Immortal Storyteller

I did not know much of this story until February this year. In fact it came to light with its hero's sad demise in the month. For a lot of my contemporaries this arrived not a moment too soon — it merely added to folklore, much like the eternal creations this protagonist had put to paper: a story that must be told. But I get ahead of myself — let us start with an anecdote.

The year was 1967. A 37-year-old gentleman, visiting Delhi with his wife, chanced upon a quiz show on Doordarshan — then the solitary channel on air, beamed to all of seven cities — while at a bookstore. As fate would have it, he watched the participants (from St Stephen’s College) come up woefully short on a question regarding the name of Lord Ram's mother. Dismayed at this pitiful awareness of Indian culture, he was even more abashed to see the students effortlessly answer a subsequent query on Greek mythology. Stung by the irony, Anant Pai resolved, Chanakya-like, that he would do something to fix this gap — and Amar Chitra Katha was born. The rest, as they say, is history.

It is not as if ACK was Uncle Pai's first foray into children's minds. An earlier attempt at kiddie fare, over a decade before that fateful Delhi evening, titled Manav, had sadly failed. In fact, the intervening period saw him at The Times of India group. There he had played a key role in bringing to life the similarly iconic Indrajal comics (more on them some other day). Again, even after that serendipitous quiz show moment and before ACK's ultimate resounding success, many publishers of the age had cold-shouldered his venture. India Book House finally gave the concept a home, kicking off a partnership that gave young India its most-read (100 million, and counting) comic book series. A telling facet of Pai's personality could be found a few years later too, when he was on the verge of another wildly popular series. Finding himself stuck in multiple futile launch meetings to decide its name, with corporate yuppies and their numerous interruptions to attend ostensibly critical phone calls, he decided to name the mag itself 'Tinkle'!

Apart from its hyperbole and undeniable commercial success, Uncle Pai's life remains memorable for the indelible influence his creations had on succeeding generations of young India. Yet, it is also the story of a legacy borne out of deep personal conviction. Whether it was retelling our rich mythological heritage and history at ACK, Krishna through JP, or dishing out infotainment in Tinkle, Kaalia the crow, Kapish the monkey, Shikari Shambu, or Suppandi — Uncle Pai's signature was all-pervasive. Back at Bennett Coleman too he had argued for the culturally neutral — and amenable to a quasi-Indian setting — Phantom and Bahadur. At ACK, after ten issues depicting Cinderella and Red-Riding-Hood style fairytales, Pai personally penned Krishna, downplaying divine miracle in favour of pure raconteur value.

As it turned out, after an indifferent start, the ACK framework took hold, ultimately spawning a pantheon of comic-book writing in India. I can think of few folks in generations either side of mine who were untouched by his creations. They were tucked-in, happy bedside reads, hastily finished in school buses as the stop drew near, or hungrily devoured post lunch before one rushed out for a spot of evening games; and an introduction to the barter system as we traded and re-traded the comics. Yet, without exception, we discovered a highlight of pre-teen existence. If ignorance of history condemns us to repeat it, or missing legends past restricts us from finding that odd hero or heroine in our present, Uncle Pai found us a fix, for good.

Oblivious to his worldly achievements and continuing to be driven by lofty ideals ("Bharat ke bachche agar sapne dekhein to Bharat ke sapne dekhein"), Uncle Pai soldiered on for over four decades. His death in February, aged 81, came barely days after being felicitated for lifetime achievement by Comic Con India, the nation's inaugural comic-book convention. I dare say that given his contribution, the award needed him more than he deserved it. He was working on Glimpses of Glory for the last few years, to capture forty game-changing moments from our history. His characteristic humility would have stopped him, but he might well have included his own. Om Shanti, sir.

Baal Ki Khaal

This one is dedicated to two childhood friends, each with canine companions that went by the name Snowy. Both wore crowns of flipped-up tufts of hair that settled into a more orderly mop by the time it reached the back of their heads (though one believed he took after Shashi Kapoor!). Both wore their principles on their sleeves, embodying all that was thought good in boyhood — much the sort that mothers made examples of. And both were only too willing, in their inimitably individual ways, to battle lengthening odds in a world where childhood innocence was rapidly fading away.

The first of the duo now sports a mildly sparser mane, perhaps in deference to the ravages of time. Even as his contemporaries get cynical with age, his spunk has not dimmed much: he remains almost idealistic to a fault. Peddling counsel in a premier brainwasher outfit (AKA strategy consulting), his worldly ambitions revolve around Pedder Road, desiring future lodgings in its vicinity. Meanwhile, he plays proud papa to a precociously gifted child. On meeting old partners in crime, he debates residential choices in modest Mumbai versus garish Gurgaon (purely in sq ft terms), but mostly signs off ruing lost opportunities to ride the real estate boom at either. The script has, alas, not altered much in a few price correction cycles. Yet, the world would be so much a better place if even a fraction of his fantastic ideas were to change address from his first-class brain to take up abode in the world without. My best to you, Mr M — and here's hoping that, some day, the letter does not stand for Muddle too.

