 "<b>Coffee with BS:</b> Shobhaa De")
I never imagined that my first meeting with Shobhaa De would be like a scene out of a slapstick film. We are to meet for breakfast at The All American Diner at the India Habitat Centre, New Delhi. She's going to be 10 minutes late, so I take a seat near the entrance in the pretty little garden. A little while later, I get a call that she's at the Diner and looking for me. Odd. I've been watching the door all this time and couldn't have possibly missed her. So, I decide to look for her. And that's how it begins, writes Veenu Sandhu.
The Diner is a small place and it's difficult - almost impossible - to lose a person here. But, it so happens that the Diner has two entrances, both with a green canopy, both facing a lawn and both with "The All American Diner" written on it. I am not aware of this very important fact and I suspect neither is she. I am standing under the green canopy, I tell her. "Why, that's exactly where I am," she tells me. Curious. I enter the cafe-cum-restaurant, look around in vain and then walk out of the door. That very moment, she walks in through the other door. We miss each other by seconds. It's after some ridiculous minutes of going round and round in circles that I finally see a woman in a bright green bandhani skirt and matching dupatta barge out of the door outside which I am standing. Relief. Followed by sheepish laughter.
When we are finally seated, with the original "Oh! Carol" (written in 1958 by Neil Sedaka) playing in the background - the Diner does have some great music - I finally get to take a good look at De. She looks younger than she does in her pictures. At 65, she is fit, though she insists that she doesn't exercise, which is a cause of concern for her children. But that's not what strikes me about her.
The author, columnist, socialite and former model appears more grounded than the impression that her stories and novels give and the characters portray. It's a persona that is very different from the public image.
The opinion about her literary skills has always been divided. She has her fans, no doubt. But she also has very strong and vocal critics. The most recent one, author Reginald Massey, made his impression of her writing caustically vocal during the Taj Literature Festival held earlier this year. Questioning De's credentials as a literary person, Massey said she should not be taken seriously since she writes "soft pornography which titillates".
Well, it is a fact that De does get graphic in her description of erotic scenes. But she's clear that she will not be apologetic about it. "You win some, you lose some. For every Massey, there are thousands and thousands of fans," she shrugs. Taking on her critic, she says, "I don't even know who he (Massey) is or what he's talking about. He sounded like someone from another century. I wonder if he has read any of my books or why he chose to pick me."
De would rather not "keep looking for snipers around you or else you are going to pull yourself down. I never want that to happen. I love what I write."
It's time to place an order. "Cappuccino. Strong," she says. That's it? "Yes." I settle for cappuccino, too, though the foodie in me protests vehemently and tries to draw my attention to the delightful menu - waffles, the all-American banana sundae, lemon cheese cake, croissant, bacon, pancakes with a dab of honey or maple syrup. The cappuccino arrives. It's not bad, but then that's all it is - cappuccino.
The decibel levels in the cafe have, meanwhile, gone up. There is a loud and happy group sitting at the table next to ours. The noise doesn't bother De.
"I like the chaos around me. The chaos is the trigger for me to write." She evidently draws from chaos, which often finds its way into her novels. "When I am writing, I get a little irritable if I am constantly interrupted, which I am often because I write from my dining table with the chaos of domesticity twirling around me." Children, son-in-law, granddaughter and a frisky little dog, all add to it. "Mine," says De, "is the life of a housewife who is also on top of things that are going on. I know pretty much what's in the refrigerator, what needs to be cooked, whose dietary needs have to be met and how, or when we've run out of detergent… I don't need to isolate myself to write. I tried that, when my husband built me a pretty study. It was a disaster. I couldn't write a word in that serene environment. Why, I have written books with the apartment over my head being fixed - through all that hammering."
De has returned to writing novels after over a decade with her latest offering, Sethji. The story begins with the rape of a young Northeastern girl, a student, the politician's brat of a son who thinks he can get away with it and Sethji saying in our time, if we raped a woman, she kept her mouth shut. "I wrote the first 40 pages 13 years ago," says De. "What's shocking is that in 13 years, nothing has changed. It could have been written last week. In that sense, it is a very telling comment on the complete arrogance of the ruling class, which thinks it can get away with murder and more."
She has a point there. "Yesterday, I was at Bengali Market, which is my ritualistic stop every time I come to Delhi. Suddenly three men, perfectly well-dressed, start making crude comments. Then one of them tried to brush past me. I said, 'I will call the cops', but did that shame them? Not at all. They just shrugged and looked at one another and laughed."
Her "own little pet theory" is that all this is a result of resentment and insecurity because women are cutting into the workforce, becoming more assertive and, as men see it, difficult to control.
De, like many writers, draws from real life. "But I do not write about real people. That would be very boring. It would then be an extension of a journalistic profile. Then the magic of fiction, of creating the characters, the chance of playing god with their destinies - the most seductive aspect of fiction - would be gone."
De is among the few writers who hop from one literary fair to another, not to talk about their work, but to listen to "great writers talk about theirs". "We writers," she says, "are self-obsessed snobs. We love our own words. We need to listen to the words of others."
