The clown that was not

Sunil Sharma The baby was bawling and young mother could not comfort it in the crowded compartment. Maybe the heat and dust of the desert added to its discomfiture. It kept on crying, the shrill notes drowning the other voices, as the train hurtled down. “Why cannot you make it quiet, woman?” asked her bewhiskered and tall husband, his large head encased in a saffron-coloured turban. He carried the long sword and the proud demeanor of a warrior. The imposing personality, the khol-lined eyes, fierce and glittering, left us in awe. The man carried himself in dignity and sat alert and erect. Often, his right hand twirled long whiskers. Nobody could hold his stare for long. His wife---in her 20s---cowered in the corner seat, face averted, trying to make the baby sleep but to no avail. The un-reserved compartment was full of the peasants and workers, every inch taken by the sweating bodies. Even the passage to the toilet was occupied by families. “Try harder, woman!” The warrior barked. The woman in veil tried harder. The baby cried louder. The man glowered at her and the baby, upset by the bawling---and, maybe, the inability of a wife to execute a stern command. The howling continued for minutes. The warrior was getting annoyed. The woman was in panic---and the baby unstoppable. As the husband tried to snatch the child from the lap of a hapless mother, a calm voice rang out: “Hey, kid! Look here!” Not only the baby but we all looked at the source of this majestic command that made the chatter die down in that car, almost on fire under an angry sun. The dunes slipped by and the bleak land continued to rise and fall for miles. Nothing but golden sand! Our eyes stung and burnt and uncovered face and skin got singed. Now quiet, the fellow passengers looked around and saw the new entrant into a familiar Indian family drama seen often in the public places like airports, bus and railway stations. It was an unlikely figure: A short guy, on the opposite wooden bench, now talking to the baby. He snapped fingers, sang in a sing-song voice and, in a jiffy, took out some items from an old bag and put on a red nose, a crimson wig, white beard and multi-hued cap. The transformation from being an ordinary man into a clown was complete in an instant. The baby got distracted by the startling change. He clapped, nodded and sang a ditty in a sonorous voice. The baby started laughing---and soon fell asleep, to the relief of the spectators. “You are a great guy!” The husband remarked. “Thanks. His cries were making me sleepless. The kids of warriors do not cry.” His wife also nodded silent thanks. Her big eyes conveyed a sincere gratitude to the strange savior who smiled happily. The baby was in deep sleep, oblivious to the racket around and the clatter of the wheels and the hot winds and the dust that filtered in through the slits of the shuttered windows. “Please! It is my lifelong passion. To make folks smile through tears. Especially, children. These are special gifts of God. My way of worshipping Him through this humble service to His creation.” The clown said in a pleasant tone, kindness radiating a weather-beaten broad face. We all nodded in admiration. “You are kind man.” Somebody remarked. “And a wonderful soul!” Another exclaimed. The clown beamed. “Are you working in some circus?” asked a young farmer, wide eyed. “A long story, sir.” The clown sighed. “Tell me your story, please.” The warrior requested. “Please. The journey is long. It will kill the tedium.” The farmer requested. “OK.” The clown relented. “Listen.” An amazing tale of courage, grit and nobility, in a big circus run by a selfish tyrant, greedy for profit only. A tale of sacrifice, pain, humiliation, torture and dedicated community service. Here, his story in his words: I never intended to begin a career in a circus. Born in a little village in Nepal, I was recruited by an agent of the Rio Circus who promised heavens for my six siblings and poor parents and at the age of eleven, I left home for a new world of travelling circus. Over the years, I realized that my limp, seven fingers and squint eyes were the main reasons for my selection as a clown in a place full of freaks and exhibited before a callous public as odd entertainers---seven-feet giant; a hirsute man looking like mini gorilla; a two-feet dwarf; Siamese twins; a pair of albinos and pygmy hunters, among others. It was a strange place! The owner called the Boss was initially kind and supportive but later on, in order to attract more crowds, tried to model himself as the new-age avatar of P. T. Barnum. “I am the greatest showman on this part of the earth! Ha! Me and my menagerie! The more the freaks, the better the revenue. But I will share the profits with you guys. I will balance you with animals. A big family of entertainers.” We all nodded. “I will take you to Russia and America. Mine will be a unique show on the planet. I will add music, dance, mimicry, acting and shows by the freaks and animals. A three-hour family package.” The Boss brought some failed artists from film industry and animals from illegal markets. Bribed the authorities. Managed the media outlets. Within a decade, his circus became the top draw. Whole towns rushed in for his daily three shows. The house was always full. He took care of everybody as his family but soon international recognition for his skills and managerial ability made him go mad. He became ruthless megalomaniac. He wanted to conquer the world. And our nightmare began! He would beat us and the poor animals for minor mistakes. Abuse the women. We got terrified of him, especially when he was drunk and nasty. He would make us