It Always Surprised Me That Anyone Had Heard Of Me Or Read My Books. It Still Does. "

"Anita Desai is that rare acclaimed and important writer from whom one can learn to live the writerly life. Beginning her career at a time of scant publishers and no agents, an initial advance of £300 for her first novel Cry, the Peacock (1963), and a primary job as a wife and mother, Desai, now 70, was driven to keep writing only by her love of the craft. As you read her, you hear her voice, and imagine how she will be in person. Soft spoken and thoughtful; with a warm sense of humour and an interest in those around her. In conversation with India’s newest Sahitya Akademi Fellow, I can assure you that she is exactly as you imagine.

Your parents, DN Mazumdar and Toni Nime, had an unconventional marriage for their time. In what ways did that impact you?
Very much so, because my home combined an Indian element and a European element. But it was done so seamlessly that we were never aware of any conflict between these worlds. It all went into making a home for us. My father came from East Bengal, so we lost our home twice over, to Pakistan and to Bangladesh. That was a heavy loss to him, just as my mother’s world of Germany was lost to us. So we didn’t quite belong to that Old Delhi world (where we lived). We were a nuclear family, and didn’t live in a sprawling home like the joint families in that area. There was always a sense of being on the edge of things.

What sort of child were you?
It’s hard to recreate that time because no one now would have that childhood. They were years that were so very quiet. Apart from school, a few neighbours, and walks, there was no such thing as television or entertainment. We never expected and never received any kind of entertainment. It was a time of quiet pleasures, and I suppose that’s why I started writing.

Is that where the thread of solitude that runs through your novels, dates from?
It has to do with my nature. There are writers who are much more social than I am. They need to be out, see and hear what’s happening. Others tend to inhabit solitude in which to think and make sense of it all. And I’m probably inclined to the latter.

You were only six when you started writing stories. What themes interested you?
At that age you don’t choose big themes. You just write about your little life—animals, picnics, excursions. It came of a love of language and that I was reading all the time. We were put on the classics from a really young age. We got them off our parent’s bookshelves. I remember the tremendous impact the writing of the Bronte sisters had on me, because they were the first powerful writers I read. I must have been nine years old. I read them with close attention and learnt from them all the time.

Any Indian writers? 
None at all. I came to know later of RK Narayan and Mulk Raj Anand. But they were not in my parents bookshelves. Or at the local library. When I did read them my thinking had already been formed, largely by European literature.

You had a great mentor in the writer Ruth Prawar Jhabvala. How did that happen? 
She lived down the street from us. I used to see her pushing her babies in their prams down Alipur Road. Once I got to know her, hers was a wonderful home for me to drop in to. And it was even more wonderful for me to discover that she was a writer, and living a quiet, secluded life. It gave me encouragement to know this warm, intellectual figure. It’s very important for a young, uncertain writer to have this sort of person in their life. Not that she looked at anything I wrote, I never showed anything to her. We’re still very close to one another. She lives in Manhattan, and I visit her there sometimes.

Did she give you the idea of becoming a writer? It was an extraordinary decision for a woman at the time.
Well it didn’t seem extraordinary to me because our house was one of bookworms. I loved reading so much that writing just seemed like an extension of that. I had no thought of getting published. There were no agents, publishers in India had no interest in anything but schoolbooks, and I had to send my first manuscript abroad. I remember sitting down at my bookshelf, pulling out books, and writing down the names and addresses of publishers.

What was your first advance?
£300! (Laughs)

Did it get easier then?

Not immediately. As I said, it was a small publishing house and couldn’t do very much for me. And I don’t think my books did much for him either. So after two books we parted company and I moved to a bigger publishing house.

Unlike writers now, you moved abroad much later, in your forties, when you went to Cambridge as a Visiting Fellow. 
There was no need to travel abroad at all! In those days there were no book launches and festivals. I corresponded with my publishers through letters, and once in a while they would come down to India. Meeting them somehow made the process real. I went abroad when my youngest, Kiran, who was 15, was still in school. Then came the invitation from MIT to teach Creative Writing. I had to support my children and myself and luckily American universities are very hospitable towards writers. It was a wonderful experience and put me in touch with a new generation.

It seems to me another example of the unusual turns that you took in life. What compels you to do things differently from other women of your time? 
There was never a plan. It just happened one step at a time. And it was never as difficult as I imagined it would be. I remember it was a surprise to me that I was firstly invited to Cambridge, and secondly that they knew my work and of me a writer. That was a revelation because in India I had always been somebody’s wife or daughter. Nothing was expected of me but to be a writer.

So at what point did you realise that people were anxiously awaiting your next book? 
(Laughs) I never imagined that anyone was anxiously awaiting my books! It always surprised me that anyone had heard of me or read my books. It still does. I remember it was a surprise to me that I was firstly invited to Cambridge, and secondly, that they knew of me as a writer. That was a revelation because in India I had always been somebody’s wife or daughter. There nothing was expected of me but to be a writer.

Of your students becoming writers you once said, “Of course, one does everything one can to deter them.” Why so?
I felt that they probably didn’t know what a long slog it is. It wasn’t just about bringing out a bestseller and becoming a celebrity. If any writer there thought that way, I wouldn’t think he belonged in class. They had to know that it begins with reading, with small beginnings, with accepting criticism, and that what you should aim for is not just one bestseller but a whole shelf full of books.

