The Dhoklu Series (Episode 2)

RECAP (loosely translated for my Hindi-speaking friends as: Phir se topi pehnana)

(Read Episode One: Nipped in the Literary Bud here.)

In the previous episode, we saw how Dhoklu’s mother kindled (a beautiful word, BTW – Dhoklu is going to learn so much more about the word ‘kindle’ in the near future, and… so many meanings of it!) a spark of literary aspirations in his little mind. We saw how Dhoklu’s teachers and Education Board murdered those very dreams before they started (for references, look at anyone educated in your vicinity, even yourself – 99 in 100 people are doing anything but what their “education” taught them). Then we saw how Dhoklu finally revealed his aspirations to his father who immediately jingled his cash-filled deep kurta pockets and told him to go ahead and make it large.

 

Let’s see now how large.

Episode 2

Licked in the Literary Nuts

(Written by Neil D’Silva)

After duly searching and researching on what ‘vanity publishing’ means, Dhoklu sat down for a breather. His dad asked him about it, and Dhoklu, like the learned man he was now told him – “Papa, paisa aapvanu chhe ane publish thai jashe!”  (“Papa, we have to pay money and I will be published!”)

Papa heard ‘paisa’ and sat down. This was a part he was proficient with. There was a flurry of questions such as ‘ketla paisa’, ‘kone aapva padshe’, ‘returns ketla malshe’ (‘how much money’, ‘whom to pay the money to’, ‘what will be the returns’) and about a dozen more in the same vein, and when it was finally and fully appropriated (through highly optimistic projections) that for every 1 rupee investment there could be a return of 10000 rupees, Ranchhodbhai called up the downstairs Sankalp Pure Ghee Mithai Shop for half-a-kilo kaju katri and another half motichoor laddu.

Dhoklu thanked his lucky stars that his father had not yet asked him about which book he was planning to write. Or about its subject. Or about its characters. Or even the title. So far, Dhoklu was in safe zone. Very safe zone.

The Publisher

Next day, between 10:37 and 10:55 in the morning, Dhoklu was busy on a call. His mother duly shushed the children playing cricket on the street outside, and shouted with as loud a whisper as she could manage, “Dhoklu na Delhi thi call aiwa chhe! Chhup raho!”  (“Dhoklu has received a call from Delhi! Keep quiet!”) After making sure that the neighbors had heard her whisper, she shut the window pane.

So, Dhoklu kept the phone down and the next moment, his family gathered around him. Like a man possessed with a dream that’s turning into reality, Dhoklu announced that the call was from Delhi (where else!). Actually, 113 km away from proper Delhi, but who cares for such stuff? It was a vanity publisher, who insisted on being called self publisher. He told everything that Dhoklu needed to do (except the part about writing the book, of course!) There was clear business talk about how Dhoklu would have to buy back 500 copies of his own book once they were published.

Ranchhodbhai interrupted at that point. 500 x 120 = 60000. “Rupya ne? Dollar to nathi?”  No. It was not doh-lar as he had pronounced it. Then that was perfect. 60000 was less than what he had spent on feeding his entire family and their families Gujarati thalis from Maharaja Bhog on his eldest daughter’s son’s first birthday. And then treated them en masse to a show of Bajrangi Bhaijaan (most people’s sixth viewing), where the ladies sat together in the front four rows, and the men in all the comfortable back rows. This publishing thing was definitely doable. He patted his grown son’s back like a man possessed.

So, father and son deliberated for a good three hours on which publisher to contact. They went through the websites given to them by Google Baba, and finally father and son zeroed in upon one of them. Ranchhodbhai drove this decision mostly based on the fact that the homepage had the pictures of the right gods and the directors of the company had the right surnames.

The next day, the contract came on email. Dhoklu was very happy on seeing the contract, because it was about ten flimsy points on a green page, that did not even come up to half the page. The title was a blank line for now, which suited Dhoklu all the more! And the language was something Dhoklu could understand very well. It was definitely not the complex and show-offy kind he had read in The Adventures of Tom Sawyer when in school. This was so simple to grasp – “Auther does not lays claims to His books fr nxt 10 Yrs.”

