Category Archives: Journal


Journal: The Creative Life & How I Write


The best writing advice ever is something you’ll hear from all the pros — figure out your rituals, use the space you have well instead of waiting for the perfect space, and most of all, write regularly.

Back in my twenties, I’d hear all of this — write every day, write regularly, show up at the typewriter/ computer, make an appointment with your Muse — and nod, and keep on reading, looking for The Secret Key to Writing. I thought you needed permission to be a writer, or the perfect space, or something; it took about two decades for me to figure out that all you needed was to start transferring the story in your head out of your head.

Starting out as a fiction writer, I have just one rule for myself, and it’s very simple, but it’s also slowly changing my life: write what makes you happy. More on that later, but for now here’s a link to an interview with Mumbai Boss, which asked some writers–Samit Basu, Namita Devidayal, William Dalrymple, me so far — a bunch of fun questions on how we write.

How I Write:

Do you procrastinate?
All through my twenties and thirties, by taking jobs that ran close enough to writing (journalism, publishing etc.) so that I could feel happy being around books while ignoring the fact that I wasn’t actually writing my own. Real procrastination is subtle: allowing chaos, drama, toxic relationships, poverty (material and emotional) into your life is a time-honoured way to avoid writing.

A well-ordered, happy, creative life and the comfort of routine are priceless. That calm foundation sets the ground for both writing and for other things—challenging travel, the ability to exercise your curiosity, to invite new experiences into your life.

The moment you start writing, and you realise how much richer and happier you feel when you’re making up interesting stuff for a living, the need to procrastinate disapparates.

Continue reading

Journal: Rubble — Three Stories for Jorge

For his Identidades Ocultas Series, New York-based artist Jorge Tacla asked people from four different professions — a philosopher, an art curator, a psychiatrist and a story-teller — to contribute short essays/ reactions.

Jorge Tacla, Identidades Ocultas

I loved collaborating on this — maybe there’s a natural jugalbandi between artists and photographers, maybe it’s just that the visually creative approach the world a little differently from writers, who work with the relatively more audible world of words and sentences. I wasn’t sure whether Tacla was expecting a proper essay, but his canvases were inspiring: massively layered, dense, tactile, and ominous and reassuring at the same time. So I wrote him three short-shorts. Here’s one from Rubble: Three Stories for Jorge.

Screenshot 2014-07-24 00.00.02

It looks even prettier in Spanish!

Screenshot 2014-07-23 23.59.21

To see more of Jorge Tacla’s work: his Publications page

The Identidades Ocultas exhibition, on at the Museo de la Memoria y los Derechos Humanos, in Santiago, Chile till September 2014

2013-11-24 19.11.11

Gabriel Garcia Marquez

2013-11-24 19.11.11


I remembered [the town] as it was: a good place to live where everybody knew everybody else, located on the banks of a river of transparent water that raced over a bed of polished stones as huge and white as prehistoric eggs. At dusk, above all in December, when the rains had ended and the air was like a diamond, the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta and its white peaks seemed to come right down to the banana plantations on the other side of the river. From there you could see the Arawak Indians moving in lines like ants along the cliffs of the sierra, carrying sacks of ginger on their backs and chewing pellets of coca to make life bearable. As children we dreamed of shaping balls of the perpetual snow and playing war on the parched, burning streets. For the heat was so implausible, in particular at siesta time, that the adults complained as if it were a daily surprise. From the day I was born I had heard it said, over and over again, that the rail lines and camps of the United Fruit Company had been built at night because during the day the sun made the tools too hot to pick up.



He placed the glorious tome in my lap and said: “This book not only knows everything, but it’s also the only one that’s never wrong.”
It was a huge illustrated book, on its spine a colossal Atlas holding the vault of the universe on its shoulders. I did not know how to read or write, but I could imagine how correct the colonel was if the book had almost two thousand large, crowded pages with beautiful drawings. In church I had been surprised by the size of the missal, but the dictionary was thicker. It was like looking out at the entire world for the first time.
“How many words does it have?” I asked.
“All of them,” said my grandfather.