Is that the advice you gave Kiran? 
I didn’t have to tell her. She just knew by living with me. Of course, I took care when my children were young to put away my writing when they came home from school. But they always knew what was happening, and realised that a part of my mind was elsewhere. In fact, they used to not read my books at all. If there was one lying around they would turn their faces away! I think it was frightening for them to see their mother’s name in public—she’s not just your mother, she’s somebody else—and there was a fear of what they might find inside the books. A secret world, perhaps.

Have any of them become characters in your books?
No. I’ve never written about my children. I’ve written a lot about childhood; it’s such an intense stage, and a fertile subject for writers.

Of course, celebrity is exactly what Kiran is enjoying now. It must be fun to watch her enjoying a writerly life so different from the one you had at her age? 
Yes! Especially when I think of the eight years she spent writing the book. Some of them were pretty miserable. She doubted herself, and there were a lot of doubters around her saying, ‘why are you still living with your mother?’ ‘Why don’t you get a job?’ I’d tell her, ‘Don’t listen to them. It’s very important to take your time.’ It’s important that when you’re writing there’s someone to look after you, and that was me, and it was the right thing to do. But that’s what makes it so satisfying. It’s a great success and her life has changed since.

She is your daughter after all. Unfair gene advantage! (Laughs) If there was any influence I assure you she resisted it.

I didn’t read her book when she won the Booker, only much later. I understand that. Sometimes I just want the noise to settle down and wait till it’s all over, and then see if I want to read the book still.

But once I did, I thought it was simply beautiful. I can only imagine what you must have thought of it. Yes! I loved her first book too. (Hullabaloo in the Guava Orchard). It was a small book compared to this one, which is vast and dense and so rich.

I have to say, it’s amazing that the same calm voice I imagined while reading your books, is the voice I’m listening to now. 
Don’t you feel that once you’ve met a writer you can hear their voice telling you the story when you read their book? I feel that when I’m reading Kiran.

The Village by the Sea is my favourite book. Can you tell me how that came about? Thul was a village I would take my children to when they were small, for weekends and summer holidays. That was the only book in fact that came close to their own experience. We actually knew a family like the one in the book—Lila and Hari and their parents. I didn’t know the children once they grew up, but I heard about them. Their lives didn’t have the happy ending as they did in my book. I really thought of it as a children’s book. I’m still surprised no one else does!

You live outside New York now. What’s your life there like? Well I bought a house in the Hudson River valley, which is very beautiful. There’s a little train that runs up to New York, and I can hop on it and spend the day with Kiran or my son, and they can come out to meet me. After the children grew up, they went into the world, their careers and marriages. Things changed. When they were children one thought ‘If only they grew up and I had time to myself, how wonderful it would be.’

Now you wish they were back? Well now I feel I’ve made a life I can live in, for myself. It’s lived according to my wishes, nobody else’s, which makes a difference.

What is your writing schedule like? All my life I’ve tried to keep the mornings clear for writing. I like to spend a few hours at my desk. If I’m working on a book, of course, it may be more than a few hours, but even otherwise I need to spend some time at the desk. I haven’t started another book since The Zigzag Way. I’ve just been doing a lot of critical work.

Are you involved with the Indian community of writers in NYC? Much less than Kiran. She lives right there. They have what they call their adda! She likes to work during the day and go out with them at night. And I think it’s wonderful. It’s the sort of thing I missed so much when I was young. Having friends with whom you could discuss your work and the books you were reading, and the things you were interested in. I never had that, and I’m so happy she does. I drop in on them from time to time, occasionally. They’re mostly the younger generation. The only one of my (generation) is Ruth Prawar (Jhabvala). She lives in Manhattan.

Lastly, how do you view the tumults in India? I’m thinking of Nandigram. When you’re abroad you feel a huge sense of loss that these things are happening in your country and you’re not there. And you feel very passionately, but you can’t do anything. But that’s with so much that happens in America too. I feel outraged by their Government and what they’re doing in Iraq and Palestine. But I’m not a citizen, I don’t vote. When I come to India I have this great sense from the people here, and especially my siblings since they are closest to me—we’ve gone through so much, lost so much—but I don’t really like to comment because I haven’t participated. But certainly one still feels very strongly, it hurts very much.

You did say that you’d hoped the bloodletting during Partition would have satiated us. But we do seem to embrace violence, don’t we? Absolutely. We are people who break easily into violence. I suppose it’s because we constantly live under great stress. There’s so little to go around, there will be fights over it. I didn’t see this when I was a child. I belonged to the middle class but it was a very modest one in comparison. We were secure and felt safe. Whereas today’s middle class is a striving one, aiming for something more all the time.

I know you don’t vote in the States, but since you live there I must ask: Obama or Clinton? (Laughs) I suppose one can’t possibly sit through it neutrally. People admire Hillary but she’s so chilly. It’s hard to admire someone who’s so controlled. And I don’t like her unprincipled behaviour. She always seems to go where she can get the votes. It’s disappointing, because I would love to see a woman (in the White House). I think it would be wonderful for America to have a black president but I don’t think he would live very long. If they assassinate even loved presidents like Kennedy what chance would a black man have?

He’s charming though! (Laughs)
He’s very charming! He’s never been put through any test and has never had to prove himself."

 Elle, January 2008. Related: Vikram Chandra, Vikram Seth, Ashok Banker.