perform, even if we were not well. Did not pay us for months and if anybody tried escaping the hell, chained and starved the fugitive. During the days, he was an angel, especially before the public and nights, a monster in search of fresh human flesh. Once I saw him naked with the wife of his trusted friend, the ring master. He pointed a gun at me, saying softly, eyes cold: “Tell this to anybody and you are dead meat, you hideous clown!” The woman openly laughed and added: “Such a repelling figure!” It totally devastated me---the humiliation of a popular clown and the betrayal of friendship and trust. The Boss was like that---unethical, pleasure-seeking devil. I began hating his dark side. The wife of the ring master would jeer at me, whenever we met. I came to hate that slut also. Then, one day, he seduced my sweetheart, a kind girl, and told me afterwards, this Boss, before the entire staff, in a drunken stupor: “Your girl says you are hopeless in bed. Ha! She is my new slave!” I felt like revolting. During one of the stormy nights, I ran away. Few miles down the swamp, his goons caught me and thrashed me before the circus staff. “Next time, kill this bastard!” The Boss yelled, almost hoarsely. Everybody laughed at me, so degraded each of us had become, enjoying the misery and humiliation of a fellow victim and sufferer and driving sadistic pleasure out of the misfortune of a friend or colleague! It saddened me further---my alienation was complete. What was earlier a source of joy for me---making the lonely, sick, kids and old persons laugh by my antics, every day for years---became a painful burden. Circuses these days are positive and places of joy and humane treatment of certain animal species but those days were more primitive and brutal. The Boss came to believe he owed all the creatures and could do what he wanted to do without any sense of scruple or shame. He bent everybody to his will and desire and dissidents were whipped or thrown out of his running caravan into wild gorges or mad rivers. So that day, he shamed me. Something died within as the family mocked me. Except the Gorilla! At this point, the listeners asked in unison, Gorilla? He smiled and nodded. Then resumed the gripping tale--- the compartment as his audience. Yes, Gorilla! Over the years at the Rio Circus I had come to develop a bond with the animals and learnt their ways and languages. Among the menagerie, the closest was the Gorilla. I would chatter with him on dull nights or mornings, when the family slept. “Why sad, human?” The Gorilla asked. I began crying before his huge cage kept in a corner of the barricaded property, outside the city. “What happened?” I told him of my public insult and humiliation. Of my wish to take my life rather than suffer daily. He thumped his chest lightly and then grunted, “Human! Your master is brutal like rest of humanity. You and few others are an exception. Look at me. Has put me in prison. My fate is worse.” This simple revelation prompted me to see him---and other innocent animals imprisoned in horrible enclosures or cages in that travelling circus---in a totally different light. The brutality, sheer torture and misery of these gentle souls made me angry. “We are not to be put on display like exotics before a crowd that cheers our misery. We are different species but that does not grant the Boss to treat us as inferior, as slaves.” I was surprised by his smart observations. “Look, you can get even with that mean human!” I looked at the Gorilla, “How?” He said, “Easy. Set me free. Release me from the cage and then see.” And I immediately saw his point! We all grew quiet; the compartment became one in asking the clown, “What happened next?” He kept silent. Drank water from an old bottle and then told us rest of the story. On the appointed night, when moon was low and storm clouds were there in an ominous sky, I unleashed mayhem by releasing the Gorilla and other animals kept in chains or small box-like cages, one by one. The Gorilla tiptoed to the main tent of the Boss and emitted a blood-curdling laugh. At that point, clouds came and obscured the moon. Rain began in angry torrents and thunder struck. The laughter of Gorilla began rising up and he tore down the grand tent. The Boss got scared by the towering gorilla. He tried to train his gun on the beast but the gun and the man stood no chances against an infuriated gorilla. He flung the gun and the Boss against the cages of the tigers and lions and then ran after his trainer. It was a mad scene---animals chasing their tormentors in rain and gloom, the latter scattered and running blind. The animals tore down the circus. Then they ran down the streets of the small town on the edge of a deep jungle. The combined roar of the released animals---wounded and broken in spirit, chained and beaten for years---shook the houses. The tigers and lions growled and elephants trumpeted and thunder clapped. The town shook. The cops hid underground. I rode with the animals. The Beasts had taken over! Next morning, the free animals roamed a deserted town. The townspeople were shut inside. Gorilla saved a kid who had fallen from a balcony and placed it back on the steps of a panicky home. Then, the beasts retreated into the jungle. “What did you do afterwards?” The warrior asked. “Oh! Never joined any circus. Became a travelling clown. My mission: to make sad folks smile. The world needs clowns.” Everybody clapped and even the baby, now awake, smiled… (Credit: Mercurial Stories: Vol. 2, issue 8: June 19, 2019)

Crayons Unlock A Pandemic by Sunil Sharma

Crayons Unlock A Pandemic by Sunil Sharma

Saddest story in four words

She ignored his tears.