The other hero, equally principled but a tad more action-prone, has the privilege of staying unsullied by tests of time accorded only to fictional characters. He occasionally comes to mind, larger than life, when trying to hook my 14-month old to Cartoon Network for a few moments of domestic calm (and yes, we shall rue this TV pitch later). Meet Tintin, who last week made it to Indian mainstream media with news that his canon is to be translated into Hindi (whatever took them so long!).

Those good tidings came with some trepidation too. For the sake of the hordes of new friends — née fans — he shall inevitably add in the new Indian avatar (he already does Bengali), one hopes that Tintin stays Tintin, even as his supporting cast and the books adopt new name tags. This is important — this space has argued against avoidable tinkering with Enid Blyton's legacy earlier. Equally, word-play is intrinsic to the pleasure of reading Tintin: its characters indulge in malapropisms, spoonerisms, cuss-words-that-aren't, et al (google them if needed) hence in great danger of being lost in translation.

Fortunately, two differences can be discerned upfront. Firstly, the Famous Five body of work existed and was accessible to the young English reader; and changes focused on style rather than substance, presentation tweaks presumably due to audience inability to appreciate the books' context. Tintin in Hindi, on the other hand, explores new readership vistas. Secondly, the English versions, where my friendship with the evil-fighting Belgian reporter took root, too were (brilliant) adaptations from the original French. The Tintin team has been there, done that (Hindi is translation # 58, with over 200 million endorsing sales).

Given all this, my sense points to largely unaltered plots, even as some props take into account Indian sensibilities. Hence Snowy, originally Milou, becomes Natkhat and Thomson and Thompson (AKA Dupont et Dupond) turn Santu-Bantu without much ado (unless you believe that Bianca became Mallika Castafiore for Sherawat reasons — her crooning 'Abhi To Main Jawan Hoon' perhaps for our other protagonist, the adorable Mr M — we ought to easily settle that one)!

And what better way to test the hypothesis than to check for Captain Archibald Haddock's colourful curses — 'dus hazaar tadtadate toofan' (ten thousand thundering typhoons) is easy; 'karodo karod kasmasate kaale kacchuve' (millions-and-millions-of squirming-black-turtles, replacing the iconic billions-of-bilious-blue-blistering-barnacles) sounds a wee bit of a compromise. There may be more (difficult to replicate 'Thomson with a P like in psychology' in a Santu-Bantu milieu) but intent remains the ideal touchstone (one learns from you sometimes, Mr M) of my vote today. A thumbs-up for the Tintin effort, therefore — and no elitist position caught up in (what Tintin's catchphrase 'Great Snakes' has changed to) 'baal ki khaal'!

Leave 'Em Kids Alone!

An article, tucked away in the inside pages of the newspaper two Sundays ago, rekindled some of my fondest childhood memories (with a twist). It bespoke an impending rewrite of ten bestsellers from the 'Famous Five' series originally authored by the iconic Enid Blyton. Yet, news of the tweak, planned to better their appeal to contemporary pre-teen palates, left me somewhat disquieted.

To talk joys first, my acquaintance with the four kids and their canine cohort (hence the Five) arose in rather happy circumstances. An infrequent happenstance of academic achievement led my father to gift me one of their novels as reward (likely expecting an encore!) from the neighborhood bookstore. The Five were thick with me in but a few pages. For the uninitiated, three were siblings: the eldest, Julian, an early introduction to 'first among equals'; the spirited and fun-loving Dick; and archetypal kid sister Anne. Accompanied by their feisty cousin George (never Georgina), their wondrous tales of adventure made them much more than adolescent characters on elegant typeface. And Timothy, Tim, or mostly Timmy, mongrel pet of supernatural gifts and even higher loyalty, was the dog's dog. If more was needed, he was added motivation for many a young boy to yearn for Man's Best Friend about the house. (No doubt an almost equal number of mothers held the ruthlessly opposite view, and we know how such debates conclude!)

In any event, Ms Blyton’s words and (albeit in smaller fashion) my animated imagination conspired to lend myriad hues to the sketched images. Convenient neighbourhood landmarks and sights from memory were cheekily appended, Rushdiesque, to suffuse them with vividly pulsating life. The Five were my friends next-door, yet magically faraway, in a subliminal construct that only childhood innocence and suitably stimulatory literature can produce. My love affair with the written word commenced with them (and a flock of the prolific Enid’s finest); kept alive thereafter by assorted characters from Fiction and more.

Imagine then, to have editorial scissors run amok this merry company! Guided by the singularly insipid beacon of market research to light the way, a team is attempting to "sensitively and carefully" reconstruct the original. The primary onus, one is given to understand, is to correct an ostensibly antediluvian slang. Unfortunately, such a stance sits well with spin-doctors, not purveyors of young adult literature — but it is perhaps symbolic of our analysis-paralysis times.

To begin with, the charge that today’s young are shying from Five's idiom, while not incredible, sounds frankly tenuous. For it to stick, one must believe that the set of 21 penned over a like number of years ending 1963 — amazingly alive and kicking for many of us through the mid-80s — has managed to age significantly over the succeeding two decades. Equally, it surprises me enormously that a generation at least a thousand times brighter than ours at an equivalent age, needs editorial crutches to understand Blyton’s oeuvre. One can dismiss mine as a jaundiced eye, but such misconceived research may be better illustration of testing biased hypotheses than allegedly passé language or deficiency of acumen.