From ‘Living To Tell The Tale'; goodbye, Gabriel Garcia Marquez.




An open letter to S Anand

From The Hindu: The Delhi-based publisher Navayana has decided to cancel the agreement for release of the English translation of Mr. D’Cruz’s first Tamil novel Aazhi Soozh Ulagu (Ocean Ringed World) in the wake of his recent political stand on Mr. Modi.

    An open letter to S Anand and Navayana

Dear Anand,


Somewhere along the previous year, I grew tired of the culture of judgement and condemnation that seems to be a hallmark of our times. Everyone has an opinion about everyone else’s actions, and we feel free to weigh and measure each other’s decisions, never doubting for a moment that we have the right to do so, seldom questioning our own selves.


So if I might, I’d like to share a personal story with you, about Yo Yo Honey Singh and the New Year’s Eve concert he’d planned to have in Delhi. It was December, the year Jyoti Singh died of the grievous injuries inflicted on her by her rapists. She was mourned in the way few rape victims are in either Delhi or India, as if her story and the abrupt full stop to her life stood for all the terrible stories we knew of, all the anonymous women for whom we had been unable to find the tears before.


In the wake of that grief, many women railed against Honey Singh, whose songs had included lines about breaking women’s cunts, asking that he not hold his concert. Someone circulated a petition saying ‘Stop the concert’, addressed to the hotel. I had emphatically argued that it would be wrong to ban Honey Singh’s music, but I signed the petition, thinking of it only as an appeal to both the musician and the hotel to be a little more sensitive.


Nikhil Pahwa of Medianama took me up on this the next day: didn’t I see that “stop the concert” could be interpreted as a threat, even if we didn’t intend any violence ourselves? Was it right to ask anyone to stop a performance at all—wasn’t that silencing them? Wouldn’t it have been better to hold a non-violent protest outside the concert, trying to engage with Honey Singh and his fans, explaining our position?


Nikhil and I argued the point back and forth, and slowly, I began to see that he was right. Saying ‘stop’ because this was the wrong time, or because it hurt our raw feelings, was easy enough; but it was the opposite of engagement. It split the world, always a more ambiguous place than social media debates, into Us versus Them. Nikhil’s question stayed with me—wasn’t there a better way to engage?


When you pulled Joe D’Cruz’s book from your catalogue, you did so because you had learned that he was a pro-Modi supporter. Both you and the translator felt that you could not publish someone who held those views, given how strongly you felt about Modi, and you felt that D’Cruz did not belong in your “political publishing house”.


I felt that as a publisher, you had a right to choose which authors you wanted to work with and which authors you would rather not publish. You had published Namdeo Dhasal, with his splendidly contradictory politics before, as many pointed out, but I also felt that you had every right not to represent an author if you didn’t want to. But as Salil Tripathi, Mitali Saran and others argued, that right was a legal right, not a moral right; contract law dictates that you’re the owner of your publishing list, and you can do what you like with it.


But were you really right to shut Joe out? In a time when everyone takes offence so easily, when everyone puts up their barricades and lets in only those who vote for x, or holds y beliefs, should you have closed your doors? The book Joe D’Cruz wrote was about a fishing community, not about Modi. The translator said she stood by the book itself. You had no disagreement with the book, but with the man and his political views.


And that is worrying. For years, the liberal quarrel with the Indian rightwing—sections of it—has been that they want to allow in only historians, thinkers, writers and journalists who agree with their world-view. When we’re dividing the intellectual life of India into Us and Them, we agree that They are intolerant, and that they leave no space for dissenting views.


How liberal are we if we start to close the doors on all those who disagree with us? How open-minded will we remain if we start to scrutinize all those we meet, befriend, work with for political correctness?


Every single week, I have a string of arguments with people who have different views from mine. Sometimes I can’t stand their intolerance; sometimes (always, sadly, in retrospect) I am taken aback at my own rigidities. Often, I learn something along the way, and find that my perspective has shifted. Once in a while you learn something unexpected: perhaps that a man like Joe D’Cruz, whose politics you disagree so violently with, can also create imaginative fiction about a fishing community that makes you want to be his publisher. There is no split between Joe the author and Joe the Modi supporter; they are the same person. (Isn’t that interesting, the idea that we all harbour contradictions?)

