Sara Rai – “Exhibitionism has really taken over our society ”

Why did you choose Raw Umber as the title for your most recent book? Is it a tribute to your father, Sripat Rai, who often used the brownish pigment in his paintings, or did you want to evoke any other associations? The cover too uses various shades of brown.

Raw umber was a colour that my father liked using in his paintings, so yes, there is a literal evocation of that in the title. But I also wanted to acknowledge that he had been a shadowy presence, a sort of introverted figure. The word ‘umber’ comes from ‘umbra’ meaning shadow. It is also the colour of the earth, and my father was an earthy person.

You describe him so beautifully: “His silence seemed to be coloured white, and to rest like snow on his shoulders. It was difficult to say why his shoulders looked as if they bore the weight of his silence.” Do you wonder what he’d have said about the book?

I don’t know. His silence defined him, and I grew to accept and embrace that. I started writing the book when he was still alive. He passed away in July 1994. He had a lot of writers and artists as friends but he did not like drawing attention to himself. That’s partly the reason why he — rather than my grandfather, the famous Premchand — is the central figure in my memoir. I wanted to bring out this whole range of nuances with the title. The cover of the book brings an additional layer of meaning. It uses a picture that I had clicked using my phone. It captures a glimpse of the gallery in Allahabad where his paintings were displayed. Saurabh Garge, who has designed the cover, has done a wonderful job with that picture.

The book is set primarily in Allahabad but also takes readers to Banaras. How have these cities changed in your own lifetime? How have these changes affected you?

Apart from the people, the geographical markers have changed so much that I feel a bit lost even when I am in Allahabad. Our own house has undergone changes. Of course, the official name has changed to Prayagraj. When I grew up in Allahabad, there were bungalows with quiet lanes and an abundance of trees. Now there are lots of high-rise buildings. The civic amenities have not improved much in keeping with the so-called development.

I haven’t been to Banaras in the last five-six years, so I’ve yet to see what they have done to Vishwanath Galli. But that city has existed for centuries, so I am fairly certain that its soul remains the same. It’s so ancient, the air seems filled with the spirits of all the people who lived there! Banaras has a special place in my heart. It is the city of my ancestors. I never lived there for years at a stretch but my parents took us there throughout my childhood; some were short visits, others lasted for months. Banaras always got my creative juices flowing.

In your memoir, you write, “Remembering is a way of imagining.” Do you mean that one fills gaps in one’s memory with fiction? Or does one substitute what really happened with made-up details because one feels uneasy about admitting the truth?

Memory plays games with us. When you try to think far back in the past, you can’t be sure whether what you claim to have seen was really seen by you or narrated to you by someone else so vividly and so frequently that you internalized it and made it your own. That said, memory is the backbone of literature. The site of memory is not only the mind but also the body. Your eyes remember, your nose remembers. All your senses remember. You are infused with sights and sounds and smells. They come out when you begin to write. Memories bring both pain and joy. Writing helps you transcend these. It comes from a space of stillness even if it originates from suffering at times. I write slowly. I take a lot of time. There is absolutely no other joy quite like emptying myself out on the page. It is thrilling.

There’s a lot about your grandfather Premchand in this memoir. You use the writing desk he used and keep his photograph as a “totem” above it. What do these acts mean to you? As a person who calls herself non-religious, is this your way of seeking blessings?

In a way, it is! I never met my grandfather in person but he was a hugely inspiring presence in my life. He died 12 years before my parents got married but he was always invoked and discussed while I was growing up. I knew about his aversion to money, the fact that he stayed up late, what he was forbidden from eating because of his poor digestion. And that he was bad at mathematics, so I too could get away with a low score in my math exams. What I cherish most about him is the fact that his moral compass was not tied to religion. It came from a space of goodness, humanity, tolerance and dignity. He spoke up against religious bigotry and caste discrimination. That makes him quite relevant even today.

Speaking of aversion to money, you write about how frugality was always a cherished value in the household and that poverty was seen as “spiritually exalting”. To what extent would you attribute such views to the influence of MK Gandhi on Premchand?

The Gandhian influence was very much a part of this. Premchand came from a modest background. He idolized Gandhi. He saw money as a bad thing, a corrupting influence. In 1920, when Premchand was just 41 years old, he resigned from his job with the education department because Gandhi had launched the non-cooperation movement. He had two young children at the time. He had no idea how he was going to take care of his family. He looked up to Gandhi, so he wanted to join the movement. He and his friends were selling charkhas at one point because they wanted to support Gandhi’s vision of swadeshi and khadi. People had taken to spinning yarn and wearing homespun cloth.

