Biswajit Banerji is a prolific humorist and author of hundreds of bestsellers- all in his dreams. In reality, this is his debut book.
His satirical ramblings, poetry, and travel writing have been published accidentally in several literary journals, periodicals, and websites. For a living, Biswajit serves in a senior position in a leading Public Sector steel unit.
Briefly describe your journey until now. Have you accomplished what you wanted or still have a mile to go?
From having an engineering background and employed in the manufacturing industry to writing a book on humour and satire – it has been a journey between two very incongruent poles. However, I am fortunate to have the muse on my side all these years. I have been writing poetry, prose and travelogues and getting published off and on. When one of my humour pieces got published in a short-humour anthology by a popular UK website, it set me thinking about writing a book-length collection. The reading and writing still continues along with life’s myriad other chores.
I feel that humour is the last resort of a failed reformist. As long as there exist individual peculiarities and social shortcomings, humour and satire will keep flowing to constantly poke fun at them. I have talked with myself and I am expecting another book of humour from me, not shortly but in due course.
What is your book “Happimess” all about?
At the simplest level, the book is all about humorous stories of getting tangled-up in everyday life’s messy situations, mostly out of one’s own making. The fun doubles when one fervently tries to escape and things tend to get out of hands. On a higher level, the stories constantly satirize individual and social values, beliefs and norms.
From faulty appliances, cunning office colleagues, nagging agents, hagglers, irritating neighbours to an inflated ego and a terrible farewell speech – the net of satire is cast wide and spares none. The characters in the stories are all very relatable but it is their individual traits and peculiar habits that make them unique.
What is the most fulfilling part of writing this book? And what is the most challenging?
In a broader context, the book is also about my attempt to drive home the significance of clean humour as a literary genre in our country. For far too long, our minds have accepted and believed that cheap and shallow jokes are what humour and satire is all about. This, I believe, is due to the constant barrage of on-line content we are subjected to, on the social media platforms.
The most challenging part for me was to pick-up the humorous elements from situations we are much too familiar with and hence likely to miss. The stories in the book revolve around day-to-day happenings and we are an invariable part of such settings ourselves. So it becomes really difficult to look objectively at things and then identify and extract the fun, the incongruities and the absurdities in the situations.
The most fulfilling part has been to successfully string up the hilarious episodes into standalone stories that are entirely relatable….and narrated casually in a way as if being told over a cup of evening tea. I am really glad that the book has been received very well by the readers as well as the reviewers.
Apart from the title, what is unique about your book?
My book picks out elements of humour and satire from very common, daily happenings that passes our eye unnoticed. This is what makes the book unique. Each story in the book has quite a distinct theme that presents common happenings in the most comical and unusual light. The humour in the book is clean and subtle and does not offend or hurt. It can be read out loud among family and friends without ruffling any feathers.
Another thing for which the book may stand out is the language. I’ve tried to use a narrative style that ‘floats like a butterfly and stings like a bee’, to borrow from Muhammad Ali. The language is conversational and yet laced with satirical barbs all over, but in a non-offensive way.
Would you like to share some writing tips with our readers and aspiring writers?
If you want to write non-fiction, write what you know and if it is fiction, write what you don’t know. Let the exploratory part of writing take you to a point where the joy of arriving and looking around is far more than the boundaries of your limited knowledge.
Don’t give up on an idea easily that has struck you. Don’t feel disheartened either if you have to wipe the slate clean and begin afresh. Try reaching a point where the ideas and the language flow naturally and more freely – it may be some pages of hard labour before that actually happens. Patience with your craft is a must and like slow cooking, it will give you the best taste and results.
Read whenever you find time. Conversing with another author’s mind can give you new clues and help you get over that writer’s block.
Last but not the least, how are you dealing with current times where everything is so uncertain?
Who would’ve thought of a killer pandemic in such a so-called medically advanced society as ours? The daily numbers of infections and deaths are spiralling and reminds us that perhaps this is the way, the grand old and flourishing civilizations had withered and died. To take my mind off, I have been reading a lot and practicing vocal classical music and Tagore songs, my other passions.
Fiction flourishes in contradiction: Pak author Mira Sethi
In a country where assertive self-expression can be frowned upon, how to be yourself? Maybe through sneaky networks of solidarity, by improvising identities as one navigates life…
While many of the characters in author Mira Sethi’s debut story collection ‘Are you Enjoying?’ (Bloomsbury India) are professional performers, even those who are not, can be skilled chameleons.