Shuddhabrata Sengupta and Ruchir Joshi suggested that you had many other options, all of them to do with expressing your disagreement in ways other than pulling the book from publication. You could have commissioned a foreword critical of D’Cruz, the Modi supporter; invited him to a debate; even used a version of the old Twitter line, ie, publication doesn’t mean endorsement.


It’s your list; I argued that point with several people who felt that Navayana had no right to pull D’Cruz’s book. Not true: you had the right to choose not to represent Joe D’Cruz, and you exercised it.(For another perspective, from Somak Ghoshal, see: Between The Lines: Tough Call.)


But when Penguin pulled Wendy Doniger’s book, and when Aleph was involved in a controversy over a possible recall of her book from bookstores, many of us argued that they were wrong to give into pressure. We also argued that those who wanted Doniger’s book not to be published, because they disagreed with her worldview, were wrong. The only reason you didn’t want to publish D’Cruz is because you disagreed with his worldview. As someone said to me today, how does that make Navayana’s position any different from the Shiksha Bachao Andolan’s logic?


Some days, the squabbling in our cultural life gets to me. It turns out (what a surprise) that I don’t really like being contradicted, or being confronted with opinions that are greatly different from mine, especially when some of them are expressed with great anger or with the intent to harm, some expressed carelessly or without reference to the facts. I’d prefer a world where we all agreed on core issues like freedom of speech, and Indian history, and respect for each other, and all that good stuff.


If these arguments have taught me anything, though, it’s that people don’t agree with each other all the time, and that they don’t necessarily have to. It’s also taught me that I can be dead wrong, or often don’t know enough about a subject I thought I knew well. Sometimes, I’ve learned that people might hold opinions I find completely reprehensible, but that they are not monstrous in themselves. Sometimes it helps to realise that they’re the ones who find my beliefs strange, threatening and reprehensible.


The only thing I know for sure is that we’re closing off and corralling off too much, starting with our own minds. Their history; our history. This bit of intellectual turf for them, this patch of reason for us.


When does “I won’t publish anyone who is pro-Modi” become “I won’t publish anyone who supports the rightwing”? Aren’t we in danger of excommunicating those who aren’t like us—even when their books are not about the ideas you find unacceptable? What kind of precedent will this set, if we all become trapped in our own rigidities?


This cuts both ways: Somak Ghoshal, for instance, asked me whether people wouldn’t have reacted the other way and judged you and Navayana harshly if you had gone ahead and published the work of an unabashed Modi supporter. He’s probably right. We are so contradictory, and so quick to judge.


And yet: so much of the last few decades has been one long wrangle in the marketplace of offence and hurt sentiments. Joe D’Cruz’s beliefs hurt your sentiments; but his fiction didn’t. Argue with the man, but why hold up a stop sign to his book? Why make the already embattled space around us a little less free?


Perhaps you think that it is crucial at this moment in time to draw a line in the sand, and to declare firmly that your ethics as a publisher will not let you publish someone with Joe’s views. Perhaps you feel so strongly about Modi that you cannot, in all conscience, support a writer who endorses Modi’s brand of politics.


You and Navayana could close the doors and let in only those whom you’re sure share your beliefs, and that would be a reassuring world.

But it would be airless, too, and windowless. As Joe’s publisher, you were also in a position to publish, but strongly disagree with, someone who thought so differently from you, and that might have been the more interesting stance to take, in the long run.


I hope you won’t be offended at this letter. I have little standing here; I fail at answering Nikhil’s question every day myself. Sometimes I turn away from arguments, bored; sometimes I’m bad-tempered and abrasive; sometimes I realise there’s a ton of reading to do.


