A decade in Toronto - 7

Che and Mahrukh on our weekly bus ride

Che in his new glasses

Immigration is all about losing one’s identity and gaining a new one. It is about finding oneself in a new environment, making friends, trusting strangers. Often, this process is not easy. In our case, we came to Toronto without knowing anyone here. So, we had no choice but to trust strangers. And, in retrospect, it’s worked out well.

In the middle of the Sheridan program, Joyce Wayne recommended me to Antanas Sileika, the dean at Humber School for Writers, to volunteer for its week-long intensive writing program conducted annually in summer. My co-students never forgave me for what they subsequently described was "blatant favouritism." 

The program was to commence in July at Humber’s picturesque Lakeshore Boulevard campus. I dressed in my best official suit to meet Antanas, but by the time I could reach the campus, a brief but intense rainstorm drenched me to my bones.

Antanas welcomed me to the program and placed me in an all-women group led by author Isabel Huggan. I Googled her name and went to the Amesbury library to borrow Isabel's linked short story collection The Elizabeth Stories. Reading it before meeting her made my interaction with her easy. My new acquaintance with Canadian literature – thanks to having browsed through the two volumes of Canadian literature in English that Joyce had insisted all her students at Sheridan buy – also helped.

The Elizabeth Stories is a fine collection of short stories. Isabel was pleased that I’d read it and liked it. Her group, which I assisted, comprised seven women, all working on their manuscripts and all deeply engaged in the process of creating. Isabel’s approach to writing was introspective. And she also gave me my writing mantra: “All writing is rewriting.”

The one session that remains etched in my memory even though nearly a decade has passed by, involved remembering a favourite photograph from one’s life and looking for what is missing in that photograph.

With the Humber Summer Workshop group

The exercise took all the participants in different directions, and many of them teared up when describing their experience of talking about their favourite photograph and then for the first time ever looking for what was missing in the photo. I guess Isabel’s purpose for conducting this exercise was to make all the participants understand the importance of unburdening one’s emotions and be true to oneself.

There were several simultaneous sessions going on at that time conducted by illustrious authors. They included Wayson Choy, Martin Amis, and Nino Ricci. I couldn’t have celebrated my first anniversary in Toronto any better. The Humber School’s summer workshop was perhaps instrumental in many ways in determining the course of my life.

I’ve written about the experience on this blog as well in the Canadian Immigrant experience. 

If you’re interested in reading more, please click on these links:

Mahrukh at 1440 Lawrence Ave W

Becoming a writer

The Laughing Buddha

All Writing is rewriting (Canadian Immigrant column)

All Writing is rewriting (GAB blog post)

Humber School of Writers Summer Workshop

2009 was turning out to be an extremely fruitful year. My interest in writing had propelled me into a new world and I was making new friends all the time. I signed up for several author groups on email and went to a session of Writers and Editors Network at a nice little traditional tavern in Islington.

Jasmine D’Costa was the president of this association. She is a banker from Bombay and has devoted her life to creating literature since she immigrated to Canada. Jasmine’s collection of short stories was published in May 2009 and it was tremendously well received. 

Over the years, she has consistently encouraged many of us newcomers with aspirations to become writers. She published extracts from my novel as short stories in two volumes she edited.

(Read about Jasmine here: Asian Writers; I used the term ‘Asian’ to describe South Asian writers, without realising then than Asian in North America only meant people from the Far East or South East Asia).

At Jasmine’s event at WEN, the main speaker was Robert Morgan, the publisher of BookLandPress. Subsequently, Robert held a workshop on publishing at the Runnymede branch of the Toronto library. Yoko and I participated in the session (Robert Morgan’s tips for writers).

I learnt that BookLandPress conducted an annual novel competition, which was decided on the basis of the first 50 pages of the manuscript. I decided to build my short story into a novel, by giving a backstory to the four main characters.

I fished out an incomplete manuscript that I’d started several years ago in Bombay when I decided to write fiction after reading my friend Richard Rothman’s collection of phantasmagorical short stories. In a small way, I was instrumental in egging Richard to get his stories published.

Robert’s BookLandPress didn’t accept my submission, but that was only to be expected and by now, I was serious about working harder on my fiction. I got Mahrukh to edit the short story that I’d been working on for several months now and submitted it to the Diaspora Dialogues, a Toronto not-for-profit that promotes creative expressions in diverse people, for the short-form mentoring program.