Kindness

A fat man on a pricey bike

 Stops nearby--- to feed a brown cow

Near a busy curb, while other motorists swerve

Around the idling figures,

And the lolling cow nods her big brown head

To his reverential touch;

Another slim woman in a Punjabi dress

Enters, once the man exits in a jiffy,

Offers a pale-yellow banana to the placid bovine,

Touches her forehead and is gone

Random acts of kindness and empathy,

In an Indian metro known for cruelty

For its hapless strays and homeless alike.

Figures in the sky

In the in-between sky,

A rain just gone and a rain

About to arrive,

 Tinged with hues electrifying,

Some dark-light and some light-gloomy;

Swollen clouds, dusty and grey

Alternating with gossamer white/pale-white;

Like a swarm of kids unleashed,

Enjoying the heavenly drops,

On the broken footpaths,

 Outside their leaking hovels,

These ethereal figures dance and gallop,

At the edge of a muddy ocean and jutting

Shadowy islands in the immensity above,

Created and then left hurriedly there by

The angry monsoon that reluctantly has

Finally reached Mumbai and nearby.

Frailty

Solitary flower on a bare branch

Of a skeletal tree, in a vale brown,

In early summer, looking back at the

Golden autumn, retreating hurriedly.

Elusive

You are now,

Like the shy

 Monsoon clouds

Evading for days

 Mumbai’s famous

Masculine skyline,

Jagged and soaring high,

Stretching wide into

Dimness white

In a long-long sky;

The ballooning clouds dark

And floating so light;

Here,

There,

Scattered everywhere,

Yet, cruelly,

Not there

For eager

Waiting

Hopeful hearts.

A late message: Mother's Day

Mere words will not help,

Real change/deed required,

Mothers being abused, ignored, forgotten

Across a monetized world,

And conveniently

Dispatched to old people's homes,

When they needed families the most

In the sunset of their lives;

Sadly they get completely erased from minds,

A fading picture in an old album in a dusty pile,

Being erased and sent to oblivion

By their own, the ones nourished in caring wombs!

A line or emoticon will not

Help remove the deep scars,

Perhaps, a long-delayed visit to her

Costly home peopled by memories grey

 Or

A loving call to an aging heart

Will sure revive a smile on a furrowed face,

Lighting up eyes that see but dimly,

The splendors of a lovely spring outside,

A closed window of a cubicle shared by one more

Doddering inmate in a flowery gown,

Go and hug that solitary woman,

Surviving on pills, prayers and occasional chats,

The frail person that always

 Stood by you in happiness and pain,

And guarded you against odds and bullies

Like a roaring lioness.

 A Real Happy Mother's Day to all!

Bring back our girls---and a country

Out of the depths of darkness came sinister forces
Of pure evil
And took away innocence in the budding form
Of young teen girls from a government-run school
In Chibok, Nigeria, on April 14,
The 276 girls brazenly abducted by the Boko Haram gunmen
In retaliation---they do not want them to be educated and independent,
all in the name of their version of Islam and this ambush, a warning for others---
The hapless girls are still missing…like many others in that lawless country,
And most likely to be sold as slaves on the market as per their leader Abubakar;
The world so far has not cared for these children,
As strongly as it should have done, simply because
They come from an impoverished nation, dark and distant,
In an unstable region known for endemic violence;
Why should the ruling elites care for the Other?
The disappeared ones, after all,
Are black, poor and girls, and
Not from a rich and mighty Western nation, their own;
The social outcry on social media forcing now a slow re-think
Among the international governments that regularly talk of human rights and their violations in various hot spots in despotic parts other than their own courtyards,
The great democratic leaders that can make a difference
Have not yet
Hardly talked in a single voice of anger and moral outrage;
Then, in such a bleak scenario of grim helplessness,
Let us rise,
You and I,
As We,
The disenfranchised netizens,
The remaining 99 percents of the world,
Against any kind of oppression and exploitation,
We are the new army of the
Literate and hard-working professionals,
Let us raise our voice in anger,
For our trapped young sisters and daughters, now in another jungle,
The emerging solidarity should now grow into a global protest/chorus persistent,
Against this ruthless kidnapping and global human trafficking of girls and children.

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Fall painting

The tree

In fall,

A mass of leafless

Branches;

Crooked

Straight,

Tender

Thick,

Radiating outwards

Like sharp lines in a drawing,

In a wavy plain;

A masterpiece planted there

By the famed Guo Xi;

The scene, desolate, still

Creating serenity

In the viewer

Even

From afar.