But what he said has stayed with me a long time, and he changed the certainties with which I had once approached the subject of what was right and what was wrong, just as many who argued with me yesterday about you changed my first belief, that it was your absolute right as a publisher to turn away any authors whose political beliefs clashed with yours. It is in this spirit that I offer Nikhil’s question back to you: yes, you had the right. But wasn’t there a better way to engage, couldn’t the doors of your house have been opened a little wider?



Journal: All of love’s freedoms


Last week, my husband I celebrated the anniversary of our almost two-decade old marriage.

We had a lot of trouble with that “marriage” business, and the term “husband” and “wife” when we decided to live together all those years ago. He and I didn’t like the fact that husband was a verb, while wife wasn’t: no one wifed their resources. Neither of us were instinctively comfortable with gender roles or the institution of marriage, and yet it was the simplest way to let our families and friends know that we loved each other and planned to share our lives, cats, books and paunches. We settled into marriage the way you settle into a rented house: you know it’s the wrong shape and size, but you’ll make it a home anyway.

“Did you ever think you’d be with someone for so long?” I asked the morning of our anniversary. In the pause, the word came up again, the one we couldn’t avoid, so I made the question even clearer. “Did you ever plan a life where you’d be in a marriage for almost twenty years?”

“No,” he said, “Never. But I’m glad we’re together.” There was a kind of wonder in his voice, and we spent the anniversary the way couples do, looking back at the flow of time, the memories, the years in which we’d made mistakes that seemed irrevocable at the moment, the arguments, the thousand acts of kindness and understanding, and if I might say it, the love that has to be renewed on a daily basis in any partnership. That love, so ordinary, so everyday, had rowed us here across a river of time; it had steered us across the white water rapids of disagreements and down the broad midstream years when you fear you’ve become the boring old middle-aged couple you used to laugh at in your youth. (That fear has come true, and like all fears, it is not as bad as we thought it would be.)

But all through that week, I was also conscious of a deep and growing unease. We had questioned and argued over the institution of marriage—the great obdurate concrete house of it—every year. Some rooms in the concrete house were left windowless and locked in all their ugliness; the laws of India, for instance, do not recognise marital rape, and we had winced years ago when we had realised that my husband had a legal right to demand sex whenever he felt like it. But a marriage is also a private thing, a living, breathing relationship that two people construct between themselves, and we annexed the territory of our bedroom to ourselves, just as we made our own laws of trust and caring, and respect for each other, through all of the small and large turbulences of love. The laws of the land stopped at the doors of our home. Our marriage would become what we constructed, rather than what the courts or society decreed it should be.

The unease came from elsewhere, from the awareness that these small things—the celebration of anniversaries, the ability to rejoice in public, to share our wedding photographs and to share our happiness—were only for those who could enter the house of marriage in the first place. In the weeks before our anniversary, India had reversed a landmark judgement on gay rights, re-criminalizing gay sex and opening the door to socially approved homophobia. In Nigeria, the Hisbah launches sting operations to hunt down gay men. Writers across the world came together just before the Sochi games to protest Russia’s anti-LGBT stance and laws; homosexuality is equated with pedophilia under Putin’s regime. Across the world, doctors still pretend to “cure” non-heteros of their non-existent ailment, just because their desires branch out in other ways.


In my twenties, I had stepped into marriage aware that my sexual orientation gave me certain privileges that my lesbian and gay friends didn’t have. We had all fallen in love in more or less the same way. That sudden tug on the line, the sense of connection, the startled moment of clarity when you know your own heart, the dizzying loops and plunges of desire is the same whether it’s boy meets boy, boy meets girl or girl meets girl. Other things might be different; the way you conduct a relationship, the way society sees you, the freedoms you allow yourself, the way you understand and explore the body, but this basic human act, falling in love, is genderblind. Everyone falls in love, or lust, in the privacy of their own mind.

One of my childhood friends met her partner the same year I did, and went through a decade-long struggle for acceptance in her family. An old friend and his partner came out slowly, over the years, setting aside the privacy they had prized so greatly because it was just as important not to hide who they were. Other friends weaved and ducked and suffered as the law told them their desires were unnatural and irrelevant, and ultimately, punishable. Last year, when two different pairs of friends, a gay couple and a lesbian couple, got married, in countries and states where it had finally been made legal, I was unprepared for the emotion that welled up in me: a sense of some justice in the world, at last.

