The World of Words Sheela Jaywant
Sheela Jaywant writes short-fiction and believes feedback from readers is the best lesson writers get. Her email: sheelajayw...@yahoo.co.in This is an extract from the book *From Mind to Keyboard: Writers from Goa and beyond share stories of how they made it* edited by Jaywant herself. Halwara, Bareilly, Tambaram had poor electricity and erratic water supply, negligible social activity and offered plenty of time to read. My husband's frequently-transferable job made me set up homes in other exotic places too: Avantipur, Wellington, Srinagar. Sweltering afternoons saw me sitting cross-legged on the floor, scribbling in self-invented 'short-hand' on pads made with used or recycled envelopes. Articles and stories were typed out on my father-in-law's 1952 Hermes Baby and dispatched to editors, accompanied by a letter declaring their originality and exclusivity, and a self-addressed stamped envelope. It took about three weeks to get a response: editors like B.G. Verghese (the *Indian Express*) and Vishwanath (*Women's Era*) replied explaining what changes would make the articles or stories acceptable to them. Often, seeing my work and byline in print when the issue was on the stands, was the only indication of acceptance. Cheques followed after months... if at all they came (nothing's changed). A story took several weeks, sometimes months, to evolve and ripen in the mind before it got plucked off A-4 sheets. A pocket thesaurus was my companion. The market for fiction, features and interviews was limited and accessible only through the Indian Postal System. When did I start writing? In the fourth standard. I won a consolation prize (a notebook) in a poetry competition. Our middle-class, ground floor flat's window opened directly to the pavement. The vendor flung through it newspapers and magazines: I'd run to pick them up, unravel the thread that bound them together, and browse through the pages. Parcels of groundnuts or groceries were unwrapped and the crumpled paper smoothened out so I could read whatever was written or printed on it. Many an anonymous examination answer-sheet has been fodder for subsequent stories. I read books at mealtimes and in the toilet. In class, amidst teachers' voices, formulae and graphs, I day-dreamed. Through my teens, my story-books were, and remained for many years, my haven, my heaven. Interactions with neighbours and the Sane Guruji Kathamala (where children were encouraged to tell stories extempore) exposed me to Marathi and a little Sanskrit. Compulsory higher Hindi at school helped me appreciate ethnic literature. I enjoyed the birth and growth of Bambaiyya and Hindlish, now robust dialects which describe emotions with a local flavour. Marriage took me away from hectic Bombay (now Mumbai) to a life of adventure, travel and writing. The moment husband/son left for office/school, neighbours began their dusting, mopping, tidying. Housework-challenged me got absorbed in a book until the deadline for lunch loomed. In Secunderabad, every afternoon, for three months, I went to a dilapidated typing-institute to learn a skill that has stood me in good stead for over 30 years. Just before Mrs Gandhi was killed, for a very brief period, I wrote humour pieces for (the now defunct) *Newstime* (owned by the *Eenadu* group). They didn't bring in money, glory or fame. But several readers wrote in to send their 'salaams' to me; those letters spur me on even today. I wrote technical articles like 'Water Resources in the Thar', 'Bird-Hits and Flight Safety', 'Life on Tea Plantations in the Nilgiris' and 'Fire-Hazards in the Home'. The era of specialization had dawned, but I remained a 'generalist'. I wrote a lot of fiction. My inspiration? A stray sentence in a conversation, a remark made out of context, personalities I came across or even an article I read in a newspaper. In the pre-Internet days, it was hard to do homework on a given topic. My work was initially published in *Indian Express*, *The Times of India*, *Newstime*, *Science Today*, *Caravan* (Alive), *Women's Era*, *Eves' Weekly* and *Savvy*. In 1987, I took up part-time job in *Network Pictorial*, the in-flight magazine of Vayudoot, a regional airline focussed on the North-East. Neither survived, but I got a peep into office-life, was introduced to commuting (from Ghaziabad to New Delhi) and saw, for the first time, a computer. It was kept in an isolated, air-conditioned room. To enter that room, we had to remove our footwear and wear masks. Samosas and chai were the staple diet of the staff. I consumed neither. How, my editor wondered, did or could I write? Nowadays, I munch groundnuts or murmuras to fuel the grey cells whilst I'm at the keyboard. I can't begin an article unless I've given it a title. That done, the words flow smoothly. Next, I joined the *Delhi Recorder*. Those were exciting months: Satwant and Beant were convicted for the murder of the late PM. *India Today* was born. News videos were paving the road to (future) news channels. Indian media was approaching adulthood. That is still hasn't matured is a different story. In Jodhpur, I wrote almost an article per day. There was much to experience in Rajasthan. I rode everywhere on my scooter, learnt history and geography first hand. Thence we moved to Bareilly; and to Goa (in 1996). At that time, Goan newspapers carried little national news; even that was acquired through agencies. I took up a job in a hotel to earn a living, but continued to write. Most writers (of fiction, poetry or plays) need to depend on either family money or a day job for sustenance. Perhaps script-writers of