I submitted the short story (The New Canadians) in May 2009 without any expectation of being selected for the mentoring program. But I was pleasantly surprised when I got an email in June 2009 informing me of my selection. It was a moment that I’d been waiting for. 

The Diaspora Dialogues group 

I was among a select few aspiring writers selected by Diaspora Dialogues for the mentoring program; the list included a great group of creative people who have gone on to become acclaimed authors Leslie Shimotakahara and poets such as Michael Fraser, and among them was Dawn Promislow, who is today a dear friend.

Helen Walsh, the head of Diaspora Dialogues, has since then been a constant support in all my efforts to become an author. On several occasions, she has provided me with a platform and put me before an audience. She got Diaspora Dialogues to audio record my blog about my first Christmas in Toronto; she selected me as a speaker at the fantastic Spur festival that she organises annually; she got me interviewed recently when she relaunched Diaspora Dialogues.

And, of course, she’s also had an indirect role to play in the publishing of Belief, but I’ll talk about that later. Julia Chan, then at the Diaspora Dialogues, was also extremely supportive.

I remember when my submission was under consideration at Diaspora Dialogues, I was reading The Assassin’s Song (2007) by MG Vassanji, which I’d borrowed from the Amesbury Park branch of the Toronto library. It is one of the finest novels that I’ve read, and in my humble opinion, one of Vassanji’s best. The In-Between World of Vikram Lal (2003) and The Book of Secrets (1994) got him the Giller Prize. 

Serendipitously, Vassanji was to be my mentor. Mahrukh declared, "Allah only listens to you!" (Needless to say, that assessment riled my atheist sensibilities comprehensively, but for once, I wasn't complaining).

Not entirely unexpectedly, Vassanji turned out to be a tough mentor. He was a Guru in the true sense. I consider him my Guru even today; a status that, I’m sure, he’d find deeply embarrassing, if not entirely offensive.

He’d little patience with niceties, clear, incisive and blunt in his comments. And I was the eager student.

Here’s an extract from the first email I got from him: 

“This story, to be honest, is in the ‘good immigrant’ or ‘grateful immigrant’ mode. It has a message about citizenship. But it is not realistic; it does not dig deep into human motives and behaviour. This, of course, is how I see it. It is the kind of story that may find a place in a community or government magazine. I don't know what you have in mind.”

My interaction with him started in July and continued till September 2009. By then, the story had metamorphosed into a completely different being, vastly improved, with much depth, nearly all the excrescences removed, or at least so I thought. 

In a later episode of this memoir, I’ll write about how he made me rewrite this story, which had become the first chapter of the novel, more than 17 times, and even after that remained dissatisfied.

Read about this unique experience here: Write Stuff (Canadian Immigrant column)

By October 2009, I’d to submit the completed story to Diaspora Dialogues for consideration in its annual short story publication – TOK: Writing the New Toronto. I wasn’t sure whether it’d be accepted, considering there were so many good aspirants. It seemed a long and agonizing wait although it was only two months before I learnt in mid-December from Helen that my story was accepted for TOK 5: Writing the New Toronto, the collection was edited by Helen.

2009 was turning out to be a year that I’d remember forever. Thanks to Joyce’s efforts, I got an internship in Ontario government’s ministry of community and social services. It was a temporary job that held the promise of being turned into permanent after some years. I was out of the internship within a month.

Mahrukh in her Medix uniform

And, it was now Mahrukh’s turn to go to school. She decided that she’d do a program in social work and joined Medix College in October 2009. I’d never seen her as excited as she was when she began her program.

Mahrukh has always remained an unassuming person, who shuns any sort of limelight, and never pushes herself upfront to let the world become aware of tremendous and varied skills. She’s highly educated, has remarkable editing skills, and is a natural people’s person; one of the most affable persons. For the first time, she was determined to get what she knew she deserved.

Of course, she can be completely horrible with me when she gets mad, but that’d be true in any marriage that has lasted two decades and more, and one shan't talk about it now. 

Che at his school concert

Che was already a Canadian and was talking like one. When we told his school teacher that he was now speaking with a Canadian accent, she corrected us and said, “No, he’s losing his Indian accent.” Sometime later that year, he also had to start wearing glasses, at approximately the same age as when I’d had to wear glasses. But, of course, Mahrukh blamed me, claiming that it was my preference for warm lighting in our home that'd caused our son’s weak eyesight.

Finally, we’d commenced our process of settling down and setting our roots in Toronto.

Writing is rewriting, review, patience, prayers...

This is equally applicable to readers and to writers

What do writers feel about the process of writing – generally most writers describe it as a very lonely thing that they do.