“To live in a society with strong views about what constitutes ‘virtue’ and ‘vice’, means, as a citizen, having to alter and contort one’s authentic self in order to survive. Roshan, the queer chai-boy on the set of ‘Breezy Blessings’ says to Mehak, the actress: ‘About drama, you know nothing.’ She may be the actress, but as a queer person navigating middle-class Pakistani society, he understands everything about drama, and how to communicate effectively via code, innuendo, signal,” Mira Sethi tells IANS.
As the characters in the stories strive for personal freedom, the author asserts that they are in fact trying to throw off the straitjacket imposed by society — how does one negotiate personal freedom in a traditional society?
“I wanted to show both the resilience of my characters, but also the vulnerability of people caught between the pull of the past, and the lure of modernity. Family – the imperatives of fathers and mothers – is a major theme in the book; there was a desire to portray how the burdensome pressures of family (the past) interact with (modern) aspirations of young, urban people,” she says.
Taking around six years to write the book, ‘Breezy Blessings’ was the first story she wrote.
“I would email myself snippets, thoughts and observations. It was only after I wrote the first draft of ‘Breezy Blessings’ (in my gmail inbox!) that I opened a Word document, and began taking myself seriously as a writer,” the writer-actor says with a smile.
Stressing that she draws from the sights and sounds encountered in life – the power dynamics on the set of a show, the ways in which Urdu and English are mixed and her lived experience as an observer and participant in Pakistani life, Sethi works best in the mornings, before she has interacted with anyone, the space when her mind is blank slate.
“I sometimes won’t shower until 5 or 6 pm until I’ve had four good hours of writing. Flow-state writing is hard to achieve, but I find I’m able to do it if I start first thing in the morning. Of course, then getting up to make breakfast is an interruption.”
Talk to her about the brilliant fiction in English from Pakistani origin writers in the past two decades, and she feels that fiction flourishes in contradiction.
Adding that Pakistan is a society in transition, and there is a lot of tension to be harnessed in the space between the laws of the state, not to mention the ways in which they interact with individual desire and autonomy, the author adds, “Young people get their news – and their aspirations – from social media and television. Their desires are secular, but the frameworks into which these people are born are traditionalist.”
Ask her about the experience of growing up in a progressive family in a religious country, and Sethi, daughter of well-known journalists Najam Sethi and Jugnu Mohsin, who has also been seen in Pakistani serials including ‘Silvatein’ and ‘Mohabat Subh Ka Sitara Hai’, says, “Identity politics play out in unusual ways in a country like Pakistan, where labels like ‘liberal’ and ‘conservative’ can mean different things depending on their context. I’m happy my book has been able to navigate the dignity of people who often don’t fit in.”
But has she felt the ‘burden’ of being born to famous parents? “Not when it comes to writing fiction,” she smiles.
For someone who feels that she would be a poorer writer if it weren’t for acting, there is another book brewing, “I believe so, but I’ll find out when there are words, stumbles and fumbles on the page.”
source: The Statesman
‘Eid in the Days of Plague’: This short story is born of the imagination in a time of grim reality
It was an old settlement, yet darkness enveloped it. There were buildings spreading from the railway station to the hills as far as the eye could see, but essentially it seemed like a cobbled-up slum. There was a temple on the hilltop opposite the station. If one viewed the settlement from the courtyard of the temple, a minaret was visible.
This was the minaret of the local Jama Masjid, and it was shaped like a rocket. It felt as if this rocket would take off on its own towards space, never to return. There were two small bulbs at the mouth of the rocket. One red, one green. These would be used till some years ago to declare the timings for sehri and iftar.
A mosque had now been constructed in every alley of the settlement, and each mosque had four to five loudspeakers. So now the blessed sound of the azaan would reach every home. In fact, so many sounds would reach each home that sometimes the pious would fight with others in their family at the time for sahri or iftar about whether that sound of the azaan was from their mosque or not.
On the other hand, the electric supply would play hide and seek with the settlement. This can also be explained thus that the administration played hide and seek with the enclave. This is why the bulbs on top of the minaret continued to be of use. The bulbs were connected to a generator that a welfare organisation had donated to the Jama Masjid.
Twenty or twenty-five years ago, the population of the settlement was still quite low. In those years, an epidemic of hate broke out in the city next to the settlement.
During this time, the rakshasas that had run away from Lanka at the time of Lord Ram’s attack also descended as the wrath of the city. It is said that the rakshasas have been wandering around the subcontinent for years and whenever they descend on a city, it comes under the sway of blood and fire. Nobody knows who is behind this veil of blood and fire.