This is not about LGBT marriage, or even marriage in itself. There are so many other relationships, and so many connections you can make if you give lust, passion, love, desire, friendship and everything else the space they deserve; what happens between people, two or more, is not to be taxonomically classified.

But two decades ago, stepping with scepticism into this thing called marriage, I had assumed that our lives would become more equal, not less. I had thought, and so had thousands, probably millions, around the globe, that it would take a very short time for the world to right itself, for us to stop telling people who they could love and how. It was like being born into an era where slavery existed, but growing up knowing that the abolition movement would prevail.

For all the technical debates over LGBT rights and gay marriage in the US and Section 377 in India, I don’t get it: how is it that anyone can still defend these basic inequalities? The unease I felt has been replaced. Not by the liberal guilt we’re trained to express, but by the same anger I felt twenty years ago when it became clear to me that the world had different rules for heteros, and for the Rest. What did freemen feel in an age of slavery? Anger, perhaps; guilt, probably; unease, we hope: but most of all, you understand that your own freedoms, the automatic rights you have, are worth nothing if they are not available for everyone.

It turns out that my partner and I love the corniness of anniversaries, the fact that they give you an excuse to replay the history of your time with another person and to press the pause button on all the good bits. This institution of marriage has become in the end our shelter and comfort, a big roomy shamiana under which we could pitch our own particular private tent. We would not have chosen marriage for ourselves if we had thought harder about the politics of it; but because we had the choice in the first place, we walked into the next twenty years, trusting that all would be well. This year, hetero friends of ours are getting married, and they are excited about the ceremonies, the celebrations, their lives. Other LGBT friends celebrate their loves, lusts and lives anyway, even if the law forces them to do so furtively.

It seems not just ridiculous but truly unforgivable that someone else cannot share their love legally, or openly, only because they have a different sexual orientation; that makes about as much sense as withholding rights from people because of the colour of their skin. Twenty years ago, I thought change was right around the corner. How can it possibly take another two decades of the earth turning around the sun for love’s freedoms to be available to everyone on the planet?

(NB: Please feel free to link, but please don’t reproduce this blogpost without written permission.)


Run, Lola, Run

At the twilight hour, Lola settles down for a well-earned nap in her new home. The radiator is on. She is near it. All is well. But somewhere in this teeming metropolis…
…something is amiss. Lola’s whiskers tingle and she turns to face her enemy, but there is no one, only the winter wind.
But Lola’s whiskers are never wrong!
Deep in the heart of a seemingly innocuous desk, danger unfurls its claws.
(This is Tiglath. He is a wise old cat, and acquired his white whiskers by staying out of the wars of ferocious Lola-Bathsheba-type women. But his ears twitch nervously as he wonders: how will it all end? Who will steal the coveted red woolly feathery toy? Will Lola have to yield her blanket? We do not know, though all trapped in the house with the two spitters hope that some day, there will be peace.)


But wait, there is hope. Despite skirmishes across the Line of Control, a regrettable case of catnip theft, and a few hissy fits, by evening, peace reined in Gotham City. The two combatants were prepared, if not to let sleeping dogs lie, at least to sleep in the same room without dismembering one another.
That is Lola, in one of our jackets.

And that is Bathsheba, in another one of our jackets.
There is silence, instead of the sounding of barbaric yawps.
Our ankles are unclawed (so far).
No blood has been spilled, even if a little fur has flown.
We are shivering, but what more could we want?
(It’s not as if they’re going to give the coats back anyway.)

(Previously: Lola Kitty comes home.)


