Here’s a little bit of gossip

You know the difference between news and gossip, don't  you? News tells you what people did. Gossip tells you how much they enjoyed it.

― Gregory David Roberts, Shantaram.

Dear Mr. Roberts,

Yesterday, I finished reading Shantaram… for the second time. And I’ve got tell you, I enjoyed it even more than the first time around!

My fellow commuters endured nervous laughs, sighs, discreet swearing, tears and yes… waggling of the head, for a month or so, in my daily 20 minutes train ride. Oh yes, I found myself crying, weeping really, on the train, during my morning commute, when I read about Prabaker’s death. And I knew it was going to happen! But how can you not love Prabaker? How can you not be moved my Anand’s sense of honour? How can you not go “way to go Vikram!”, when Lettie finally says yes? How can you not cry with Rukhmabai, when she cuts her hair? How can you not smile when you see young Prabu? You cannot, you just can’t.

When my parents first read the book they wouldn’t stop talking about it, they’d go on for hours, on how incredible the plot was, how faithfully the Indians were depicted, how you would be transported to India in a couple of sentences. And I, of course, as all children, was skeptical… surely they were exaggerating a bit, they read it  while on their yearly vacation in Goa. But then, when I borrowed the book and finished reading… I was  more of a Shantaram-Evangelist than they were! I would be the one who wouldn’t shut up about it, I would be the one describing my favourite bits and quotes,  I would be the one to say “yaar” and “arrey”, whenever appropriate. Besides, how can a Ahimsa not love a Shantaram?

So, this second time around, I found myself Shantaram-Evangelising, once again, to the extent of giving a copy in Portuguese, as a Christmas present, to one of my dearest friends, who had to hear all about it at lunch time. When she saw me after Christmas she gave me a huge hug, before I could even say a word, and said “Is that a bear hug? Is that how Abdullah did it?”. I smiled and nodded, you see, we don’t have the expression either in Portuguese.

My copy of Shantaram is earmarked, folded, the spine is broken… it’s in worse condition now, than when it travelled all the way from India to Portugal. So I guess I have to give a new copy to my parents, I cannot let go of this one, not just yet, because as my Mother said “… when you read it, you’re right in the middle of it, you feel you are right there with them [Indian people]…”. How can I ever give that up? 

Letters

Van Gogh's Letter

At the moment I’m reading a Van Gogh's biography, which has a detailed account of his life, thanks to the extensive letters Vincent would write to Theo - his ever patient and loyal brother. At some point of Vincent’s life, in his late thirties he moves to Paris, with Theo. The biographer’s frustration is almost palpable, because the brothers are living together and therefore, there’s no point in exchanging letters, so at the end of the day the biographer has no material to work with. Of course the biographer uses other sources, but there’s no psychological depiction of the painter, the source is cold and factual. There’s no passion, and as a reader I feel the account is one-dimensional – actually, I’m anxious to go on reading, to the later days when Vincent is not sharing the flat with Theo, so the narration gets more detailed and enthusiastic. Of course, Vincent’s (amazing) drawings and (breath taking) pictures illustrate part of his life, at least life as he saw and felt it. But the reasoning, the heartache, the vision that’s all in his excruciatingly detailed letters to Theo and some other people who, luckily for us and art students all over the world, have kept the letters. It seems intriguing to me that Theo would save all the letters, for a lifetime.

And yet…

In my tiny hall there’s a Chinese chest, half filled with letters I’ve received in the last 20 years. Even though the letters only tell half the story, similarly to what happens with Vincent, it tells my story: the people I’ve met, the places I’ve been, the experiences I’ve shared, the lessons I’ve learned. And around the world, if people have kept my letters and postcards, the other half of my story is scattered around. More, I feel that whenever I mail a letter (not an email, a letter of the old fashioned kind: on paper and written with a fountain pen) I’m chopping bits and pieces of my soul and sending them away. Something like “I’ve given birth to you , I’ve raised you and now you’re ready to depart and face the world. Off you go!”. However, the moment I mail the letter, I forget its contents. I’ll remember of course what was it about, but I cannot remember specifics. So, in the end, I’m left with an unfinished version of my story.

Last year, of one my oldest and dearest friends turned 32 and I thought it would be funny for him to read the letters he wrote me when he was 16. I wrapped them and gave him as a birthday present. He was genuinely happy – he had been thinking for some years now, to organize his letters (the ones written to him). But then he felt there was not really a point, because it would be putting up together a dialogue with only one speaker. Now he had a chance to have the entire story, the dialogue of two voices, a bit of History – his story.