Under the attack of the rakshasas and the outbreak of hatred the city had turned into Lanka. Arson was all around, corpses were everywhere. Thousands of people succumbed to this epidemic of hate. The foreign journalists analysing this pandemic of hate were of the opinion that those people succumbed more to this outbreak whose honourable names included Arabic sounds.
Thus, once the epidemic of hate came to an end and the rakshasas headed towards a different city, those with Arabic names migrated away from the town, leaving their hearts behind. Most people from the city came and settled in this enclave. These people founded the Jama Masjid. Although this is also a fact that this settlement is only an hour’s commute away from the city, but the distance between the lives of those who live here and the city is that of a century.
Pardon me, I was saying that the enclave was old and the darkness was deep. There were buildings spreading from the railway station to the hills as far as the eye could see, but essentially it seemed like a cobbled-up slum. On the third story of a building in this slum was the home of Begum Sughra, the mother of Musarrat Jehan.
Musarrat Jehan had once gone to the temple on the hilltop opposite the railway station and stared at the settlement for long. She had felt as if the enclave was a refugee camp. Looking at the rocket-shaped minaret she had remembered that its shadow fell on her home every evening. Looking at the mammoth shadow she would often feel that the minaret was really a war missile under whose presence the whole settlement was safe.
Two expert linguists lived in the enclave. Their opinion differed from everyone else. They would say that if most people in a settlement had names constituted of Arabic sounds then it is safe from the epidemic of hate, but the chances for plague increase.
The majority of the people in the enclave were not familiar with these linguists and those who were did not take them seriously. The truth of the matter is that even both the linguists did not take each other’s linguistic opinions seriously, but, coincidentally, both agreed on the linguistic theory about the plague.
Pardon me, I was saying that the settlement was old and the darkness was deep. There were buildings spreading from the railway station to the hills as far as the eye could see, but essentially it seemed like a cobbled-up slum. On the third story of a building in this slum was the home of Begum Sughra, the mother of Musarrat Jehan.
Musarrat Jehan used to love someone and would meet him on the sly. Twice the boy had taken her to the famous beach of the city, where he had treated her to paani-puri.
There were many turns yet to come in this tale of love, but one day Musarrat, her lover, and her lover’s friend – all disappeared. After three days, under mysterious circumstances, their bodies were found covered in blood, miles away from the enclave. In fact, they were not found, but reported on TV. The mediawallahs were saying that these people had joined the enemies of the country.
Some people were saying that government officials had gauged that these people had caught the plague. It was therefore dangerous for them to have remained alive. There were as many accounts and interpretations as there were newspapers and channels.
Begum Sughra was incapacitated with grief. After a few days when the shock lessened, a few old men and members of political parties of the settlement began to visit her. They would ask Begum Sughra and her relatives many questions in confidence: Did Musarrat refer to the days of the epidemic of hate? Did she give the message of the dissolution of borders? Did she read those books that have the false stories of rise and fall inscribed in them?
With every envoy there would be one or two government officials or spies of the state machinery about whom no one was aware. In fact, one spy did not know about the other. Their faces would be lined with such deep lines of grief that the residents of the building would feel that they must be some relatives of Begum Sughra. Not only would these despondent-faced spies memorise Begum Sughra’s statements word by word, they would also draw a sketch of the expressions of everyone present in their minds.
Following Musarrat’s demise, the theory of the linguists gradually became common knowledge in the settlement. At the corners of the enclave, at tea stalls, colleges, mosques, shrines, and squares, people would include each other in this secret with whispered tones that if most people in a settlement have names constituted of Arabic sounds, then it is safe from the epidemic of hate, but the chances for plague increase.
After a year, Sughra Begum heard that among the people of the settlement and those who knew the settlement this story was commonly accepted that Musarrat had caught the plague and the cause of her mysterious death was also the plague.
Sughra Begum had accepted Musarrat’s mysterious death as Allah’s will, but this she could not accept at any cost that, post-mortem, Musarrat should be connected to such a disease that can be the cause of the destruction of the whole enclave.
She decided that she would go to court to discover the cause of Musarrat’s mysterious death. When she made an announcement about this, some people came forward to help. Most of them were from other places. The officials of the place where Musarrat’s corpse was discovered far away from the enclave tried their best to prevent these busybodies and Begum Sughra’s lawyer from the going to court or to entrap them in its intricacies.
Consequently, the case got stuck in the judicial morass.