Andrew J. Borkowski, whose Copernicus Avenue won the 2012 Toronto Book Award had a contrary view. In his acceptance speech, he said for him writing wasn’t a lonely process for him at all.

On his website Borkowski says “writing is rewriting”.

I remember Isabel Huggan telling a group of wannabe writers the same thing at the summer program at Humber School of Writers.

My friend Farzana Doctor gave me the same mantra when I met her recently to discuss my manuscript.

Farzana’s second novel – Six Meters of Pavement – was shortlisted for the award that Borkowski’s Copernicus Avenue finally won.

She also told me to be patient when reworking on the manuscript.

I recently met Jaspreet Singh, author of Seventeen Tomatoes: Tales from Kashmir, a collection of short stories and Chef, a novel (and a forthcoming novel Helium) wryly remarked that has a lot of experience in being patient.

I had gone to his reading a couple of years ago at the North York Central Library when I was new in Toronto, and nobody knew me, or took me seriously.

I don’t know too many people even now, and absolutely nobody takes me seriously as a writer.

But that’s not the subject of this blog post.

It’s about the writing process.

Some writers prefer to keep their writing under wraps and prefer not showing it to peers.

I’m sure they’re in a small minority. Most writers prefer to seek peer review and are open to making changes based on feedback.

I’ve got some exceptional feedback to my manuscript from my friends.

I think peer review is vital.

Also vital is feedback from one’s mentor.

At a lively discussion last week Anand Mahadevan and Kristyn Dunnion emphasized the importance of seeking peer and mentor review.

Mahadevan narrated his experience (re)writing his first novel The Strike, based on his mentor MG Vassanji’s feedback , and how finally when he had worked on the manuscript and incorporated nearly all the suggestions that his mentor had made, the manuscript had acquired a reached a completely different realm.

They were at the Impossible Words.

Irfan Ali and Emily Pohl-Weary curate Impossible Words. The Academy of Impossible website describes Impossible Words thus: “Impossible Words is a unique literary salon that presents culturally and stylistically diverse Canadian writers in conversation with young writers from the Toronto Street Writers. It takes place on the second and fourth Saturdays.”

I’ve attended two sessions so far, and I’ve liked the raw energy and the in-your-face quality that the young writers from the Toronto Street Writers bring to these sessions.

So, basically, writing is rewriting, review, patience, and then I guess prayers. I’m teaching myself the first three, but as an agnostic, it’s going rather difficult having to pray.

Image: https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=449087115142883&set=a.206192099432387.66730.122703407781257&type=1&theater

"Let's see you lay a finger on me"

I thought of writing about Isaac Bashevis Singer (Yentl) and Saul Bellow (Him with his foot in his mouth) today.

The news peg – can’t get journalism out of my system – is the controversy over Tiff’s selection of Tel Aviv for its City to City program.

Then I realised that doing so would be stretching the context too far (‘text without context’ – Rushdie).

It’d be unfair to the masters Bellow and Singer to unnecessary link them with this issue. Then, I thought of writing about Aldous Huxley's Brave New World. However, I couldn't start.

For sure, I’m desperately in search of a good subject to write about.

I haven’t finished the two books that I’ve started reading. Consequently, I’ve nothing to write.

During August and even this month I’ve fallen back on my monthly blog entries.

I deleted some of the entries from the earlier months because I felt these entries were merely indulgences and nothing much to do with the theme of the blog.

I also removed most of the widgets that I had so eagerly installed in the enthusiasm of starting this blog in January.

The blog is trim. I’m not. I’ve ballooned with an ever-expanding girth at the midriff.

And, I don’t have anything to write.

I’m reminded of a piece Isabel Huggan gave us during the Humber School for Writers’ summer workshop that eloquently describes this phenomenon.

No, not fatness, but emptiness.

It’s called But What Actually Existed Here Before the Big Bang?

Oz writes, “He (his father, an academic writer) never had to sit, as I do, staring at a single mocking blank page in the middle of an arid desk, like a crater on the face of the moon. Just me and emptiness and despair. Go make something out of nothing at all.

“Actually who hasn’t been through the ghastly experience of sitting in front of a blank page, with its toothless mouth grinning at you: Go ahead, let’s see you lay a finger on me?.

