Venue: A 7-Star Hotel Suite
Time: Late evening
Seated in the room in various intellectual poses, holding glasses of red wine/single malt are:
Judge 1 – Female, British fifty-something writer of historical fiction who is contemplating a sex change
Judge 2 – Straight guy-successful-exotic-dog-breeder who’s made a name for himself pretending to be gay poet
Judge 3 – Former scrap-iron dealer-turned-literary agent to female, British fifty-something writer of historical fiction
Judge 4 – High-powered organiser of litfests who is hoping to breed with secretly ungay poet
The candidates are presented
Judge 1: So we’ve got these 12 to pick our shortlist from. I’ll go first – this one from me.
Judge 2: Why? Because the protagonist is a hearing-impaired bigamous Karnatic musician from Mohenjo-Daro? What’s so special about that? Last year, there was one of a secret love affair between a ghatam player and Goebbels. Isn’t it the same thing?
Judge 1: Partially. But, the thing is, it’s also eminently unreadable. I couldn’t get past page 4. I had my husband, that no-good lush, kick me repeatedly in the shins for circulation to return. That surely accounts for something, right?
(Sage nods from everyone followed by refills)
Judge 3: Mine’s this one.
Judge 2: But she’s your client, right?
Judge 3: So? Big deal. So is N Srinivasan. The thing is the lead character is gay. And, that, too, he has only one good leg. He lost the other during the Dandi March on account of all the marching ... on low salt. That’s pretty inventive writing, if you ask me. Considering the character is only twenty-three and the book is set in present-day Poland. Plus everyone is declared clinically insane in the end. Even the people in the acknowledgments.
(More nods followed by finger food)
Judge 2: What about you, J4?
(Judge 4 has got one book in each hand and his brow is furrowed)
Judge 4: What do you think? This one ... or this one?
Judge 1: Why either?
Judge 4: C’mon. This one has conjoined twins, that too attached in the Yin-Yang sixty-nine-position. Plus, it is set in Kerala and has a magic realistic flying dog called Molé that dive-bombs on the evil landlords and craps on them used as an audacious linking device. How can you beat that? Unless (he points to the other book) ... unless it’s one where the lead guy falls in love with this tragic beauty he doesn’t know. The twist is this happens while they are both comatose in adjacent beds ... plus ... top this ... they belong to different castes. The final reveal is brilliant. All along, there’s been a wall separating them. He’s in the general ward and she’s in the VVIP one. What an allegorically fabulous take on the rich–poor divide that simultaneously deals with cashless Mediclaim transactions and lab kickbacks to doctors! Brilliant.
Judge 4: Catatonic inter-caste beats flying dogs, right?
(Much thinking, refilling and loud chomping happens)
Judge 2: I’m not sure ... because there’s doo-doo. And, usually, that changes the weightage. Did you bring the rule book?
The hot favourite
Judge 4: No. And you, J2? What’s your choice? Love the way you think.
Judge 1: That’s not the only thing you love.
Judge 2: This one.
Chorus: That one?! Why on earth?
Judge 2: (calling for a huddle) I know. I know. It’s an easy read. It’s funny, too. Chee. And not one thing from the rule book. No Partition, famine, incest, war, mental illness, disability, rape, infanticide, terrorism ... not even a token joke about upper castes. I tell you. And there is ... (splutter) ... no mention of either loss or redemption in the blurb, can you believe it? I have no idea how that got past the editors. I don’t know why some of these f@#$ write ... he actually has a story?! How dare he! With normal people.
Judge 1: Why then, pray?
Judge 2: The fool owns a cottage in Tuscany. He’s agreed to time-share it with us ... free. A month each. Said he’ll throw in the tickets.
Judge 4: Make that business class and I’m in.
Judge 1: But the winner is this one, right? (pointing to book in hand)
Judge 2: I suppose we can’t avoid that.
Judge 3: Why? Just because you make a killing mating your pugs with his and selling off poor innocent puppies at fifty grand a pop?
