that room of hers ever again. Or smell her unique fragrance laced with Surbex-T and Pears . I will never hear her voice call out,‘Ninoo, tu aa gayee?‘ and asking my aunt to cut fruits for us. Her hands will not press money into my hands again for ‘mithyayi’ as she called mithai. Her wiry hands will never touch my face in affection again. I will never hear the word ‘cutles’ for cutlets ever.  I will never be able to make fun of her watching TV serials and punctuating the unfolding drama with a ‘Hai’. I will never see her eyes light up with pleasure at any gift I took for her, and her fingers gently caressing the gift. No one will call me Moiyeah again! And ‘Lara Lappa’ will never sound the same. 

I bitterly regret that my book ‘Unravel’ begins where Nani’s journey ended...as a much loved matriarch in coma. 

The one time I hate saying RIP...you lived a full full life, but we were not prepared to lose you Mummyjee . You have taken a part of me with you . 

Letting It Go

It was an absolutely strange feeling to wake up one morning and feel a vacuum. I felt light and at peace. It took me sometime to figure what was different that morning.  I had finally let go. Let go of anger, hurt and bitterness that had been part of my life for some time. I am fundamentally an optimistic person, so these emotions were uncomfortably alien to me. I felt  relieved because I had wanted so much to not harbour negative feelings.  It was ironic because just when I had accepted that these feelings would stay with me for a lifetime, they quietly exited from my life -  without even saying goodbye! After staying rent-free in my head, you would think they would at least give me a fair warning of their departure!

I learnt this. 

• That healing takes its own time. You can’t rush it. You can’t stop the voices in your head or the anger flaring up at the slightest provocation. You can practice chanting, praying, offloading on friends,  black magic, pranic healing  - anything, but it won’ t work. Forgiveness will feel like an overrated virtue. So don’t try too hard to forgive/forget/move on....

• You can counsel people on their lives and experiences, but all objectivity is lost when it is your own life. And the more invested you are emotionally, the more unreasonable you become. It is the ego and the feeling that you let yourself down that rankle the most. You can hold long endless conversations with yourself on the whys of the world and not come to any resolution. 

• It is exhausting to be angry and bitter. For me it had benefits - I worked my anger  on two books - but the pain was brutally physical. I had headaches and somedays, a gloom that refused to lift.The bitterness left a sour taste in my mouth, and acid on my tongue. 

 I didn’t let go though -  the negativity finally disengaged itself from me. In extricating itself from me, the negativity  filled me with a lightness of being. I stopped questioning  the motives of other people or why they had behaved such with me. I no longer looked for an apology - infact I realised there was no need for an apology- people have their own journey that I may not understand but it was no longer of any consequence . I was filled with gratitude for all I had received, and surprisingly retained nothing negative about my experience. I felt only compassion and affection for those I had been angry with and truly wished them well - with no malice. 

If I have any words of advice from my own experience, it is this - trust the universe to make it right for you. Till then, accept the feelings. Be in tune with yourself and don’t be too harsh on your inability to cope, or regressing sometimes or being mean!  

As Mandela said,’ It always seems impossible until it’s done’. Till then - Keep the Faith.