To a mother: A song

In my bloodstream

Run all the all songs

That you could

Never sing, tied down

As you were to the kitchen,

House and office duties;

You nurtured a full family

That has largely forgotten you

In the autumn of your life,

But you continue to smile

Through your tears of pain;

In the post-retirement years,

You sing God in moving hymns

Created by you,

This is the second phase of creativity;

Now, liberated, you chant His name

And offer sincere tributes to God,

Adding a spiritual dimension to your

Rich personality of an arts teacher;

Your life, humble, eventful,

Mirrors the country in its struggles,

You taught your fragile son that

Faith and hard work and integrity

Are the virtues loved by God

And those in possession of

These great human qualities,

Can never be defeated by

Heavy odds!

Your hymns are now

My songs and I sing

The joy of being alive!

Happy birthday, Poetry

April is dedicated to you,

Dear Poetry,

This is first day of the cruel month,

When you are going to be toasted for

Your arrival and company on the global front

Through social media like the Facebook,

I wish you happy birthday,

Dear Muse to me and million others,

You have made my existential burden light

Through your sublime presence;

I salute you for uplifting me above the mundane

And showing me the strange realms with balming touch,

And pointing us to the rare vistas and hoary summits

Scaled by the likes of Shakespeare, Keats and Wordsworth;

Your words are cherished by hungry generations that want

To make this planet a better and livable world;

I invoke my goddess to guide me always to inspiring words

And to spread love and tolerance for my sisters and brothers

Of different tongues, faiths and colours!

Cotton tree

It stands out

Amid other trees,

Alone,

Distinguished,

In this season of

Some flowering,

Some totally bare trees;

Attracting attention of an alert

Passerby, instantly

To that white tree;

The fluffy pods

Looking like puffed-up ice-balls

Stuck up delicately,

On the brown rugged branches,

Like tempting candy;

The bright flowers,

Creating a falling stream

Of pure, soothing snow,

On this hot day of

Early summer,

Near the hectic Mumbai.

Kiss

The travelling fog

Comes and kisses

The old man out for

A slow morning walk,

Startling him completely

By the cold breath;

Like that hurried peck

 Given years ago,

By a forgetful son

Before he departed forever for

The seductive United States,

And,

Never came back.

.

Missed

A squirrel singing on a high note,

While perched precariously on a  

Curved branch of a blossoming tree;

The natural tenor drowned out in the

Ear-splitting sounds of traffic

Of a bustling Asian metro;

The cheerful song unheard

Even by the school kids

Buried in books, before exams,

Standing near that tree.

Talking publications with Sudarshan Kcherry

Talking publication with Sudarshan Kcherry
by Sunil Sharma 

---Interviewed by Sunil Sharma

The CEO of the leading Authorspress India, Sudarsh Kcherry (SK) is a reticent professional who believes in doing silent work than seeking publicity in these crazy times of unabashed self-promotion. Recent years, he has published many writers and literary collections from his publishing house that have received good critical attention. The first one to recognize overseas writers through his pioneering the Overseas Awards for Excellence last year, he has thus set a high benchmark for the industry that is notorious for ignoring authors. Last year, SK honoured living legend Les Murray; accomplished writer Rob Harle and poet-critic Louis Kastakin from Australia and UK respectively.

Here, SK, in his first reluctant interview, talks freely on a wide range of issues and gives the perspective of an established publisher with global footprints on writing and publishing. Excerpts:

Q: How do you rate current fiction in Indian English?
A: Fiction in Indian English is currently in an exciting space over the past couple of decades, Indian English Writing has gained prominence at an international stage, especially from the diasporic community with such authors as Jhampa Lahiri, Salman Rushdie et al. and home- grown authors like Arundhati Roy too have attracted attention through “literary” writing in the canonical sense of the term but I feel it still needs to emerge as a stronger entity. The likes of Chetan Bhagat and young authors providing quick reads set in college campuses have set a resurgence of sorts for reading amongst the general public, though their contribution to standard literary tastes is highly debatable. Having said that, there is considerable new work getting noticed for not just beautiful language, but themes which speak for modern Indian audiences dealing with a plethora of issues, especially pertaining to the urban context.

Q: What about poetry?
A: Poetry is currently going through a quiet revolution of sorts and as a publisher, I think, it is an even more exciting space than fiction to explore. Unlike Indian English Fiction, themes in poetry currently are deeply rooted in their Indian milieu, and don’t attempt to emulate the works of American or British contemporaries. Poetry may not have as many takers as fiction, but there is a lot of material which speaks for the realities of millions of Indians with their numerous concerns.

Q: What are the themes that appeal most to a publisher?
A: Universal themes of alienation, loneliness, love, existential crises, familial strife, political conflict, etc., always make for great literature, and they continue to be so.