Despite this, every now and then, Sughra Begum’s hopes would be raised that the judgment would come in her favour and that Musarrat’s soul would find some peace. But then this hope would turn into a desert of hopelessness, over which she would spread a mat and offer namaz night and day and pray to Allah for his help from the void to prove that Musarrat had not caught the plague. The desert was soulless. Begum Sughra’s prayers became ever longer. Her knees would cramp, and her toes would go numb. The prayer mat was now starting to smell of her tears.
I digressed again –
I was telling that the settlement was old and the darkness was deep. There were buildings spreading from the railway station to the hills as far as the eye could see, but essentially it seemed like a cobbled-up slum. On the third story of a building in this slum was the home of Begum Sughra, the mother of Musarrat Jehan. It was the last night of the Ramzan. Begum Sughra had spent the whole month reciting the Qur’an and in worship. Seeing the waxing crescent of the Eid moon, she turned towards her bed, and her eyes suddenly teared. A flood of Musarrat’s memories rose in her heart.
Every year after the sighting of the Eid moon, most girls from the building would gather on this very bed to get mehndi made on their hands from Musarrat. Musarrat would sit at the edge of the bed and by turn draw flowers and paisleys on each of their hands. The girls would secretly request Musarrat to inscribe an English letter amongst the flowers and paisleys.
Musarrat would demand to know details about their secret love in exchange for inscribing that letter, and the girls would coyly tell many details about their lovers.
Rounds of tea would begin and sweets would appear from the neighbours’ homes. It would be one merry gathering.
But since Musarrat’s mysterious death, once this news spread that she had died of plague, the building’s girls gradually stopped coming to their home. Silence reigned here now. As if everything had died with Musarrat’s mysterious death. Even the flowers on the curtains on the windows had wilted. The colour of the ceiling had faded. Plaster was peeling off the walls in many places. A hinge on a door had come loose. The house had become a grave in which Sughra Begum had been interred alive.
Sughra Begum sat next to the bed and sobbed copiously for long. She did not even remember that she had not turned on the tube light. Darkness had deepened inside the house. Despite the night of the first moon, every corner of the house was shrouded in a speechless calamity and a feeling of deprivation deepening the gaping dark.
If one looked from the courtyard of the temple on the hilltop opposite the railway station, then a strange halo of darkness appeared atop Begum Sughra’s building. It felt as if there was a black hole there, where all light was getting buried. Above the sharp rays of twilight in the sky, the crescent of the new moon was swimming in grief. People had not even gazed upon it to their heart’s content when it sank.
The crescent moon had not only seen the misfortune, despair, and deprivation spreading over Begum Sughra’s home. It had also seen such hellish darkness over many homes in many enclaves across the country, where the residents of these houses all carried this grief and clamour that why was this being said about their family members – who had disappeared or whose mangled corpses had turned up many miles away from their homes or those who were in the state’s custody – that they were affected by the plague?
Translated from “Taauun Ke Dixon Mein Eid”, published in 2014.
HR-turned-Author, Jyoti Jha Releases Cover of her Upcoming Masterpiece!
Books are not only a source of inspiration but also an act of escapism into a parallel world. However, there are certain books, that speak to their readers through the realities of life. ‘The Realms of Human Emotions’ by Jyoti Jha is one such book that provides an immersive experience to the readers impactfully drawn from the spheres of human emotions from regular living.
Emotions define us as human beings and influence our existence around the relationships we dwell with. One that can be dealt with various aspects of feelings, perceptions, attitudes, and intentions, and intricate relationships entangled around those. Through this book and the compelling and captivating stories, the author is all set to entrance the readers exploring those emotions.
An HR-turned-Author, Jyoti Jha who has recently signed a deal with Literia Insight is delighted to release the cover of her upcoming masterpiece ‘The Realms of Human Emotions’. The artistic portrayal of colours and the succinct title are prepared to intrigue the readers to delve into the layers of human sentiments through various stories, setups, characters, and incidents.
Talking at the eve of the release of the book cover, Jyoti Jha shared her insights on the central theme around which the stories in the book revolve. In the words of the author Jyoti Jha-
“Emotions that compel our actions and influence our decisions, and yet we often have uncertainty around expressing our emotions and acknowledging our feelings.
With this book, I attempt to explore the layers of human emotions and communicate to the readers through different characters drawn from some factual accounts and diverse figments of imagination sketched across the stratum of the human psychosomatic canvas.
The stories in the book intend to portray human experiences that continually strive to find a balance between the outer hurricane of sentiments and an inner vortex of fervours. At the same time endeavouring to align individual emotions that delicately blend with the relationships around them.”
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