“A blank page is actually a whitewashed wall with no door and no window. Beginning to tell a story is like making a pass at a total stranger in a restaurant. Remember Chekhov’s Gurov in The Lady with the Dog? Gurov beckons to the little dog, wagging his finger at it over and over again, until the lady is blushing, ‘He doesn’t bite,’ whereupon Gurov asks her permission to give the dog a bone. Both Gurov and Chekhov have now been given a threat to go by; the flirtation begins and the story takes off.

“The beginning of almost every story is actually a bone, something with which to court the dog, which may bring you closer to the lady.”

The Laughing Buddha

It was raining in Kathmandu.

I was walking down the road to reach my hotel. I had my umbrella. It wasn’t protecting me. I saw him standing on the side of the road, holding his hand over his head.

His clothes were wet and clinging to his body. He looked ill. He had probably been standing in the rain for long.

I looked at him. He looked at me. He smiled. My hotel wasn’t far.

“How far do you have to go?” I asked him.

“End of the world,” he said.

“You’ll need an umbrella in this weather,” I said, and gave him mine.

“Thank you,” he said, “You take this.”

He gave me what looked like a small statue that resembled him.

“Whenever you feel sad, take a look at this and you’ll feel happy,” he said.

And vanished.

Wikipedia says the laughing Buddha is admired for his happiness and contentment. Rubbing his belly brings wealth, good luck, and prosperity. At the Humber School of Writers’ Summer Workshop, I met her and metaphorically rubbed her belly.

Image: Isabel Huggan with me at Humber College's Lakeshore Campus. Humber School of Writers provided the photograph.

The Elizabeth Stories

The best period of one’s life is from childhood to adolescence. There’s no care in the world, and everything’s just fine. 

As we grow older, we tend to romanticize that period of our lives and create myths and mythologies around that period of our lives to make it seem more interesting than it really was.

This is especially so when we narrate that period of our lives to our children when they are of that age.  Most of the times, the stories that we remember of our childhood are either completely fabricated or at least partially, with the more tantalizing bits either added or deleted from the narrative.

The reality of everyone’s life is never ever as exciting as it is made out to be. Quite often we are just too embarrassed to talk about our childhood because of some deeply disturbing events that may have occurred which we try rather desperately (and unsuccessfully) to hide, even from ourselves.

I just read Isabel Huggan’s The Elizabeth Stories, which I borrowed from the library at The Village Terraces, the condominium where I did my first job in Canada.

I'm unlikely to return to that place though I’ll certainly return the few books that I have borrowed. 

In addition to some wonderful people that I will sorely miss, and I'm sure they'll miss me, too. I’m also going to miss the library – I wish all condos in the world had such libraries.

Huggan’s book is a thinly veiled autobiography. Her words bring alive the themes of childhood that we all experience only to forget.  Elizabeth’s stories are about her childhood, and Huggan remembers them in excrucating details. They are larger-than-life on occasions and insignificant at times; but always compelling told.  

These are stories that leave us feeling that childhood injustices have no dénouement; they turn into stinging memories that haunt us for the rest of our lives.

Mid-way through the book, you begin to identify with Elizabethh. Whether you’re a man or a woman, as a child growing up you’re bound to have experienced what Elizabeth does. You could’ve grown up in Garten (somewhere in Ontario) or in Pune (in India). We’ve all experienced those little hurts from which we think we will never fully recover, and the little joys that we want to last for a little bit longer.

Elizabeth realizes – or imagines – that her parents are just too embarrassed about her clumsy ways. She says about her father, “I clearly and absolutely saw how much he wanted me to be a son. And what he had was a daughter who wasn’t even very good at being a girl.”  

She never outgrows her separateness from her parents, felt by all children of that age and felt more acutely by Elizabeth. Yet she equally acutely realizes what an odd mixture she is of her parents... “thinking how much I sounded like my father but how like Mavis (her mother) it was to go and lie down. I could never escape them.”

The stories reach out and touch us in an indescribably mellow manner and leave us exulting at having rediscovered something about our own past howsoever mundane it may have been. Elizabeth’s life is all about the plain and ordinary business of growing up.

The three stories that really stand out in the collection are Into the Green Stillness, Sorrows of the Flesh and Secrets. The characters that stand out are Jerry Wheeling, the hyperactive teacher and coach for whom Elizabeth develops a mammoth-sized crush, and who turns out to be a wife-beating misogynist; Esther Bauman, the Mennonite ‘Girl’ who gets so scared when Elizabeth kisses her smack on her lips that she immediately resigns and leaves their home, and of course Mavis – Elizabeth’s mother.

The Elizabeth Stories is a charming book, in a different sort of way; it's not The Wonder Years.