To J.M. Coetzee, Adelaide

Dear Mr. Coetzee,

Thank you for your insightful, albeit depressing, reply. May I suggest that you cease prying into people's Facebook profiles to scavenge all the little "notes" written to you? While I am extremely flattered by your attention, I cannot help but feel you lack a certain something called life. Nonetheless, you have done your duty by replying but that must needs elicit a few words from my end. As you can tell from the time I have taken to send you my response (in the context of an instant-coffee culture), I have put some thought into what I feel would be appropriate, so kindly bear with me.

When I first read your work (I believe it was Disgrace) I was amazed by the neatness and that keen piercing quality of your prose. Worry not, this is not just your ordinary fan letter, but I must be allowed to preface my interest. What soon attracted my attention, however, was your obsession with the self and the manner in which the written word could (or could not) access that self. To cut a rather long and untidy story short, I decided to follow my initial observation and I am glad to say you have not let me down on the "self department" yet. If in the future you become so affected by my casual notes that you choose to work against my thesis, I shall consider that rare praise. Thus you see my naivete, as you so endearingly term it, is not without its own history--and one that I am more than willing and capable of defending.

Now to come to the little matter of professional academics. May I remind you that you too walked the same path you believe I am walking, several decades ago. But this is not to remind you of your own failings. The poet can hardly be that cruel to her muse. However, you are not the first (and I sincerely hope not the last either) to warn me, and if I may be allowed a rather MTV-esque reply: I don't give a tiny rat's ass. Those musty corridors of canonical texts now unfortunately house you (I delightfully refuse to add "work") and would even you go so far to disparage yourself? Ah the flipside of being a Nobel Laureate. You may refuse to go where they praise you, but praise you they will. 

I look forward to hearing from you in the future, and something tells me I have punctured your ego enough to expect another reply. If you find some of what I have said too off the cuff, feel free to let me know. I am a graduate student you know, I can fake interest far more than you think a human being capable of.

Yours sincerely

Sunayani Bhattacharya

JMC, a response

Dear Ms Bhattacharya,

I received your rather cryptic, and I might add intriguing, note via this vulgar contraption called Facebook. I am still not sure what to make of either the strangeness of the mode of communication or your audacity, but I feel a reply is in order.

So you believe yourself to be one of the rare individuals to be investing your academic time in my work as you try and climb the precarious ladder of graduate school. I hate to be the one bursting your psychedelic fantasy bubble, but you are probably the one thousandth person to consider my work as suitable subject for study. Perhaps they did not warn you, but the others ahead of you in the field have not fared too well. I am not a kind muse. However, since for some perverse reason you choose to persist, I feel it is my duty to acquaint you with the imminent pitfalls.

When you so peremptorily suggest that "we" need to talk (a line, by the way that was last used by my ex-wife to inform me she had had just about enough of me) you have no idea who the "other" is in this dialogue. Nor may I add, you ever will. Your naivete might have been endearing a decade or two ago, my response too might have been more favourable. Today, however, I have seen too many of the likes of you to believe any good will ever come of it. What you will eventually produce (if anything) will be a naive mix of idealism and baseless logic, supported by arguments as strong as the various anti-war protests. Once you finish basking in your momentary glory, you will realise the futility of your work as you will be relegated to the musty corridors of teaching canonical literature. When (or rather, if) you do acquire the power to teach your "area of specialisation" you will be left spouting trite arguments following the latest theoretical fad. At the end of it all, when you can no longer hide your disillusionment even from yourself, you will be resigned to having spent the better years of your life wondering what made an old man's work so special without ever having uncovered their polyvalent layers.

If, after such persuasion, your enthusiasm remains vigorous, then I can only offer my sincerest condolences.

Yours

JMC

tukro chhobi.

spotted in a shop display in chandni. a full length poster of greta garbo smiling coyly at another poster featuring sri devi. would have been less remarkable had it not been for the sheer strangeness of the expressions.

also near chandni. a shop claiming to sell "family planning appliances". featuring images of the aforementioned "appliances" that look disturbingly like instruments belonging to a torture chamber.

sunrise. over the dingiest parts near howrah station. followed by a dawn made more spectacular by the greyness of the city. the last of the electric lights struggling to compete with a foggy sun.

late at night, this time on the way to the airport. the old way, the one you had to take through the city before the coming of the em bypass. long before rajarhat. sleepers on the pavement, people coaxing a few more minutes of a faintly breezy night. late night classic bollywood on the radio.

gariahat more. just after sundown, when you thought the place just couldn't get more crowded. hagglers, stragglers. lights. shops. the works. and the sudden silence of the little lane that leads away from the madness. you wonder how.

pavement bookstalls. keen eyes (thank you. you know who you are.) spotting a second hand copy of sartre. first edition. also being offered nancy drew while looking for hegel. it is, after all, just words.

being nagged awake on sunday mornings. yes, this too is a luxury, sometimes sorely missed. the same sunday spent doing absolutely nothing. and the feeling of despair that settles at the pit of your stomach just when the sun goes down and everything starts gearing up for the working week.

running into old, old friends. ones you thought didnt exist any more. the sheer randomness of the conversations that follow. that leave you ruminating about the "good ol' days".

realising that you are getting on in years. you remember parks, places, rickshaw rides dating back to the 80s. also that those things dont exist any more.

being inside the eden gardens again, and remembering why you had thought of the fish-eye lens in the first place. witnessing water-pouch pelting. a noticeable lack in sportsmanship.

conversations. about anything. continental philosophy. dating bollywood films to the exact month. books. boka people. the city. the south of the city. life. love. ideas. and sometimes wondering why the wind has to start up only when you can see it from inside the shop.