Ranchhodbhai whooped with joy again. “Royalty!” he jumped. Royalty lakha chhe! Dhoklu, tu to Raja bani gaya re!” (“Royalty is written! Dhoklu, you have become a king!”)

The next day, the entire extended family went to the post office to courier the contract, speed post no less. Firecrackers were burst on the road, and children danced on the Gujarati dubs of Bahubali songs. The womenfolk stood suitably 60 meters away from the menfolk, and everyone gossiped about how Dhoklu was embarking on something that no one had done before.

Dhoklu thanked his lucky stars no one had yet asked him his book’s title.

Dhoklu’s Friends

Now that the news was out that Dhoklu was writing the next bestseller (a word that had gained a lot of currency in that village overnight), the friends – all boys, of course – started pouring in one by one. Dhoklu’s mother had almost permanently positioned herself at the door so that the friends could suitably touch her feet before moving inside.

Every friend came armed with suitable praise – one comment each, and one for backup in case someone else used that one before them. This was quite a difficult task though, because Dhoklu had never been a popular student, and people did not know what to really say to him or about him. So, by the end of the samosa-and-Fanta filled day, Dhoklu was left with comments like, “Dhoklu is so observant! Now I know why he used to keep staring at the girls’ section in the class all the time,” and “Dhoklu has always been a man of words and not of action – remember the time you said you’d come with me to talk to Bhavani Mam and never showed up?”

Meanwhile, Ranchhodbhai had positioned himself by the window with the phone. The 31.30 minute call was to Taarakbhai, and there was definitely a purpose. The purpose was in the form of Ankita, Taarakbhai’s daughter who probably was of marriageable age now. Or maybe a little less, who cares? Hopefully she had returned from wherever in London she had gone for whatever studies she wanted to do.

Studies! Bah! These girls of today…

Come back tomorrow when we continue Dhoklu’s saga. Read about Dhoklu’s new Apple computer and broadband Internet connection on which he discovers the greatest resource for writers there can ever be – Facebook.

The Dhoklu Series (Episode 1)

Nipped in the Literary Bud

(Written by Neil D’Silva)

 

Dhoklu could have been a literary genius. His name could have been shining right up there with all the Chetan Bhagats and the Amish Tripathis and the person who wrote the Chacha Chowdhary series whose name he does not remember now (all Dhoklu’s great – and only – inspirations), but sadly it did not happen. He could have won a Booker or a Pulitzer or maybe Amdavad’s New Debut Litstar Award (ANDLA) but it never happened. And we will never know what a genius Dhoklu could have become.

It will be too depressing for you to know what Dhoklu is doing today after his literary dreams were shattered, so I shall not speak about that, but it might help a couple of us here to know what really shattered Dhoklu’s dreams.

So, these are the culprits right here.

Dhoklu’s Mother

Imagine literary murder. Nay, literary terrorism. And imagine the terrorist standing right there with the automated weapon that’s known only with its acronym and its serial number. And imagine the terrorist massacring literature in cold blood. Well, that’s Dhoklu’s mother right there.

Now, don’t get me wrong. This quintessential Indian Maa did all the right things. She doted on her Dhoklu like she definitely should have. But the moment the poor woman saw the beautiful curves of Dhoklu’s English writing in his III Standard (those were the days we said III Standard and not Grade 3 like today), which were suitably assisted with his newly-bought China pen filled with Chelpark ink, the lady went into a state of euphoric high. And then she said those brutal words that marred Dhoklu’s psyche forever – “Dhoklu, tu ketla saras lakhe chhe! Writer bani jaao!” (“Dhoklu, you write so well! Become a writer!”)

Those were the bullets that she assaulted our poor Dhoklu with, and the wounds never healed. Maa kabhi jhoot nahin bolti and all that, so how could Dhoklu not believe in it? Like Mithun Chakraborty of yore, Dhoklu took it upon himself to become a writer, by hook or by crook. Mostly the latter.

But today Dhoklu is wiser, and Dhoklu has learned. Dhoklu has understood the impact of his mother’s carelessly spoken words. That is why he almost had an altercation with his wife last week when she told their son Paatru – “Paatru, tu ketla saras lakhe…”  “NOOO!” Dhoklu yelled out. “Stop it right there!” Well, Dhoklu’s wife stopped, but not before ending it tearfully with, “Pann hoon to… hoon to keval Paatru ne protsahit karwa maan aavi hati… nahitar Patel ni putri handwriting competition jeeti jashe!” (“But I was… I was only saying this to encourage Paatru… otherwise Patel’s daughter will win the handwriting competition!”)