Judge 1: I’ll tell you why. He is depressed, that’s why. And depression is the new gaiety. And his book, dude, c’mon. The Debilitating Dysthymia of Debdutta De. Try and beat that. The premise is utterly brilliant. Depressed writer gives his ms to chirpy editor. She reads it and kills herself. They publish the book. The sales guys kill themselves. The book is on shelves. The bookshop guys kill themselves ... he’s already at work on two sequels – Everyone Turns To Dust and Does Heaven Stock Prozac?
And the winner is…
Judge 3: But, you know what, something tells me this debate is futile. Jignesh Prem Babu is going to win.
The rest of them look bewildered. Then they guffaw.
Judge 4: Who the f@#* is Jignesh whatsisname? (Looks through the books.) He’s not even longlisted.
Judge 2: Jignesh Prem Babu? Wait a minute. Isn’t he the one who wrote Love Came After She Applied For H1? I think it was published by those chaps ... what’s their name ... Dinky Donk Publishers?
Judge 4: That guy! Yeah, remember it sold a hundred thousand copies. Seriously?
Judge 3: He’s my choice for the award. It’s for his next book, though. It came out yesterday. I Too had a Happy Ending ... that’s what it’s called.
Judge 1: And how do you know that?
Judge 3: Well, you see the shaky red dot on your forehead, J1? Wait. Now it’s on yours... and yours ... and mine. Well, those are the sights of the infra-red sniper-scope of his high-powered rifle. He’s in the next building. Just saw his sms. It says ‘Congratulations. I won.’
Judge 2: Well, that’s that, then. Jignesh Prem Babu, it is. In my opinion, he always deserved to win.
J1, J2, J3, J4: Cheers!
Krishna Shastri Devulapalli has written two novels (Ice Boys in Bell-Bottoms, Jump Cut) and a play (Dear Anita). The Adyar Association of Septuagenarians Without Gout has recently awarded him for Best Debut Fiction Prize for his second book because they think the first one didn’t count.
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letters@scroll.in.
Time: Late evening
Seated in the room in various intellectual poses, holding glasses of red wine/single malt are:
Judge 1 – Female, British fifty-something writer of historical fiction who is contemplating a sex change
Judge 2 – Straight guy-successful-exotic-dog-breeder who’s made a name for himself pretending to be gay poet
Judge 3 – Former scrap-iron dealer-turned-literary agent to female, British fifty-something writer of historical fiction
Judge 4 – High-powered organiser of litfests who is hoping to breed with secretly ungay poet
The candidates are presented
Judge 1: So we’ve got these 12 to pick our shortlist from. I’ll go first – this one from me.
Judge 2: Why? Because the protagonist is a hearing-impaired bigamous Karnatic musician from Mohenjo-Daro? What’s so special about that? Last year, there was one of a secret love affair between a ghatam player and Goebbels. Isn’t it the same thing?
Judge 1: Partially. But, the thing is, it’s also eminently unreadable. I couldn’t get past page 4. I had my husband, that no-good lush, kick me repeatedly in the shins for circulation to return. That surely accounts for something, right?
(Sage nods from everyone followed by refills)
Judge 3: Mine’s this one.
Judge 2: But she’s your client, right?
Judge 3: So? Big deal. So is N Srinivasan. The thing is the lead character is gay. And, that, too, he has only one good leg. He lost the other during the Dandi March on account of all the marching ... on low salt. That’s pretty inventive writing, if you ask me. Considering the character is only twenty-three and the book is set in present-day Poland. Plus everyone is declared clinically insane in the end. Even the people in the acknowledgments.
(More nods followed by finger food)
Judge 2: What about you, J4?
(Judge 4 has got one book in each hand and his brow is furrowed)
Judge 4: What do you think? This one ... or this one?
Judge 1: Why either?