films do better, I don't know. The Internet brought instant communication. And recognition! Some of my stories won prizes without the judges knowing my gender, nationality or location. Précis-writing changed. The counting of a word per line per column changed. Now, I just click to check the word count. Page-making, illustrating, tracking changes, making indexes, maintaining data, even keeping track of payment not received or books unsold, became simple. A full-time job meant dealing with a hectic schedule. Yet, I wrote on. I covered topics like 'Arranged Marriages in Goa' and 'Disposal of Hospital Bio-Waste'. My first anthology was a compilation of published stories, *Quilted, Stories of Middle Class India*. I found marketing it difficult. The second was *Melting Moments*. I gave most of the copies away as presents. In 2002, a friend pushed me into doing a Marathi-English translation of *Ward Number 5, KEM*, the biography of a well-known surgeon. I've never worked as hard before or after. Marathi I could talk, but translating meant giving thought to sentence and paragraph structure and nuances. I'd sit at the computer with the book on my lap and the dictionary beside me. In between writing, I'd boil eggs or dal, put the pressure-cooker on the gas, load the washing-machine or get up to answer the door. Back home in the evening after work, I was at the computer whilst cooking dinner. At night, I stayed awake late to get on with the translation. I took no days off. I didn't have the luxury of writing for many hours at a stretch. Finally, it was done and there was a 'proper' launch, with speeches and snacks. Some said, a translation isn't 'your own book'. They also said that my e-book, *Mumbai: a Survival Guide for Expats*, could not be considered as 'my' book, either. Which is why, I also don't include in my biodata *More Than an Upset Stomach*, a thin narrative non-fiction book I wrote on ulcerative colitis and Crohn's Disease patients. In *The Liftman and Other Stories*, the stories give an insight into the psyche of doctors, technicians, lower staff and patients. Some of those stories have won prizes on international literary sites. I tried to get a regular publisher for the book. No luck. One well-known publisher from Delhi was so rude over the phone that I vowed not to buy any books from its stable. I approached trusts that 'helped' Indian art and culture. One said it would help if I wrote something on the ancient texts. Another said, write in a vernacular Indian language. Finally, an American foundation donated some money. I put in the rest. Again, marketing was a problem. (I get between 40-50 per cent of the printed price. Take into account transportation and the months the books spend on the shelf: not worth the effort.) Meanwhile, I continued to write my humour column and used my hospital experience and contacts to write about health-related articles for lay persons. One of the doctors I approached for information bluntly asked me whether the article would generate any money for him. I told him what I was likely to get paid, if at all, for my efforts. Maybe he pitied me after that. I wrote two hospital-themed plays. One was translated into Marathi and selected for the Rajyanatya Mahotsav (State Theatre Festival) in Mumbai. It was cancelled hours before it was to be staged. I wasn't informed of the selection, nor the cancellation. Came to know of both by chance. I was once asked to write lyrics for someone's birthday party. I didn't. Online groups like Sasialit, Caferati and the GoaWriters helped me critique my work, and allowed me a peep into the struggles and successes of other writers. Only an expert eye can point out the flaws in one's work. Fault-finding from good readers helps a writer grow. I am grateful to those who have taken the trouble to help me improve my work across the oceans and time zones, those whom I've never met and possibly never will meet. After *Liftman...*, I did not self-publish. My stories found their way into anthologies like *Vanilla Desires*, *Inside/Out*, *City of the Gods*, *She Writes*, *Indian Voices*, *Shell Windows*, *When They Spoke*, *Carnival* and more. I wrote essays for the *Chicken Soup for the Indian Soul* series and was invited to the Mussoorie Mountain Literature Festival. I write daily. Sometimes about incidents that have taken place during the day, sometimes I just describe a feeling, place, animal or person. If I don't, my mind gets blocked, the ideas don't flow. Ideas play in a private space within my mind, when I'm talking to someone, or driving and cooking. They keep boredom at bay. I don't need company. Writing is my meditation. My long-suffering spouse is okay with my sitting continuously at the computer instead of chit-chatting with him through weekend evenings. He's wiped my disappointed tears at a rejection. My son, daughter-in-law, sister, mother and some close friends are thrilled to see my name in print and follow my activities closely. But only a fellow writer understands the anxiety of anticipation and the delight of acceptance. Now, stories of 50 words, SMS-tales, e-novels and graphic novels have come to stay. A new global language might become the norm, with signs and hieroglyphs. There will still be people who will want to tell a tale, live in a world of fantasy. To them I say: if you have EMI and rents to consider, bills and fees to pay, keep your day job and make time for the writing. Long summer afternoons spent at leisure... have gone and forever. ##################################################################### Community audio link: https://archive.org/details/OnTheWritingProcess