Dhoklu’s Teachers

Oh, Dhoklu had several Taare Zameen Par moments when he was a kid. That’s not at all surprising, is it? Most of us writers have had those. Maybe we did not see animated fish in a bottle, but we have had our individual fantasies. Dhoklu had them too. And he might have worked on them as well, but his teachers, his brutish teachers…

They gave him homework. Which was nothing more than writing the chapter on Solar Energy ten times, copying it word to word.

And then there was his tuition teacher (whom his mother referred to as too-shun teacher), whose only religion was the term exams. And her only procedure was to make the student know the answers so fluently that they could say that in their sleep.

Well, once Dhoklu’s school did the unthinkable and prescribed an actual literary book – The Adventures of Tom Sawyer – for casual reading. It was a good initiative, of course, and Dhoklu could actually have seen what literature looks like, but then his teachers brutally murdered poor Dickens by making Dhoklu mug up answers to questions such as “Why is Huck Finn admired by all boys in the class?” which was suitably translated as “Chokraaon na Hook Feen kem gamay chhe?”

Dhoklu’s Education Board

Oh, why blame the individuals when the system itself can be put to shame? And deservedly so. Things would have been so radically different if there was ICSE in Dhoklu’s time. But all the poor stifled genius had was to make do with the State Board.

And, believe me if you will, this was a State Board with the most pathetic textbooks ever. It was a Board that did not differentiate between ‘Suez Canal’ and ‘Sewage Canal’. This was a Board where African natives were referred to with the N-word. This was a Board which said that astronauts go to space wearing helmets. I kid you not!

This was also a Board where the only literary pieces in the Standard X textbook were written by people of dubious merit such as Shobha De. Oh, they did have literature, but that literature was poorly-translated versions of Munshi Premchand’s stories. Like, Bade Ghar ki Beti was transliterated as ‘Daughter of Big House’.

And the Board Exams! The big sham known as Board Exams. The kind where all you do is cram, cram, cram, and go and puke, puke, puke. The Great Indian Vomiting Marathon, if you will. They didn’t help Dhoklu one bit.

Now tell me, under these circumstances, what could poor Dhoklu do?

Well, there is ICSE Board now, and Dhoklu’s son Paatru is a proud student of the Board, but sadly Dhoklu and his wife are not. Hence, half of Paatru’s proper learning is unlearnt because of his parents and his tuition teacher. Hopefully, in the next generation…

Dhoklu’s Father

Dhoklu’s father came into the picture of his literary world quite late in the day. After he turned 57, to be precise, when it was found that his blood sugar was too high to continue running around for his garment business. But by then he had earned enough and with suitable investments in all the right places, that paid him more than the average salaries of ten Indian families, he could very well retire.

That was also around the time when Dhoklu told him – very hesitatingly, I might add – that he wished to be a published writer. The guffaw that followed shook the very foundations of Gajanan Apartments for a whole ten minutes, until the neighboring Chhedas and Prajapatis came to inquire if everything was all right with Ranchhodbhai, and when they left, Ranchhodbhai asked his son if he was really serious.

Well, Ranchhodbhai had money. And a small dream of seeing his son’s name on a publication did ring a bell somewhere. He might have thought it was his contribution to the alien world of intelligence that he had never been a part of thus far, and, what the ho! He had money, didn’t he?

“Jaa, beta, jee le apni zindagi!” he said in truly filmi style and Dhoklu ran in slow motion to his computer and typed in the Google search box – carefully, letter by letter, thinking of the spelling as he proceeded – ‘how to get published in India’.

And the whole family rejoiced when they saw the top ten results. Ranchhodbhai read them slowly too, and then asked, “Dhoklu, aa v-a-n-i-t-y soo chhe?” And Dhoklu smiled back. “Search karoon chhoo, Papa.”

Dhoklu’s saga continues in the next episode. Read it here now:

Episode Two: Licked in the Literary Nuts

(c) Neil D’Silva