12 July,2009 11:35 AM IST | | Soumya Mukerji
Bestselling author Sankar shares his much misunderstood, stereotyped belonging
SMELLING fish and seeing through (and through) his looking glass is something that comes to Mani Sankar Mukherji as easily as escaping these comes to you. Call it Bangla brilliance at its best, or vain old intellectual indulgence, but to Sankar, it's life. The pages of his books, like wings bestowed upon a caterpillar then called Calcutta; today, the Kolkata of crowded, colourful flights of freedom. His reflections of the city of trams and shams are as stark as they're dark, and yet, enlightening in portraying the beauty and the beast of what it is to be Bong.
From Chowringhee to The Middleman, hasn't Kolkata grown on you so much that you've grown out of it?
All my life, I have struggled in this city. It's a strange affair that continues to enrich me. You can love many women, but just one city.
But aren't Howrah's highs well over now?
Once upon a time, it was a great city. But today, we're passing through a phase where it's no longer attractive. The biggest migration of Bongs has happened in the last decade.
Why don't you ever translate your titles yourself? Your English is pretty sound.
I don't think I know the language well enough. Anrunava (Sinha) is an able man; we share a wonderful working relationship.
What is the best thing about being Bong?
Mothers-in-law! Nowhere in the world will you find the same maas as you do in Bengal. They're spunky, sweet, loving, and the source of more things than you can ever think of! Bengali girls, with their stunning Goddess-like eyes, also make Bongness special. My mentor had once said, "In my next birth, I want to be born Bengali."
The worst thing?
None, possibly. If Tagore doesn't make you happy, there's Sarat Chandra Chattopadhyay and Vivekananda. If not that, the culture of food. Ironically, though, Bongs love Chinese, and so do I. What I love even more about China is that it's the only civilised society where bad cooking is a valid ground for divorce. We should adopt that here too.
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What is the biggest danger in being an author?
My father wasted 10 years of his life trying to be a dramatist, and then became a lawyer. He had reason to dissuade me from writing. Young ones shouldn't get into that, no one would want his daughter married to you. It's like a whole life insurance policy... not a paying proposition. But then, it's like conceiving and delivering a child. After years of darkness, that one ray of light makes everything worth it, if you're ready to give up on that bride, though!
What's the toughest thing while you're at it?
The uncertainty and fear that the last line won't come. Many authors think of the end before they begin, and unlike what others think, I see no wrong in it, and often do it myself. You have to know where you're going before you can buy the ticket for the ride. But mistakes happen. After all these years, I still falter.
Have you ever been the unscrupulous middleman in real life?
Most of us have walked the line sometime or the other, but held back from giving in. The important thing is to summon back your conscience, and keep family values intact. Being an opportunist is okay, but degenerating isn't.
What do you think of the government's negative decision on Bengal's legendary Naxalism?
I've never understood politics and these movements; I've been too busy protecting myself and writing.
Funny, that an old man who writes about darkness and debauchery is childlike when it comes to communist games.
Yes, believe it or not, I know nothing of it. But it is sad, what I wrote about the corporate world three-and-a-half decades ago stands true, even today.
One side of you that no one really knows about, except perhaps, your two daughters.
I'm fickle-minded, an idiosyncrasy anyone but an author can afford.
The English translation of The Middleman is now out. Penguin; Rs 200
