A colony of writers

VIJAY NAIR
WRITERS lead a precarious existence. I find it easy to acknowledge that the Indian writing in English experiences this phenomenon more acutely. If I am not being attacked for my pretentiousness, I am being hounded for the grammar. I am often asked &# 8212; Why do you write in English?
It’s both easy and difficult to answer that one, simply because it is so loaded. Usually I make my escape by being pedantic. I mention my schooling that was primarily in English. At times I argue that such global times ensure English is an Indian language just like the “chicken tikka” is a British institution. Occasionally I take the more scholarly route of quoting Elliot.
No real answer
And yet the answer to the subtext always eludes in so far this question is asking me who I am loyal to. The Indian reader/ audience who astutely picks up my pretences or the foreign publisher who keeps the dream of a huge advance and a shot at the Booker alive for me? One would like me to be “Indian” in a framework that they have created for my writing. They prefer that I paint my canvas with their metaphors and their preoccupation with poverty, the caste system and the Kumbh Mela! The other detests me for the outsider mask I am compelled to wear and my pseudo concerns.
I experienced the underlying fascinating and destructive processes, sandwiched between this diverse set of patrons, when I participated in the Royal Court Theatre workshop for emerging playwrights. A theatre group in Mumbai organises this residential workshop in India. They are able to tap generous sponsorships from leading corporates for the residency as well as a festival of plays that is positioned as the grand finale. I had been in the audience when the first such theatre festival unfolded in Bangalore in 2002. However I took my time to decide. I decided to participate when a third set of workshops were announced in 2005.
Emerging markets
I was in an English university at that time as the writer in residence and getting interested in exchanges that happen between cultures. The mail that announced the workshop sought a sample script from interested playwrights. These scripts were to be evaluated to identify 12 “deserving” playwrights. My interest in the workshop was piqued because in the university that boasted of some of the leading names in contemporary British literary scene like Abdulrazzak Gurnah, Scarlett Thomas and Patience Ogabi, no one recommended the Royal Court. Clearly the days of “Beckettian” glory was over for the court. And like any other multinational it was seeking emerging markets.
I became a participant the following year. Only nine had made it through the stringent selection process. Three writers were last minute additions owing to a few drop-outs. The group had three Marathi playwrights and one Hindi playwright. The organisers had warned us in an email that a leading writer and director from the court were going to be the facilitators and we writers needed to keep our egos in check!
We met them in the space provided by a leading industrial group in their luxurious guest house for a fortnight. In the first week they mostly kept to themselves and communicated to us largely through the organisers. Questions were not encouraged. If a participant asked two questions on the same day the inevitable reprimand was “Have you read David Mamet?” It was difficult to answer that a few of us hadn’t thought it necessary to familiarise ourselves with the great man’s guidelines before venturing into playwriting.
The second week was more rewarding. There were one to one sessions with them and the exchange became more vibrant. It was evident that they had mastery in their craft and combined this expertise with insights on the writer and his writing. What unfolded in the workshop outside the sessions was equally remarkable. The dozen odd writers and the actors who had come down to help in the workshop bonded over games of “Uno”, drinking sessions and midnight dives into the pool.
We had all started writing furiously by then. The plan was that we finish the first draft of our plays in three months and one of the facilitators comes back to enable us to get them ready for the stage. However, we heard from the organisers that he had discovered other preoccupations at the last minute and they were to take on the mantle of facilitating the remaining process.
Headed downhill
It was all downhill from there. The organisers had their own views about our plays. They felt their primary responsibility was towards the sponsors. They did not want any play that may ruffle feathers and turned overbearing and strident whenever they encountered dissent. The lone Hindi playwright deserted the process after the second workshop.
Once the festival began, some of us discovered to our chagrin that the organisers, who had also doubled up as producers for some of the plays, had encouraged rewriting large chunks to cater to popular sentiments. Critics complained about the lack of depth and originality as there was more than one unacknowledged adaptation. Nothing remarkable emerged in the festival labelled “Writers Bloc,” apart from a moving treatise on Manipur by a first time playwright.
The aftermath was bloody. The stress of the badly handled workshop process started leaking out in petty squabbles. Battle lines were clearly drawn. The writers who had participated due to the generosity of the organisers felt those who were critical of the process read too much in the harmless failures. Others felt they had a more legitimate right to criticise because they had responded to an objective evaluation and had been invited.
The British had done it again. They had managed to divide us without seemingly being a part of the mess that followed after they left. And helped us identify the minefields that lie in the territory we would like to claim as our own.
Courtesy: The Hindu