Q: What are the novels that are liked by Indian readers in English?
A: As I had mentioned earlier, the quick reads provided by Chetan Bhagat and others of his ink have really struck a chord with the Indian audience. However more literary works also find a resonance, especially if they manage to garner international awards and prestige.

Q: Your advice to writers?
A: The universal advice to writers everywhere, “Know What You Write Best”, when writers try too hard to imitate their idols or write only to impress others the effort shows through as a contrived piece of art, which does not appeal to anybody.

Q: What is the status of Indian publishing?
A: Indian publishing is at a kind of crossroads where it needs to decide the course that it is going to take. Should it go ahead with profitable selling and stick to fool-proof books, or take risks and bring forth new, exciting titles to the marketplace? The recent recession, coupled with the arrival of eBooks, has made many publishers cautious, especially niche publishers like me. However, these are challenges one must weather and get through if we need to take Indian publishing to the next level.

Q: What is the role of an agent in such a market like India where people do not read or buy books?
A: The agent is often the most critical link, as it is he/she who takes the initiative in bringing forth new voices into the literary field, for instance The Butterfly and the Bees started by Sumit Seghal. As such, it is a highly responsible post, and one can thank/curse agents for a lot of writers thriving today!

Q: Do you think Writing in Indian English really sells?
A: Of course it does! The question to ask ourselves however is the kind of books we as publishers are willing to invest in.

Q: How is vanity-publishing viewed by senior publishers like you?
A: Vanity publishing might enable the author to get his work see the light of the day, but the credibility of the publisher is tarnished. Personally, we don’t do vanity publishing, maintaining the reputation of the company is far more important. For smaller presses which don’t have the money or the bandwidth to pay for royalties or recoup money from the market, vanity publishing might be a boon, but we have always aimed at carving a niche for ourselves in the academic publishing market, while maintaining profitability. This is why we have always been selective about the kind of books we publish.

Q: Should not some co-operative ventures exist between a publisher and a writer?
A: Co-operative ventures which give the author more control over his/her work, whilst giving them the resources of a major publishing house at a fraction of the cost, are a reality in the U.S. and Europe, where technology is at an evolved stage, and where almost everyone has access to new forms of media. In India, independent publishing and small writers are still striving to create their own mark and gain recognition, so it is not a huge priority- legitimization of their work is far more important. Of course as writers and publishers seek to break free of the dominance of major publishing houses and seek to find audiences for their work on their own, especially using social media, this may become a reality. But as of now, the entire focus of the business is somewhere else.

Q: Why there are no professional edit agencies here in India? Call them consultants or agents but they are not there. Why this lack of professionalism?
A: In India, professionalism is in every sphere, but especially in professions involving the creative arts, it takes time to get established. Professional edit agencies are slowly but surely making their presence felt, leading to better work in the market, and I agree that they are a crucial need of the hour. But the recession, and desperate efforts to cut back costs, especially on the part of small publishers finding it difficult to survive, have made that process slow. This will take time, but then we are getting there.

Q: Why does everybody want to be a writer and win a Booker? Writing is serious business. It is not to be trifled with.
A: Yes, writing is serious business, and though a solitary activity is not meant for sole consumption/pleasure of the author-a book is meant to be read by the public at large. Also, unlike a lot of other professions/arts which involve public recognition, writing still retains the aura of greater intellectualism and seriousness of thought-in effect, greater status. A Booker or any other prestigious award cements one’s standing in the profession, though I agree that it should not be the sole driving force for one to write. Like any other art, laurels and brickbats should be taken as a consequence of one’s work, and not the motivation. Unfortunately, the lure of fame and money is too high for some, even when they clearly don’t have the talent for decent writing, which has led to a deluge of substandard work in Indian publishing.

Q: Your take on a best-seller?
A: Best-sellers help in boosting sales, but the question every publisher needs to ask himself is whether the book they are selling adds to elevating literary tastes.

Q: Your views on the politics of awards and reviews in top dailies?
A: The credibility and reputation of a publishing house can be made or marred on the strength of a review from a top daily, and awards only serve to strengthen our sales and profitability. As far as politics goes, especially when it comes to awards, bigger publishing houses have a larger stake in the process, as they have to consolidate their marketing accordingly. For independent publishers like us, a great review in, say, The Hindu Literary Review has a far bigger impact on the sales and reputation.

Q: Any platform that you want to provide to new writers?
A: Authorspress has always been welcoming of new writers, especially those who provide a fresh perspective on things. It has always encouraged and published those who want to make a mark for themselves, especially in the rather cut-throat world that is Indian English Writing. Publishing their works is the biggest platform in itself that we can provide them, as it paves the way for them to move onto bigger things.

