Language and the book prize

At the launch of my book, Disorderly Women, Professor Murthy commented, half turning to me, “you should have written the book in Kannada” and left it at that.

My cousin thought it was a derogatory remark. I kept wondering, consoling myself with plausible reasons for the professor’s observation. I had defined the book as a Uppittu-Kaapi Kannada novel written in English. The launch was a hilarious affair as Prof. Murthy did not even, for once, refer to me, the author, or the contents of the book. It left me wondering if he had read the book at all. He launched into a long-winded discussion on the politics of language: Kannada versus English. Sitting beside him on the dais, I waited for him to say a word about what he thought about the novel. It was an agonizing evening until the host, the hotel manager, said that he had read the book and added a few words of encouragement.

I reached home in a state of total disarray when my publisher rang me up to say that five people had called to accuse me of plagiarism. The opening line of my novel, “Last night I dreamt of Himalaya again,” was supposedly lifted out of Daphne du Maurier’s novel, Rebecca, according to the callers. A simple enough sentence which any school girl could have written.

Well, I was no Keats to suffer mentally to the extent of contracting tuberculosis and dying a miserable death because of the negative comments.

Writers are made of sterner stuff these days, I suppose. My book was neither on the bestseller list nor did it do well at sales.

But I didn’t die. The Kannada translation of the book came out a couple of years later and my friends who read it thought on the same lines of Prof Murthy; that the novel read better in Kannada. On the 31st of December 2008, I was woken up early in the morning by the tring–tring of the telephone. ‘The dreaded morning call! Who would be calling me at that ungodly hour,’ I thought hoping it was not bad news.

‘Who was this someone from Delhi whom I did not know to be a friend or foe?’

“Who is speaking, who is speaking,” I screamed. But when I had calmed down a bit, I realized it was my sister at the other end. “Haven’t you heard the good news,” she yelled. “Your book has won the Academy Prize.” “Really, I can’t believe it,” I yelled back.

Later in the day, the secretary of the Academy called to confirm the news. It was okay, I thought; at last some proof to silence my critics. But I should have known it would only make them madder than ever. For soon enough I heard that the most vicious of them had said that I must have done a lot of lobbying for the Prize.