How did I become a writer?

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How did I become a writer?

It took me 22 years to get here

I am often asked to give tips and advice. Am still clueless where to start.

It took me 22 years to get here.

In 2000, when I was making & selling desi daaru for 5 rupees a glass with my relatives in a slum in Poona, I spotted an ad that changed my life.

It was an ad to apply for a medical transcriptionist job. I didn’t know what it meant. All I understood from the newspaper ad is that the qualification was for an English-proficient candidate. It was either this or my cousins would soon find me a bell-boy job in a hotel.

I went to the Deepak Nitrite office in Yerwada and sat for the aptitude test. I was an Arts student bunking college, and here I was, trying to bluff my way into my mother’s dream of me becoming a doctor. They hired me saying I had scored more than some science applicants.

How was that possible? They were looking for candidates with basic grammar and spelling skills. I had read a ton of books in boarding school in Darjeeling. That helped. They trained me with others for two months. I was decent in transcribing a doctor’s audio notes into text.

After two months they asked me to sign a contract saying I wouldn’t leave — bonus was dangled to lure. I panicked. I didn’t want to be tied to a chair. I became confident that I did not have to rely on my mother’s family for work either. I returned to Calcutta to try my luck.

I wasn’t a particularly bright student in school, or college. Having no one at home in the kotha to guide me, I didn’t know where to start? How would I ever become the writer I had dreamed of, reading books secretly as a child, and as an adult who didn’t have any precedent?

Yet again I scoured newspapers to apply. I worked as a salesman in two clothing stores, both times quitting in two days. I applied for a tele-caller post at The Grand Oberoi. They rejected me because I was too nervous to talk in a crowd of aspirants who were all affluent.

But.

I befriended a girl there. We exchanged landline numbers. We began chatting. One day, she said she got the job as a tele-caller for a gourmet club at the Grand Oberoi where they telephoned guests and offered a club membership. They needed an errand boy to deliver documents.

Why don’t you apply, she said. I met the manager. He hired me. My first assignment was to deliver the membership package to a milkman in a cowshed some 50 kms away from the city. Am not joking. I nearly fell into a mountain of shit. The milkman offered no fresh cream of thought, or salve if i had fallen deep.

Another time I was sent to a tannery. I ran out after delivering the document. The stench in the place curdled my tummy. A vomit volcano reached my mouth. My manager lent me his dinner jacket for an art show. I memorised the spelling before sipping Beaujolais nouveau red wine. I looked at art like a curious bird, trying to shape the face of Jennifer Lopez in an abstract figure.

So here I was now, between the bourgeoisie, the bordello, and the bread work. I could tell no one where I went after office hours. The gourmet club wrapped up in six months. They said their membership quota was complete. Across the road, Citibank had a call-center.

I applied there. Got the job. It was Valentines Day. I got a rose and thought I was special. Anyways, I despised telling Bengalis who called repeatedly all day to check the balance in their account. As if it was looted in their afternoon nap time nightmare. I drew doodles too.

I quit in 2002 and decided to move to the fancy GE Electric call-center in Gurgaon. The malls were shining, the big-mac was tempting. I wanted to make friends. Live. I worked there as a Fraud Specialist. Hai na groovy?

So I had to look into Exxon Mobil gas card accounts and report any suspicious purchase activity. I chose Dave Matthews as my American name. Like the band. My remote location was I think Massachusetts. I still can’t pronounce it without sounding vulgar.

After 6 months there, I was asked to talk like Americans. They put us all in a class. Say de-mah-cracy. Not demo-cracy. Say akk-ount. Not a-ccount. I quit. I have a neutral accent. It was already hard pronouncing Maa-say-chu-setts.

A girl, who is still a very close friend, staying in the same Pg accommodation where I was, asked me to apply at her company, Smartanalyst. I had my next job in a week! At least here I didn’t have to talk. We scoured the internet for info on Nike shoes and lollipops in space.

I was reading a lot of info. The writing bug would soon kick in. I started blogging. Poems. All bloggers are undiscovered poets. Fell in love. Took some rash decisions. Between 2004 to 2007, I worked at WNS, Salegen, Edittalk (legal transcription), Purplepatch, KPIT Cummins.

At KPIT, I was developing Blogeverywhere for Sabeer Bhatia. It never took off. I felt my career as a writer was here. But this was the end. Sab khatm! I got to write movie reviews for Seventymm in Bangalore. A tech magazine printed my article about pendrives. That was it!

In 2008, confident, I moved to Bombay to write film scripts. Worked at Bigflix, Hill Road Media (Aakar Patel as boss), Midday, Bombay Bitch, Buzzintown, Business of Cinema, Everymedia, Scroll.

Freelanced for The Hindu, Firstpost, Arre, News18, The Wire, Satyagrah, The Deccan Herald, Film Companion, Himal Southasian, The Logical Indian, Bombay Dost, Kitaab, Outlook and Pinkvilla.

Tab jaake my novel came out in 2018.

Am I now ready to be identified as a writer? Umm, yes, but how do I tell others that I did not train anywhere, I don’t have any special knowledge to impart.

All I know is that in my spare time I read Beauvoir and Kierkegaard watched Rohmer and Ozu films, listened to Don McLean sing about Gogh’s starry nights, or the many Pakistani chanteuses sing ghazals of their beloved poets.

I read. I traveled the country. I wrote prolifically, especially when no one was reading and what I now also consider unreadable. 18 years ago I attempted my first couplet: