I informed my wife, Avantika, that I am writing about my life for the Asian Review. She told me that I shouldn’t include anything about her in it, and I readily agreed. It’s not just her; even my friends insist that I refrain from writing about them. One friend made me solemnly promise that she will not feature in this story. While I don’t usually give too much weight to these promises, something that she said really scared me. She imposed a condition. “If you write about me, our friendship is over”. I could not break my promise because I needed her friendship so much. But I did not have to bother about Avantika because she never reads anything I write. What a blessing! 

When I began writing about my sister, thoughts flooded my mind. She spent a few years in a brothel. An ethical question emerged – would I be trespassing on her private life by writing about her? Moreover, she is now married and well-settled. 

I often say that I write autofiction, and when I do, I inevitably need to write about the people involved in my life. I draw inspiration from real-life experiences for my writing. For instance, here’s something that happened on June 26, 2009, when Michael Jackson unexpectedly passed away, the day before. The editor of a monthly magazine requested me to write a tribute to Michael Jackson, as I was a huge fan. The magazine had to go to print on that very day. I promised him that I will give him the article by noon. The editor was waiting. 

When I randomly picked up my phone at nine in the morning, I noticed several missed calls from my younger brother. It had to be some sort of ‘obituary call’. At that time, it was customary for my parents’ family to call me only with news of death. There is a reason for that. 

Around 1980 I received a letter from my Naina. “Your sister’s (this is a different sister, who is two years younger than me and employed in government service) daughter is about to turn one. You, as an uncle, should buy an ear ring for the child. If you can’t come, send money for it. We will buy one and give it to her.” 

As the first son of the family, I had paid the interest and principal on the loan that my Naina had taken from his brother, to get his daughter married. During that period, I was working as a Stenographer at the Delhi Civil Supplies, earning a monthly salary of five hundred and sixty rupees. I sent two hundred and fifty rupees towards the loan taken for my sister’s marriage, managing the remainder for the month with a half-filled stomach. At that time, there was a bookstore called People’s Publishing House in Delhi’s Connaught Place. I used to buy books from it, while sustaining myself on kachoris. 

You earned well if you went to office. During that period, the government controlled cement costs and fixed it at thirty rupees per bag. It cost sixty rupees in the open market. “Due to the ‘illiteracy of our workers’, they marked the bags intended for the open market with three blue stripes.” The cement company representative would request the clerk to “rectify the error and permit the consignment of 3000 bags, which had recently arrived, to be sold in the open market.” If this request reached the officer, he would endorse it as approved. A sum of thirty thousand rupees would now come into the hands of the clerk, for him to do as he pleased with it. (Remember this was in 1980). 

The clerk would divide the amount among three other clerks. After continuing this practice for approximately three years, the clerk would manage to get a license for a petrol bunk, a car, and a house and ultimately resign from the job. Had I chosen to go to office, I could have got my share too and put an end to the diet of kachoris. Instead, I only went to the office once a month to receive my salary. On other days, I studied in the Central Secretariat Library, located opposite the Parliament and my lunch consisted of two kachoris. 

That was a time when I was arrogant and cared little about money, especially as an artist. Not only that. I was also looking for a girl for whom I could cut my ears off like Van Gogh. 

A few years ago, I had a chance to date a 21-year-old girl. She mentioned having gone through seven breakups by that point. With some hesitation, I asked, “Does ‘break up’ mean having sex while in a friendship?” She responded by saying, “People say you’re a sex obsessed writer, but in real life you’re just another boomer.” 

Indeed, ‘feminism’ was not as revolutionary in the 1980s as it is in recent times. I didn’t even have a girlfriend during that time. In my mid-20s, life was marked by a severe lack of sex. I frequently visited G.B. Road, known as the red-light area of Delhi, along with my officer, for the distribution of ration cards. But if you look at the girls who lived there, your lust faded away. They looked pitiable. 

Now, let me share an incident that occurred during that era. I was posted as a stenographer to an officer who hailed from a tribal area of Bihar. With him, taking dictation was a joy. ‘A joh caaj noteej vaaj ijood’ should be understood as ‘A show cause notice was issued’. One day, he went to G.B. Road and satisfied his ‘appetite’ with no money in hand. Consequently, the prostitutes beat him up. An inspector from our department, who happened to be passing by, intervened and rescued him. However, news of the incident spread throughout the office. 

I wrote this response to my Naina: “I am 26 years old. By this age, you had had three children. I am here every day masturbating without any female companion. In this  circumstance, how do you expect me to buy an ear ring for a child of my sister’s, a sister who has birthed a child by fucking her husband?” 

After reading this letter, my entire family concluded that I am mentally ill and our relationship came to an end. Since then, my parents’ family has made it a habit of contacting me only when there is news of death to be passed on. 

My brother informed me that Naina had passed away at four in the morning. It was then nine o’clock. I said, “Well, I’m in the middle of writing. Please handle the rituals yourself. I will come after this work is done and don’t wait for me.” After completing the article at two o’clock, I sent it to the editor with a message, “Don’t call me; I can’t answer the phone.” However, the editor called me and inquired about the reason. Upon explaining, he asked angrily, “Are you a man?” 

“No, a writer,” I responded and left to pay my respects to my Naina. 

So the death of my father is now fodder for a story. This is the story of the writer in me walking all over my Naina‘s life, and maybe his corpse too, and putting the journey into words. ‘Ordinary’ ethical frameworks can’t apply to a writer who walks on the ‘corpses’ of others. 

And this is how it will remain, when I write about my sister, as well. I will definitely share her story soon.

By Charu Nivedita