Q: Thanks a lot.
A: Thanks.

21-Feb-2014 - See more at: http://www.boloji.com/index.cfm?md=Content&sd=Articles&ArticleID=15496#sthash.wcMuk3jn.dpuf

Art-talk with Rob Harle

Art-talk with Rob Harle: 
A Long Literary Interview by Sunil Sharma 

  Art-talk with Rob Harle:  Leading Australian artist-thinker-philosopher Rob Harle, much toasted these days by the Indian literati, gives his take on contemporary global cultural scene in this long literary interview.

Q: Rob Harle, a work in progress. Its essential aspects, please?

I am a writer, artist and academic reviewer. Writing work includes poetry, short fiction, academic essays and reviews of scholarly books and papers. This work is published in journals, anthologies, online reviews, books and I have two volumes of my own poetry published – Scratches & Deeper Wounds (1996) and Mechanisms of Desire (2012). Recent poetry has been published in Rupkatha Journal (Kolkata), Nimbin Good Times (Nimbin), Beyond The Rainbow (Nimbin), Poetic Connections Anthology (2013) and Indo-Australian Anthology of Contemporary Poetry (2013). My art practice currently involves digital-computer art both for the web and print. The giclée images have been exhibited widely.

I am especially interested in promoting the inclusion of visual art in academic and scientific journals. Formal studies include Comparative Religion, Philosophy, Architecture, Literature and Psychotherapy, my thesis concerned Freud's notion of the subconscious and its relationship with Surrealist poetry. My main concern is to explore and document the radical changes technology is bringing about. I coined the term techno-metamorphosis to describe this. I am currently an active member of the Leonardo Review Panel, Editorial reviewer for the Journal of Virtual World Research and an Advising Editor for the Journal of Trans-technology Research.

Rather than take up a lot of space here, I would ask those interested to look at my website as I have arranged this, so as to show factually what I have done: my sculpture, my digital artwork, my literary and other publications, my reviews and my academic studies and peer reviewed publications. www.robharle.com

Q: Rob Harle in 100 words for those who do not trust blurbs.

Rob Harle is a gullible, easy going, long suffering decent human being. I dream of a world with no wars, no locks on doors, sustainability practices, no poverty and healthy competition to bring out the best in people. I don't suffer fools easily, I have a very short fuse and I'm always in a hurry, my mantra, “I'm late, I'm late for a very important date!”  This is partly to do with being ADHD (Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder) and strangely dyslexic all my life. They didn't have special schools when I was kid – that would have been wonderful. I have achieved a huge amount in my 65 years against some very difficult odds which I'm not going to discuss, and this has happened with little or no help from anyone except from my poor long suffering wife. Very recently Leonardo, especially Michael Punt, and a few Indian friends and associates have believed I have something to offer, for which I am very, very grateful, if this sounds egotistical its not my intention but it is a fact.

Q: Your definition of book covers?

Book covers can be uninspired adequate works of graphic art or they can really capture the essence of the contents and enhance it. I try in the book covers I do to make a work of fine art that is attractive to buyers but also adds to the books subject matter and is a delight as a stand-alone artwork.

Q: Why this sudden rage in India for your book covers?

I don't really know, perhaps because of what I said above comes through to India writers and they like the unique non-standard approach I use. One person commented on Ratan Bhattacharjee's cover, very unusual, much different to other book covers, wonderful!

Q: A lot of writers are falling in love with you. Reasons?

This is a bit embarrassing for a recluse, hiding in the forest and hills of Nimbin. Perhaps I'm honest; I call a spade a spade. My work, art and writing, is not a clone of someone else’s, perhaps they find a refreshing originality in it. I'm a radical, forward thinker breaking new ground in certain areas. Also I'm an easy going friendly person, (with no racial, sexist etc. hang-ups) until someone tries to manipulate me or tell me what to do. Perhaps this comes through?

Q: Art-exhibitions are circuses according to you. Circuses at least provide some wholesome entertainment by low-paid but dedicated artists. This is not so in these exhibitions. What repels you in such a tamasha?

Slight correction here - I refer to the whole art scene as a circus not specifically exhibitions. Yes the visitors to a circus or art exhibition get some value, entertainment and cultural enhancement. I use the term art circus and also literary circus in the most derogatory colloquial sense of a pathetic freak show. This includes the attempt to commodify art/poetry/fiction writing by the crass art dealers who in my opinion occupy the lowest rung of the food chain, even lower than used-car sales people and politicians. Gallery owners tell artists what colours are “in” this season – so, go home and change your paintings then come back and I might condescend to hang them but I do take 60% commission. Ever notice how art dealers all drive the latest prestige cars and artists drive old bombs! One of these art dealers, with a latest model Mercedes Benz sports car, after reluctantly praising a 2.5 metre high sandstone sculpture I had just finished said, “I much prefer dealing with dead artists than you live artists.” People have been shot dead on the spot for less disgusting statements than this!