Journal: Lola Kitty comes home


One of the great joys of finishing the manuscript of The Hundred Names of Darkness was that short, tantalizing gap before Prabha Mallya sent in her illustrations. I couldn’t wait to see what she would make of the second book; her art for The Wildings had astonished and delighted me when I’d seen it. Interviewers couldn’t believe that we hadn’t worked on the text and the illustrations together, but we hadn’t: with both books, The Wildings and Hundred Names, Prabha had seen the finished manuscripts and then added her artwork. But without knowing me or the cats, she had pulled the illustrations out of my imagination; I felt as though she and I had been collaborating for a very long time, as though she had seen me through the many edits and versions, even though that was not the case. When I was writing The Hundred Names of Darkness, it was Prabha’s line drawings and her collages for The Wildings that took over my dreams, so that perhaps for the first time, I dreamed (of cats and old crumbling houses and cheel squadrons) in black-and-white and not in colour.

(“Constructing, taping, cutting, splotching, stonewashing and layering”: Prabha Mallya on the illustrations for The Wildings)

The only brief I had for Prabha, who lives in the US and had walked through some of the locations for The Hundred Names of Darkness in Delhi’s autumn, was that something of the winter chill with which the book starts should find its way into the illustrations. But when the plates started to come in, I realised that she’d over-delivered as usual. The style for the first book had been lush, images interwoven with text; this one was spare, with something of the classic brushstroke lines of Japanese art, and Prabha had managed to get uncertainty, the longing for home, friendship, curiosity, fear and love into her art, along with that background shiver from cold and hard winters.

(Prabha Mallya on the world of The Hundred Names of Darkness.)

The only illustration we went back and forth over was the one about the fable cat, a traveller whose paws take her a lot further than she had meant to go. I had a tortoiseshell in mind whom we’d been very fond of, an independent stray called, with high imaginativeness, Torty; she was white-furred, splotched and dappled with patches of ginger, brown and black. Prabha’s fable cat had exactly the expression and the stillness I’d wanted, but she was black, with gold-and-brown speckles, I inferred. The fable cat spun around on my Mac as my screensaver, and I hesitated, thinking I should ask Prabha to change her colouring; and as I did my edits, untangling and unsnarling complicated plotlines, the fable cat began to grow on me. She was not the cat I had in my imagination, but she was incontrovertibly the cat from the fable that had become the core of Hundred Names. One day when I looked at the screensaver, I realised that she was the right cat, after all, and I dropped the idea of changing the illustration. Today, it’s one of my favourites from Prabha’s work, and if I was to frame just one of her many gorgeous works of art for the house, it would this one of the fable cat with the faraway look in her gentle green eyes.

The cat and the egrets: illustration ©Prabha Mallya and AlephBookCompany.
The cat and the egrets: illustration ©Prabha Mallya and AlephBookCompany.


She was high up in the branches of the tree outside the verandah when I first saw her. Something about the way she moved snagged my attention; she balanced on even the most slender, whippy branches with the ease of a trapeze artist, but she didn’t seem to know the first thing about hunting squirrels or birds. We watched her for quite a while even though DD and I both had busy schedules that day. We were worried about the stray dogs who live in the park–friendly as they are, they might not have been kind to a stranger cat–and besides, she was a pleasure to watch. Imagine a great ballet dancer who’s the world’s worst hunter, out on a duck shoot. At one point, the little black-and-gold cat had a squirrel trapped on the far end of the branch, and instead of chasing it, she apologized to it, moving aside to let the creature pass.

I got back to writing and when I looked up again, she was gone. Our two cats had stopped pointing indignantly in the direction of the tree and mewing crossly at the little stranger. DD and I agreed that there was something unusual about the stranger–her grace in the branches, her lack of alarm when she saw us–but she didn’t come back the next day and we forgot about her.

Six days later, the neighbours rang our bell to let us know that one of our cats had escaped. There was a hasty cat-check, but there were the regulation two bulges under the blankets. (Our two are wimps in the cold.) I stepped out to tell the neighbours that we had no missing cats, and the black-and-gold stranger ran down the stairs, purred as she wound around my legs and asked, politely, for some food. She looked thin, and I wondered when she had last eaten. She had a small mew, but there was some desperation in it. I try not to feed stray cats or dogs, unless we’re prepared to also take them to the vet for shots, spaying and other medical issues, but I made an exception in the face of this one’s obvious need. We put a bowl of kibble down and started to retreat, assuming that like all strays she would be too scared to come to the bowl on her own–but she ran up to us, winding around our legs, and hungry as she was, she did the feline equivalent of offering a thank-you head rub before she ate. She emptied the bowl and tried to walk back into the house with me. I said, no, we already had two cats, weren’t looking to adopt another; and what if she already had an owner? She took it well, and though her eyes signalled disappointment, the stranger disappeared down the stairs.

