What a Headache Amit Chaudhuri Must Be
What a headache Amit Chaudhuri must be for his publishers. He puts out four novels to praise and awards - then breaks off to work on music. An unusual diversion for any writer - Woody Allen may dabble with the clarinet, but he sticks to the day job - and, in the modern book industry, tantamount to career suicide. Most would-be authors strive for a label (young or Muslim or interested in sex) and do all the things publicists demand: a reading here, an interview there and 750 words for the regional paper.
The ‘more’ link does not lead anywhere.
Amit too used to have his 750 or more words every fortnight in regional paper The Telegraph till 2004, I guess. I was a regular reader, just to savour his fragile expressions.
I was a fan then. So one day when I read in The Telegraph that he was going to release his book Real Time in the evening, I jumped. I went there, to the British Council in a near empty high class street of south Kolkata. But I was refused entry since I was not a member. I was not alone. Another boy was warded off too. We returned sad, determined to meet him again.
Then I saw him, in person, sombre, in shadow, the intellectual, the feeler of things, some months later, at the Oxford Bookstore. Alas! He was only releasing his new classical CD there. He would sing khayals, not recite his prose. I went away sad, determined not to meet him again.
Comment by sourabh — August 3, 2008 @ 4:43 am