Q: What is more appealing: Poetry or painting for you?

Both equally. I'm concentrating on writing poetry now, I've actually overcome the stigma that is held by most Australians towards poets which I've endured since a child. To some not familiar with the cultural Wasteland of Australia this probably sounds farfetched, it's not! It's always been the same, only last night I was reading in Donald Friend's Diaries about the dismal art scene in Australia in the late 70s. The exodus of Australian artists overseas earlier than this doesn't need expanding. The point is that one can't just keep stacking paintings under the bed, apart from the cost of producing them it is very depressing. So at least with poetry one can write thousands of poems without much material costs to satisfy the creative obsession.

Q: Your take on poetry?

Poetry is a special form of using words, not at all like other writing, if a poem reads like a newspaper article it's an abject failure. As Charles Simic says, may I quote? “This is what haunts, a world where magic is possible, where chance reigns, where metaphors have their supreme logic, where imagination is free and truthful.” 

Q: Your take on painting?

Painting is more difficult to talk about briefly. It runs the whole gamut from minimalist abstraction to photo realist maximalist works. For me the essence of good painting is that there must be a palpable sense of the artist in the paint so to speak, to the sensitive eye this is very obvious, some paintings are good but lack the sort of  kinetic energy that exudes from great paintings.

Q: What is a review? An art? Or, a medium to promote mediocre friends?

Good question. Both! Some reviews are purely sycophantic tripe. Probably effective, useful promotional material but non-critical and sycophantic none the less. Other reviews can be divided into two types - basic reviews and critical reviews.  Many book reviews I do for Leonardo are basic reviews, they describe the book accurately, talk about the author's intentions, point out ways the book could be better with brief critical comments. The idea is to give the prospective buyer a true accurate description of the book as opposed to the nepotistic blurb on the back cover, these reviews usually run to 1000 words. Critical reviews describe the book as above but then go on to discuss the actual content of the book in a scholarly, critical way these reviews are generally longer perhaps 2 -3,000 words. A good review of either type is an art form. I have colleagues who sprout about a formula for writing a review most of their reviews are boring and inadequate.

Q: In many cases, reviewers fail to see an avant-garde piece and often pan the writers for being bold iconoclast. History proves them wrong?

Reviewers are subject to the same ego-inflation and pseudo-superiority as everyone else, they should learn to curb this subjective approach and become more objective but many don't. Today’s avant-garde is tomorrow’s standard museum piece. Very few have escaped this fate, even the Dadaists and surrealists. Certain highly anti-art art on the net may escape this fate, but some galleries/museums are now developing ways of suburbanising even this. Also some reviewers/critics are failed artists/writers themselves and so are highly jealous that others are standing tall (tall poppies) so because of their position of power try to bring them down to size.

Q: Why fantasy in West being promoted in such a big way, especially in USA and UK?

Don't know much about fantasy so all I can say is humans have always wanted to escape from this wretched reality and now media-driven-hopelessness so escape into fantasy film, writing or art is a way of psychological survival.

Q: Why Aussies, like us Indians, hate poets?

Because poets see further and deeper into the nature of existence than the average person. Aussies don't so much hate poets but think they are a bad joke and they should do something worthwhile like chasing a little ball around a paddock (golf, cricket, soccer, football, baseball). I thought that Indian culture generally respected their poets and artists, from my experience they do much more than Australians. An interesting quote may help, “The people live in an abyss, the poet lives on the mountain top – to the people there is no mystery of colour. The poet ever strives to save the people, the people ever strive to destroy the poet.” (Anon)

Q: Short fiction, does it excite you?

No! I very rarely read a short fiction story that “bends me out of shape”. I feel the whole idea of short fiction needs an overhaul. Some young writers in my area are doing this by combining multi-media into the story - images, audio, writing, mash-ups and so on - go the younger generation. Even my own shorts, some of which are good examples of short story writing are basically – yawn, yawn!

Q: Your favourite music?

Pink Floyd, Leonard Cohen, Van Morrison (1985 on)

Q: Favourite food?

Fresh seafood, especially oysters and prawns. Indian and Malaysian dishes.

Q: Favourite writer?

Jean Paul Sartre

Q: What does the Nimbin Valley mean to you?
 
It is a relatively peaceful place to live in idyllic surrounds; it is not like other Australian regional towns as it is amazingly cosmopolitan. And dare I say an avant-garde social experiment. But I'm getting tired of the “bush” and may soon move back to the coast i in a quiet little fishing style village. The sea really inspires me!

Q: Can future be created by a neglected artist?
 