That evening, the neighbours called again, and then again, to tell us that “our cat” was sitting outside. It was too late to take her down to the animal shelter. I went out to talk to the stray and to explain that we already had cats. This time, she seemed desperate in a different way all together. She butted her head against DD’s legs and mine, trying to explain something. When the dogs barked outside, she shivered. It was a freezing night. She didn’t try to push past us into the house, but her green eyes were large and appealing. I picked her up and she purred, turning, and we saw the deep wound in her flank.

Small, starving, scraggy: Lola on her first day.
Small, starving, scraggy: Lola on her first day.

Within a day, we’d begun to realise that there was, indeed, something unusual about the stranger. She was remarkably friendly, operating on the assumption that all humans were wonderful people who loved cats and who would love her; she had none of the wariness of the street cat, and yet, she didn’t seem to understand houses very well, treating doors, windows and book cupboards with grave curiosity. This friendliness was dangerous; it could get her killed, and she was so thin it was obvious that she hadn’t been very good at hunting down her own food. By the end of the day, my staff–the housekeeper and our office help–had decided that she belonged with us.

And I found it hard to say no to a cat whose reaction to the world was one of deep and abiding delight. She liked the bubbling of coffeepots. She liked Gangubai Hangal and loved Coltrane and Jarrett, but Bach and Mozart and Malikarjun made her purr. She liked our two cats instantly and was hurt when she discovered that her feelings were not reciprocated. (But she has the patient air of a cat who will wait until they, too, love her as they should.)

Dr Chaggar, who’s taken care of every single one of our waifs from off the street with the same meticulousness as if they were pedigreed descendants of Bast, stared at her when we took her in to be treated. She had handled the 45 minute drive with none of the hysterical mewing and scratching with which many cats react to cars; she had allowed herself to be picked up and cuddled by an unknown vet. When he cleaned out her wounds–this was palpably painful–she flinched, and asked him to stop, but instead of biting him or moving away in fear, she leaned against him in complete trust. “I’ve never seen an animal behave like this,” he said. Neither had I.

When we brought her back home, she found a fine spot near the radiator, thanked us for releasing her from the car, spat in a friendly fashion at our tomcat’s growl, purred and washed DD’s hands in a gesture of friendliness. Our other cats watched her wide-eyed, but instead of the pitched battles we had feared, they seem to be walking around each other in slowly closing circles; perhaps they will be friends in a few months. (Cats, like writers, hate sharing space, toys, their Bigfeet or indeed anything else you might name.)

“Her name was Lola/ She was a showgirl…”
Silk stockings and black gloves and as many poses as a Vogue model.


We are still punctiliously asking around the neighbourhood to see if anyone’s lost their cat. But every day, this one becomes more and more a member of the household; right now, she’s out on the balcony, chatting with a mynah in a way that puts the feline reputation for being ferocious predators to shame. But if any cat could make friends with all the world, this one would.

The little stranger with the dancer’s legs has a name, borrowed from the song Copacabana: Lola Kitty.  Sometimes I look at Lola and then at the illustrations in The Hundred Names of Darkness and there is a funny wobble in my stomach, because it feels a little as though the art from the book decided to march up the stairs with its tail held high, mewing to be let in to our home. (This is not such a good thing. The book contains bandicoots, rats and tigers, two of whom would be unwelcome in our house and one of whom would probably not fit.) For the moment, though, the fable cat is home from her travels. I hope Lola, this unexpected New Year’s Eve gift, will decide to stay.

Yes, we're broadening our interests.

Friends, Romans and country cats