Of course, true to spin-doctor form, the author's name has been invoked in justification of the exercise. We are reminded how a "passionate" advocate of child literacy as Blyton would appreciate the need for her immortal characters to mouth appropriate conversation-style dialogue. She was, in any case, famously disinterested in the views of critics over 12!

One wonders where such surgery would end, however. Would one, for instance, make George try less hard to be a boy in case not setting the politically correct example to today's youth? Or perhaps have in Anne not the occasionally tear-prone, timid young lady that she was, for fear of hurting Women's Lib? One ought to cleanse the precocious Ju of his 'girls will be girls; boys, boys' elder brother complex. The inappropriately named Dick must need drastic repositioning, surely. Persisting, we could turn our attention to plots and paraphernalia: highlight dangers of presenting camping out as fun; review gypsies’ portrayal lest they take umbrage; check for animal rights violations in Timmy's caricature; evaluate Uncle Quentin’s absent-mindedness as endangering the scientific community; and more!

Incidentally, there would remain a profusion of Blyton waiting to be tackled. Secret Seven, Barney, Mallory Towers, St Clare's — we could be at this for some time (thus keeping certain unnamed cash registers ringing)! Perhaps the indefatigable Blyton preordained the dangers she was flirting with - she had not one but two sets of Five adolescents solving mysteries around England. Now if only she had not let the other group be led by the redoubtable Fatty...

PS: The last named, Frederick Algernon Trotteville, has already been blessed with a trim nouveau visage last year... Who blames Kareena Kapoor for Size Zero fixation?

Books, Budget, and Beyond

If ever my fuddy-duddy credentials need reiteration, on offer is a blissful hour at Books & Beyond amidst Sunday frenzy today (note that dying weekends' embers usually propel me to action, a wistful last hurrah of sorts; also means Saturday = procrastination). Nestled in a corner of Spencer's in Megacity on Gurgaon's Mall Mile, this minor merchant establishment is soon to be history, to facilitate expansion of its more remunerative music-peddling sibling. Postscript to the economic progression was a clearance sale (discounts 'up to' 70%). My better half had been motivating me to this happy destination; she won on its last day.

We found a store plundered by the preceding hordes. An understandably diminished proprietorial interest had done its bit too, leaving much to be desired for the fastidious. Yet, the mess seemed incidental, fostering opportunity to savour pleasures of discovering 'novel' bargains in the mélange. We obliged, with a late appearance (tut-tut) at the crime-scene being our only remorse, emerging a dozen books richer.

The country's mood is seized of much larger catechisms as we speak. Chief of these is the General Budget, an exercise the redoubtable Pranab Mukherjee must find quaintly amusing, coming back to the North Block as he is after two and a half decades. While it may take a tome to recount the interregnum's cataclysmic upheavals, the weight of expectations is one Pranab-da may find strikingly similar. He may be loath to admit, but it is impossible to miss the Nation's collective sigh of relief at the Left's decline in Elections 2009. Indeed, it is as historic in political consequences as hysteric in the economic expectations unleashed! In some quarters, Dalal Street for one, the prospect of a government sans lal jhandi in Delhi has sent valuations into a tizzy, and one wonders if this gravity defying climb has enough roots in logic.

In a way, the ignominious performance of the Communists is uniquely humbling. The timing is notable: the world is still mourning the demise of unbridled Capitalism. While there may be post-mortem exercises aplenty (hindsight makes every chaman a Chanakya after all) the sheer absence of even a token such effort from our learned Comrades is most instructive. My sense is that more than the goonda-raj or endemic corruption, it is this arrogance and divorce from reality that has been the Left's undoing. Given their penchant for mouthing the mightiest platitudes and doing nothing by way of action, one ought not to be surprised at this mendacious stance of our holier-than-thou Communist brethren. Suffice it to say for now that if things stay unaltered, Mamata didi will have her day in Bongland come 2011.

Fact remains that, globally, there is significant public debate and focus on the New World Order. Much of the prognosis appears premature though; one could easily argue that the new realities are some way off. Hence, it would have helped to get a meaningful contribution from Left of Centre. Not to belabour the point, but Messrs Karat, Yechury & Co remain thoroughly unequal to the ask.

Be that as it may, one postulate is crucial to our collective national opinion or governmental policymaking (apropos the Budget). This is the commonly prescribed dichotomy between growth and inclusiveness; and the presumably disastrous electoral consequences of any agenda founded in economic common-sense. In our sociopolitical discourse it seems one must side with either aam aadmi or Big Business, never both. One wonders if this overly simplistic and potentially deleterious axiom will be challenged by the new dispensation on Raisina Hill. After all, notwithstanding the odd hiccup in government formation (Kalaignar's family balancing act ensured history was not forgotten too soon), there can be little doubt that, with the Left left, MMS & Co have a real opportunity to fashion a new dawn.