Times have changed. The pen has given way to the keyboard. But De would rather stick to her paper and pen, something which has her doctor warning that her wrist will give up on her if she doesn't take care. "I write at a manic pace; it comes in torrents. For me, it consumes me. I am always writing a book or mid-book or thinking of the next book." Then, there are columns, her blog, she's on twitter, she likes writing letters and maintains a diary. "My day is really defined by almost constant writing - if only I could write in my sleep."
The Diner is a small place and it's difficult - almost impossible - to lose a person here. But, it so happens that the Diner has two entrances, both with a green canopy, both facing a lawn and both with "The All American Diner" written on it. I am not aware of this very important fact and I suspect neither is she. I am standing under the green canopy, I tell her. "Why, that's exactly where I am," she tells me. Curious. I enter the cafe-cum-restaurant, look around in vain and then walk out of the door. That very moment, she walks in through the other door. We miss each other by seconds. It's after some ridiculous minutes of going round and round in circles that I finally see a woman in a bright green bandhani skirt and matching dupatta barge out of the door outside which I am standing. Relief. Followed by sheepish laughter.
When we are finally seated, with the original "Oh! Carol" (written in 1958 by Neil Sedaka) playing in the background - the Diner does have some great music - I finally get to take a good look at De. She looks younger than she does in her pictures. At 65, she is fit, though she insists that she doesn't exercise, which is a cause of concern for her children. But that's not what strikes me about her.
The author, columnist, socialite and former model appears more grounded than the impression that her stories and novels give and the characters portray. It's a persona that is very different from the public image.
The opinion about her literary skills has always been divided. She has her fans, no doubt. But she also has very strong and vocal critics. The most recent one, author Reginald Massey, made his impression of her writing caustically vocal during the Taj Literature Festival held earlier this year. Questioning De's credentials as a literary person, Massey said she should not be taken seriously since she writes "soft pornography which titillates".
Well, it is a fact that De does get graphic in her description of erotic scenes. But she's clear that she will not be apologetic about it. "You win some, you lose some. For every Massey, there are thousands and thousands of fans," she shrugs. Taking on her critic, she says, "I don't even know who he (Massey) is or what he's talking about. He sounded like someone from another century. I wonder if he has read any of my books or why he chose to pick me."
De would rather not "keep looking for snipers around you or else you are going to pull yourself down. I never want that to happen. I love what I write."
It's time to place an order. "Cappuccino. Strong," she says. That's it? "Yes." I settle for cappuccino, too, though the foodie in me protests vehemently and tries to draw my attention to the delightful menu - waffles, the all-American banana sundae, lemon cheese cake, croissant, bacon, pancakes with a dab of honey or maple syrup. The cappuccino arrives. It's not bad, but then that's all it is - cappuccino.
The decibel levels in the cafe have, meanwhile, gone up. There is a loud and happy group sitting at the table next to ours. The noise doesn't bother De.
"I like the chaos around me. The chaos is the trigger for me to write." She evidently draws from chaos, which often finds its way into her novels. "When I am writing, I get a little irritable if I am constantly interrupted, which I am often because I write from my dining table with the chaos of domesticity twirling around me." Children, son-in-law, granddaughter and a frisky little dog, all add to it. "Mine," says De, "is the life of a housewife who is also on top of things that are going on. I know pretty much what's in the refrigerator, what needs to be cooked, whose dietary needs have to be met and how, or when we've run out of detergent… I don't need to isolate myself to write. I tried that, when my husband built me a pretty study. It was a disaster. I couldn't write a word in that serene environment. Why, I have written books with the apartment over my head being fixed - through all that hammering."
De has returned to writing novels after over a decade with her latest offering, Sethji. The story begins with the rape of a young Northeastern girl, a student, the politician's brat of a son who thinks he can get away with it and Sethji saying in our time, if we raped a woman, she kept her mouth shut. "I wrote the first 40 pages 13 years ago," says De. "What's shocking is that in 13 years, nothing has changed. It could have been written last week. In that sense, it is a very telling comment on the complete arrogance of the ruling class, which thinks it can get away with murder and more."
She has a point there. "Yesterday, I was at Bengali Market, which is my ritualistic stop every time I come to Delhi. Suddenly three men, perfectly well-dressed, start making crude comments. Then one of them tried to brush past me. I said, 'I will call the cops', but did that shame them? Not at all. They just shrugged and looked at one another and laughed."
Her "own little pet theory" is that all this is a result of resentment and insecurity because women are cutting into the workforce, becoming more assertive and, as men see it, difficult to control.
De, like many writers, draws from real life. "But I do not write about real people. That would be very boring. It would then be an extension of a journalistic profile. Then the magic of fiction, of creating the characters, the chance of playing god with their destinies - the most seductive aspect of fiction - would be gone."
De is among the few writers who hop from one literary fair to another, not to talk about their work, but to listen to "great writers talk about theirs". "We writers," she says, "are self-obsessed snobs. We love our own words. We need to listen to the words of others."
Times have changed. The pen has given way to the keyboard. But De would rather stick to her paper and pen, something which has her doctor warning that her wrist will give up on her if she doesn't take care. "I write at a manic pace; it comes in torrents. For me, it consumes me. I am always writing a book or mid-book or thinking of the next book." Then, there are columns, her blog, she's on twitter, she likes writing letters and maintains a diary. "My day is really defined by almost constant writing - if only I could write in my sleep."