Judge 4: C’mon. This one has conjoined twins, that too attached in the Yin-Yang sixty-nine-position. Plus, it is set in Kerala and has a magic realistic flying dog called Molé that dive-bombs on the evil landlords and craps on them used as an audacious linking device. How can you beat that? Unless (he points to the other book) ... unless it’s one where the lead guy falls in love with this tragic beauty he doesn’t know. The twist is this happens while they are both comatose in adjacent beds ... plus ... top this ... they belong to different castes. The final reveal is brilliant. All along, there’s been a wall separating them. He’s in the general ward and she’s in the VVIP one. What an allegorically fabulous take on the rich–poor divide that simultaneously deals with cashless Mediclaim transactions and lab kickbacks to doctors! Brilliant.
Judge 4: Catatonic inter-caste beats flying dogs, right?
(Much thinking, refilling and loud chomping happens)
Judge 2: I’m not sure ... because there’s doo-doo. And, usually, that changes the weightage. Did you bring the rule book?
The hot favourite
Judge 4: No. And you, J2? What’s your choice? Love the way you think.
Judge 1: That’s not the only thing you love.
Judge 2: This one.
Chorus: That one?! Why on earth?
Judge 2: (calling for a huddle) I know. I know. It’s an easy read. It’s funny, too. Chee. And not one thing from the rule book. No Partition, famine, incest, war, mental illness, disability, rape, infanticide, terrorism ... not even a token joke about upper castes. I tell you. And there is ... (splutter) ... no mention of either loss or redemption in the blurb, can you believe it? I have no idea how that got past the editors. I don’t know why some of these f@#$ write ... he actually has a story?! How dare he! With normal people.
Judge 1: Why then, pray?
Judge 2: The fool owns a cottage in Tuscany. He’s agreed to time-share it with us ... free. A month each. Said he’ll throw in the tickets.
Judge 4: Make that business class and I’m in.
Judge 1: But the winner is this one, right? (pointing to book in hand)
Judge 2: I suppose we can’t avoid that.
Judge 3: Why? Just because you make a killing mating your pugs with his and selling off poor innocent puppies at fifty grand a pop?
Judge 1: I’ll tell you why. He is depressed, that’s why. And depression is the new gaiety. And his book, dude, c’mon. The Debilitating Dysthymia of Debdutta De. Try and beat that. The premise is utterly brilliant. Depressed writer gives his ms to chirpy editor. She reads it and kills herself. They publish the book. The sales guys kill themselves. The book is on shelves. The bookshop guys kill themselves ... he’s already at work on two sequels – Everyone Turns To Dust and Does Heaven Stock Prozac?
And the winner is…
Judge 3: But, you know what, something tells me this debate is futile. Jignesh Prem Babu is going to win.
The rest of them look bewildered. Then they guffaw.
Judge 4: Who the f@#* is Jignesh whatsisname? (Looks through the books.) He’s not even longlisted.
Judge 2: Jignesh Prem Babu? Wait a minute. Isn’t he the one who wrote Love Came After She Applied For H1? I think it was published by those chaps ... what’s their name ... Dinky Donk Publishers?
Judge 4: That guy! Yeah, remember it sold a hundred thousand copies. Seriously?
Judge 3: He’s my choice for the award. It’s for his next book, though. It came out yesterday. I Too had a Happy Ending ... that’s what it’s called.
Judge 1: And how do you know that?
Judge 3: Well, you see the shaky red dot on your forehead, J1? Wait. Now it’s on yours... and yours ... and mine. Well, those are the sights of the infra-red sniper-scope of his high-powered rifle. He’s in the next building. Just saw his sms. It says ‘Congratulations. I won.’
Judge 2: Well, that’s that, then. Jignesh Prem Babu, it is. In my opinion, he always deserved to win.
J1, J2, J3, J4: Cheers!
Krishna Shastri Devulapalli has written two novels (Ice Boys in Bell-Bottoms, Jump Cut) and a play (Dear Anita). The Adyar Association of Septuagenarians Without Gout has recently awarded him for Best Debut Fiction Prize for his second book because they think the first one didn’t count.
