Short sell in the books market

Three or so months ago, while looking for Keynes’ General Theory in a long-neglected bookshelf at home, I came across an ancient paperback collection of John O’Hara’s short stories. Many of his stories were just that — very short, of about 1,000 words and were published in the Saturday Evening Post for many years.  

In a sense, he was to the Post what Behram Contractor — better known as Busybee — was to the Evening News in Bombay, a commuter’s delight. 

You simply had to read them because it was like eating one of those tiny imli sweets that Air India gives with its meal tray — a fleeting pleasure when you are bored out of your wits.

Of course, after a few minutes, you can’t remember either the taste of the sweet or the main point of the story or column. But you do want more.

Well, more is what I got. Soon thereafter, I received an email from someone called Sona Maniar. She said she is a chemical engineer, who works for a multinational company and had lived and worked in the corporate sector in many countries and had now published her short stories in a collection called Peasants at a Party and Other Stories.  

“Will you review it,” she asked? “If yes, I will send you a copy”. 

Short stories, eh, I asked myself. Well, well, well, what do you know, who is this who has actually managed to get her stories published between two covers? 

Having written about 20 myself — very good ones, I must say because no one else will — and published a mere four, I quickly ordered the book online. 

A few days later, I received a mailer from the online company asking me if I would like to buy the short stories of Tom Hanks. So I did the obvious thing. I googled.

Yes, said Google, immediately. It’s the very same Tom who also acts in films. So, I ordered that — or should it be those — too.  It is called Uncommon Type. 

The Rs 430 — for both books together — was well spent, real value for money.

A Long Short

Ms Maniar’s stories which range from the short to the very short are about corporate life, its politics and all that. They are very readable and have a story to tell. Some of them don’t have an ending. They merely, and charmingly, stop. 

A few have a twist in the end and some are more conventional. All pertain to the human foibles that surface in highly competitive environments. 

Some people can find the style — of just stopping — irritating but I must say I agree with Keki Daruwalla who, in his short story collection called Daniell Comes to Judgement, says that it is perfectly alright to leave the reader wondering what happened in the end. 

I also think it doesn’t matter if he/she doesn’t find out. Ms Maniar often performs this trick admirably. 

The only other writer I know of who did this to perfection — and whom I have tried to copy in my own excellent stories — was John O’Hara. The skill doesn’t lies in starting or continuing but knowing when to stop.

Hankering Hanks

Tom Hanks is different. His stories are long, sometimes very long. It is not easy to relate to them because they are about the innards of American life, society, relationships, towns and so on. In England, they would be called provincial.

The theme that runs through them, depressingly, is the unsettling nature of change. Like everyone who grows older, Mr Hanks hankers for things that are no longer there. He is, if you will, an American Manto.

Some of the stories are straightforward enough but a few are like eating bland khichdi with maotai — weird stories told in a monotone, or something like one. I wondered about his moods when he wrote these. 

So there you have it: Short stories by someone no one has ever heard of and short stories by someone who is well known in the English-speaking world. At the end of it, you wonder why anyone bothers to write short stories that publishers will not promote and readers will not buy.

Well, as an unpublished writer of unread stories — even friends to whom I mailed them didn’t bother to read them— let me tell you why: It’s a challenge, not unlike that most pointless of all sports, golf, where you hit a stationary ball into a stationary hole.

The only person who cares is yourself.