Truth and Dare is a curated fortnightly column in our Features section. In this experimental series, we present a prompt to writers and invite them to respond with a short piece of fiction or non-fiction. There are no restrictions on genre or form, only the challenge of engaging with the prompt in whatever way it leads them.
We are curious to see how this prompt evolves as it passes through different writers. Perhaps every writer encounters invisible prompts — those quiet provocations that become the spark for a creative journey.
We look forward to discovering what writers make of this prompt, and the surprises they bring back for our readers. In the end, the truth lies in their responses; the prompt is simply the dare.
The first prompt is: Things I didn’t Throw Out
Setting out to write this note made me look at things which might not have returned to my mind otherwise. This isn’t a sentimental journey, but a plain recall. I’m not looking at the notion of ‘Things I Didn’t Throw Out’ figuratively, but in a literal sense.
First on my list are memories. A tricky thing. Some stay. You can’t throw them out, even if you tried. Some vanish. I doubt if I’m the one who decides which ones stay and which ones vanish. The mind, or whatever is called the mind, makes the decision. There are many memories which have stayed – good and bad. I can only claim, for the purpose of this note, that I didn’t throw them out. I do not like to bring back bad memories. Why relive terrible moments that you’ve already lived once?
The good memories are about books, films, nature, friendships, food, music, and intimacies. The joy that flowed into me when I first read the “Dune” novels. Or the bewitching taste of the masala dosa from Gayatri hotel, near Philomena’s church, Mysuru. Or how my heart leapt when I first heard the song Dil Tadap Tadap.
Next in line are books. I never threw out any book except those that were palpably worthless. I even kept the dreary ones, as long as they said something new.
I started collecting books in Mysuru in 1961, and continue to do so. Just yesterday, I bought online a marvelous history of famous archeological discoveries, “X Marks the Spot,” by Michael Scott. My book collection took shape from the pavements of Mysuru, where, in the 60s, the average book you touched was already 50 to 100 years old. The collection grew from pavement to pavement of nearly all the cities I’ve visited and lived in, in India and abroad. I’m grateful to all those people who threw those books out. To me, a used book is a hundred times more precious than a new one. It has a tantalizing, mysterious past – intimately linked to its previous owner or owners, and to its journey of arriving at the pavement. And, of course, it is so much cheaper.
Today, what worries me, as someone who didn’t throw away these books is: where will they find a home when I’m no longer around? I can only hope for the best.
I’m unable to say why I did not throw out the working manuscripts of my stories and other writings. I write in Malayalam, in longhand, on paper. In 1963, as a final year BA student of English Literature, I was living in the dilapidated outhouse of the colonial Carlton Hotel in Mysuru, enjoying a thoroughly decadent life. For no reason at all – or so I think — I put away the first draft of the first story I ever wrote between the colorful pages of a British embassy give-away, “Coming Events in Great Britian.” The much-thumbed copies of this magazine used to lie around in the hotel lobby, and I had stolen one. There was no other draft of my first story; the fair copy went to the publisher. It was either muscle-memory or some kind of miserly love for those pages, with my writing on them, that made me push the drafts of the next story, and the next one, and so on between the pages of that same copy of the magazine. The magazine traveled with me, growing bulkier, as my life travelled from place to place and I kept writing.
Today I have over a hundred working drafts of my various works, with all the cuts and corrections. They are organised in new files now, because the 1963 magazine finally gave in and fell apart a few years ago. The older drafts have begun to crumble, but I’ve managed to digitise many. As in the case of books, the uncertainty of what will happen to them remains. I think this is a problem endemic to the practice of not throwing things out. You may leave them – the things — in a lurch, which is sad.
Another thing I didn’t throw out was music. Music is not a thing, but it used to come in the form of things: records, spools, cassettes, CDs. I began collecting music from the day I bought my Philips record player in Delhi, sometime in the early 80s. I bought my favourite records from music shops, though I could hardly afford them. My collection grew with the amazing discoveries I made, almost like winning a lottery, at Sunday garage sales by embassy staff under transfer and families moving out. I never understood why they left a beautiful thing like music behind, but I thanked them from the depths of my heart because the prices were throwaway.
My collection had all the greats: from Elvis and the Beatles to ABBA and Boney M; from Beethoven and Bach to Tchaikovsky and Ravel; from Rafi, Lata, and Mukesh to Ravishankar and Mali. When the cassettes came, I splurged on them, and later, on CDs. Recently, I gave away all my cassettes to a collector. My daughter has the records and the player which she still uses. But I hang on to the CDs. Chances are I will soon hand them over to a collector. Although, that will not be throwing out – just passing on.
Another thing I didn’t throw out were letters. I have kept nearly all the letters that I have received over the last six decades, except routine notices and formal correspondence. I started putting them away impulsively, as in the case of my manuscripts. Perhaps, I did so because they were from people whom I liked, valued, or respected. I also suspect I had acquired a vague sense of history and the idea that these letters would be a part of history entered my mind. The letters are from all kinds of people including friends, fellow writers, readers, celebrities, editors, and also people I’ve never met. And they are about a bewildering number of things: ideas, dreams, plans, news, gossip, appreciation, critiques, demands, requests. So many people come and go in those letters. I can now see that they form a tapestry of sorts of a period, in time and space — of one man and his world. They are like fragments of an incomplete story book, with all clues lost. It’s amazing. When they were written and when I read them first, they were so real. I haven’t received a handwritten letter in years now. I’m aware that unless the internet disappears or the mobile phone vanishes by some extraordinary intervention of history, I may never receive one again. As in the case of all the other things I didn’t throw out, I’m left with the task of finding a future for them.
Last in this list are photographs. I was drawn to photography in Mysuru. My late brother M.P. Joseph, who was my mentor in many ways, funded a camera for me. It was an Agfa Click. Thus, my photography career started with snaps of St. Philomena’s College, Mysore Palace, Chamundi Hills, Brindavan Gardens, Srirangapatna et al. Those black and white prints remain almost as fresh as they were then. Years later, when I began to travel, photography became part of my life. From black and white I moved to colour and from film to digital. I lost many photographs by being careless, but I have managed to keep very many from my Mysuru days. I’ve taken good care of my prints. As for the digital ones, they are, perhaps, imperishable – other things being equal. Even if I want to, I cannot ‘throw out’ the digital photos; I can only delete them. Despite that, I understand, they may not get deleted forever. They are immortal.
Looking back at it all now, I realise that the things I didn’t throw out were some of the most beautiful things that shaped me. In some unfathomable way they made me who I am.