Premchand preferred a life of simplicity. He would have despised how money-obsessed our society has become today. Everyone is engrossed in furthering their career and growing rich. We have outrageous displays of wealth like the recent Ambani wedding. Even in the 1990s, it was not so bad. The gulf between the rich and the poor has increased so much. Exhibitionism has really taken over our society when people don’t even have enough for their basic needs.

Premchand helped people financially. You also grew up learning a lot about generosity from your paternal grandmother Shivrani who never ate without feeding someone. Your father kept an open house to feed poets, writers and journalists in Delhi. What did these experiences teach you about the relationship between generosity and happiness?

Of course, there’s a link between generosity and happiness! You feel good after having given away something, knowing that it will benefit someone even in a small way. I have grown up seeing generosity all around, not only in my family. Even in poor homes, people give rotis to cows. They offer from whatever little they have. I am especially moved by those who take care of animals and do not limit their generosity to humans. Interestingly, it is often the rich who turn away people in need and shut the door in their faces. I have seen the poor being more open to giving but I should not make such grand generalizations.

Generosity is an important pillar of spiritual practice in Islam. You mention that your mother was raised in a Shia Muslim family. What did she teach you about generosity?

Muharram was a huge affair at my mother’s house in Banaras. With her training in Hindustani classical music, she used to love poetic forms like the noha, soz and marsiya, which are an integral part of the rituals. When people came to the house for majlis, it was a custom for the family to cover their fare. This was done quietly and subtly, as a way of showing appreciation for the effort that they had made to travel despite the time and distance. Many of them came from families where the fare would have been a strain on their finances.

Inspired by Gandhi’s emphasis on swadeshi cloth, your grandmother Shivrani Devi led demonstrations against the use of cloth manufactured in Britain, gave speeches and got arrested for picketing. Do you feel inspired to take to the streets to protest about injustices in the country or do you prefer expressing your dissent through your writing?

Those were different times. Indians were fighting the British, and the whole nation came together as one. We live in a much more fractured and fragmented society. I ask myself, “How will it help if I go out on the streets?” At the same time, I know that the energy of all those who are opposing injustice must be channelized in a constructive way. We need some kind of an inspiring, unifying figure like Mahatma Gandhi. We don’t have one at the moment. This is not to say that one shouldn’t act or speak out at all. Writing is one way of battling what bothers us. Literature is a crucible; it is not reportage. You see things, you feel things; you internalize them, you let them simmer. It takes time for things to transform and pour out. Evil has taken a much more complex form. I don’t have enough clarity about how to fight it.

In the memoir, you describe yourself as “a little termite” who “ate the physical form of words” without quite “ingesting” them. What made you so hungry for words?

Everyone around me was reading and writing. There were so many books in the house! We did not have a television. Of course, there was no Internet in those days. We lived in a large bungalow. The neighbours were far away. There was time to observe little things, to be with nature. Some of that continues to be a part of my life today. My husband and I keep going to Ranikhet. It is so different from Delhi. It is thickly wooded. There are fewer cars. The air is much cleaner. I hear a humming sound as if the mountains are singing to me.

LISTEN: Books and Authors podcast with Sara Rai, author, Raw Umber

What has your experience in Thimphu been like? Does it remind you of Ranikhet?

When I was invited to the Drukyul’s Arts and Literature Festival, I was excited because I have always heard the word ‘happiness’ in connection with Bhutan and it seemed to be a peaceful place. After coming here, I am completely struck by the landscape. When I landed, I noticed that the quality of light is very different from other places. I know this because I’ve lived in the mountains. In Thimphu, on the same hillside, you can see one stretch that is completely lit up and then above that there is a shadow and above that shadow there is a layer of white clouds… a whole spectrum of colour! The shadow does not seem like an empty shadow. It contains something, maybe a story or something unsaid. The landscape itself is very special. About the people, well, it would be a cliché to say that they are happy. I am sure there is something more to it. As a human being, you cannot be happy all the time. But yes, I can say that Bhutanese people seem much happier than people I’ve met elsewhere. I have found them very friendly and helpful. This morning, I went to a monastery. The boy who was guiding me was so observant and careful. Every time there was a little turn or a bend in the road, or stairs to be taken, he would guide me. It was touching. He must have been only 16 or 17 years old. He was so attentive and mindful. It is a very caring society.

Tell us about your forthcoming books.

A collection of stories that I have translated from Hindi to English in collaboration with Ira Pande will be out soon. I also have a collection of Hindi stories waiting to come out. Apart from these two, I am working on something that is still taking shape. I am hoping that it will be a novel. Once it is ready, I will offer it around to publishers and see what they have to say.

Chintan Girish Modi is a freelance writer, journalist and book reviewer.