Obviously if they stay neglected both in life and after death no. But eventuality most artists that are serious get their work seen and then there is the possibility of influencing the future in a small way.

Q: Why our measuring standards fail in assessing writers who are consistently good, yet not in news and not awarded for being perpetual outsiders?
 
The bell curve, 66%, are the backbone of society, the ones that work hard and maintain a stable society, the acceptance of outsiders, radicals and futuristic thinkers threatens the status quo, so they pan them, exclude them, but the only chance of change and therefore avoiding stagnation and death of a society is when these outsider's ideas become mainstream. This is the price one pays for being a fringe dweller, I am one of those and the price is NOT worth it, but in a sense I don't have any choice if I wish to remain authentic to myself in an Existential way.

Q: Those who get all the Bookers, are they the only good writers? Others should be banished?
 
I have a sculptor friend that gets almost every public sculpture commission in a capital city, because she is an expert at the art of Grantsmanship. Yes she is a good sculptor but no better that many others that live in poverty and remain unseen. The same applies to writers, those that play by the obscene rules of the literary game get the prizes. I have never and never will enter my books poetry etc. in prizes. I have even exhibited artwork in juried shows and explicitly stated  “this piece not to be judged in the show”, it turns art/poetry into something like a prize cow in an agricultural show.

Q: Are not these awards hyped?
 
Totally hyped, a fix for those playing the writing game. Nothing to do with great literature, though occasionally some great work as opposed to average work comes from them.

Q: Why art is becoming means of shameless self-promotion?
 
This is the i society, i, me, mine - almost everything is crassly commodified, not simply for sale at reasonable prices.

Q: If Shakespeare were re-born as Shakespeare to-day, will the Bard get such prizes that increase your sales?
 
If he had a good manager and a secretary who could play the grants-man-ship game absolutely. Just think of the recent phenomenon of Rodriguez, some say a better singer songwriter than Bob Dylan yet totally neglected by USA but unknown to him he influenced a generation who brought down apartheid in South Africa.

Q: Your view on the iconic Harry Potter series, the Hunger Games and Twilight series?
 
I love Harry Potter, does this come under fantasy? Haven't heard of the other two. I don't watch TV nor do I watch many movies, especially the Hollywood garbage.

Q: On Fifty Shades of Grey?
 
Just goes to show that sex does sell books. This book surpassed even Harry Potter's sales. Maybe I'll write some erotic, BDSM style poetry, get arrested, banned, then it will be a best seller and I'll be famous – hmmm!

Q: Tell us something about your grandma who wrote poetry.
 
Yes, my great-grandma actually. She was a middle-to-upper class woman, living in Britain in the late 1880s. Married to a genius doctor, inventor and scientist. I only recently found out that she wrote poetry and painted (like Monet and I think equally as good but not as inventive). Some of her poetry is astonishingly radical for the time, an activist against poverty and English pretentiousness. A woman of her time for sure but one of her poems is so similar to one I recently wrote about environmental destruction. Very uncanny granny!

Q: Your view of Indian Writing in English? Are Indians heard in Australia?

Indians are to my knowledge very rarely read in Australia. Indian writing in English has a (surprising) Indian feel, a gentleness, a respectfulness and of course much is imbued with spiritual/religious/devotional characteristics, which incidentally I personally find refreshing.

Q:Some notable gains made by India Writing. 

Just recently the publication of a major anthology The Dance of The Peacock, 150 poets / 515pages, published in English by a Canadian publisher. Indo-Australian Anthology of Contemporary Poetry another important anthology of both Australian & Indian poets published by an Indian publisher. Support of Indian writing and poetry by UWA, especially the Westerly Centre & Prof. Dennis Haskell

Q: Impressions of your encounter with some happening --- but not awarded-yet ---writers. Any promise in them of making it to global lists?

There are a couple of exceptionally good writers who should be getting publishing contracts and fame and fortune. Christine Strelan (arguably as good as T.S. Eliot), Peter Nicholson and Max Ryan.

Q: How can the bilateral engagement between India and Australia be further expanded? Cannot some fests arranged via local support? Or, some common online initiatives, showcasing the best of both the nations?

This question I can't really answer as I'm a creative writer and artist, not a promoter or entrepreneur, I'm trying to stick with the things I do reasonably well and encourage others to do the things they do best. I have been a hopeless promoter of my own work in the past and I'm not much better now, so I'll just keep on creating. Also I'm becoming sick of the rudeness and lack of interest, especially by Australian Institutions. I contacted the Indian-Australian Association at the University of Melbourne regarding exactly what you are suggesting and they didn't even have the decency or good manners to reply.

Q: Thanks for tolerating the interrogation.
 
Thanks for being interested and in listening to my ideas.
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