Step Across This Line Part 2

Startling to find an admission of something close to self-hatred in the lines of a national bard. Yet this perhaps is the only kind of nationalist a writer can be. When the imagination is given sight by pa.s.sion, it sees darkness as well as light. To feel so ferociously is to feel contempt as well as pride, hatred as well as love. These proud contempts, this hating love, often earn the writer a nation's wrath. The nation requires anthems, flags. The poet offers discord. Rags.

2.

Connections have been made between the historical development of the twin "narratives" of the novel and the nation-state. The progress of a story through its pages toward its goal is likened to the self-image of the nation, moving through history toward its manifest destiny. Appealing as such a parallel is, I take it, these days, with a pinch of salt. Eleven years ago, at the famous PEN congress in New York City, the world's writers discussed "The Imagination of the Writer and the Imagination of the State," a subject of Maileresque grandeur, dreamed up, of course, by Norman Mailer. Striking how many ways there were to read that little "and." For many of us, it meant "versus." South African writers-Gordimer, Coetzee-in those days of apartheid set themselves against the official definition of the nation. Rescuing, perhaps, the true nation from those who held it captive. Other writers were more in tune with their nations. John Updike sang an unforgettable hymn of praise to the little mailboxes of America, emblems, for him, of the free transmission of ideas. Danilo Kis gave an example of a "joke" by the state: a letter, received by him in Paris, posted in what was then still Yugoslavia. Inside the sealed envelope, stamped on the first page, were the words This letter has not been censored. This letter has not been censored.

3.

The nation either co-opts its greatest writers (Shakespeare, Goethe, Camoens, Tagore), or else seeks to destroy them (Ovid's exile, Soyinka's exile). Both fates are problematic. The hush of reverence is inappropriate for literature; great writing makes a great noise in the mind, the heart. There are those who believe that persecution is good for writers. This is false.

4.

Beware the writer who sets himself or herself up as the voice of a nation. This includes nations of race, gender, s.e.xual orientation, elective affinity. This is the New Behalfism. Beware behalfies!

The New Behalfism demands uplift, accentuates the positive, offers stirring moral instruction. It abhors the tragic sense of life. Seeing literature as inescapably political, it subst.i.tutes political values for literary ones. It is the murderer of thought. Beware!

5.

Be advised my pa.s.sport's green.America I'm putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.To forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race.

Kadare's Albania, Ivo Andric's Bosnia, Achebe's Nigeria, Garcia Marquez's Colombia, Jorge Amado's Brazil: writers are unable to deny the lure of the nation, its tides in our blood. Writing as mapping: the cartography of the imagination. (Or, as modern critical theory might spell it, Imagi/Nation.) In the best writing, however, a map of a nation will also turn out to be a map of the world.

6.

History has become debatable. In the aftermath of Empire, in the age of super-power, under the "footprint" of the partisan simplifications beamed down to us from satellites, we can no longer easily agree on what is the case, what is the case, let alone what it might mean. Literature steps into this ring. Historians, media moguls, politicians do not care for the intruder, but the intruder is a stubborn sort. In this ambiguous atmosphere, upon this trampled earth, in these muddy waters, there is work for him to do. let alone what it might mean. Literature steps into this ring. Historians, media moguls, politicians do not care for the intruder, but the intruder is a stubborn sort. In this ambiguous atmosphere, upon this trampled earth, in these muddy waters, there is work for him to do.

7.

Nationalism corrupts writers, too. Vide Limonov's poisonous interventions in the war in former Yugoslavia. In a time of ever more narrowly defined nationalisms, of walled-in tribalisms, writers will be found uttering the war cries of their tribes. Closed systems have always appealed to writers. This is why so much writing deals with prisons, police forces, hospitals, schools. Is the nation a closed system? In this internationalized moment, can any system remain closed? Nationalism is that "revolt against history" which seeks to close what cannot any longer be closed. To fence in what should be frontierless.

Good writing a.s.sumes a frontierless nation. Writers who serve frontiers have become border guards.

8.

If writing turns repeatedly toward nation, it just as repeatedly turns away. The deliberately uprooted intellectual (Naipaul) views the world as only a free intelligence can, going where the action is and offering reports. The intellectual uprooted against his will (a category that includes, these days, many of the finest Arab writers) rejects the narrow enclosures that have rejected him. There is great loss, and much yearning, in such rootlessness. But there is also gain. The frontierless nation is not a fantasy.

9.

Much great writing has no need of the public dimension. Its agony comes from within. The public sphere is as nothing to Elizabeth Bishop. Her prison-her freedom-her subject is elsewhere.

Lullaby.Let nations rage,Let nations fall.The shadow of the crib makes an enormous cageupon the wall.

April 1997

Influence

[A lecture delivered at the University of Torino]

The Australian novelist and poet David Malouf tells us that "the real enemy of writing is talk." He warns particularly of the dangers of speaking about work in progress. When writing, one is best advised to keep one's mouth shut, so that the words flow out, instead, through one's fingers. One builds a dam across the river of words in order to create the hydroelectricity of literature.

I propose, therefore, to speak not of my writing but rather of my reading, and in particular of the many ways in which my experience of Italian literature (and, I must add, Italian cinema) has shaped my thoughts about how and what to write. That is, I want to talk about influence.

"Influence." The word itself suggests something fluid, something "flowing in." This feels right, if only because I have always envisaged the world of the imagination not so much as a continent as an ocean. Afloat and terrifyingly free upon these boundless seas, the writer attempts, with his bare hands, the magical task of metamorphosis. Like the figure in the fairy tale who must spin straw into gold, the writer must find the trick of weaving the waters together until they become land: until, all of a sudden, there is solidity where once there was only flow, shape where there was formlessness; there is ground beneath his feet. (And if he fails, of course, he drowns. The fable is the most unforgiving of literary forms.) The young writer, perhaps uncertain, perhaps ambitious, probably both at once, casts around for help; and sees, within the flow of the ocean, certain sinuous thicknesses, like ropes, the work of earlier weavers, of sorcerers who swam this way before him. Yes, he can use these "in-flowings," he can grasp them and wind his own work around them. He knows, now, that he will survive. Eagerly, he begins.

One of the most remarkable characteristics of literary influence, of these useful streams of other people's consciousness, is that they can flow toward the writer from almost anywhere. Often they travel long distances to reach the one who can use them. In South America, I was impressed by the familiarity of Latin American writers with the work of the Bengali n.o.bel laureate Rabindranath Tagore. The editor Victoria Ocampo, who met and admired Tagore, had arranged for his work to be well translated and widely published throughout her own continent, and as a result the influence of Tagore is perhaps greater there than in his own homeland, where the translations from Bengali into the many other tongues of India are often of poor quality, and the great man's genius must be taken on trust.

Another example is that of William Faulkner. This great American writer is little read in the United States these days; certainly there are few contemporary American writers who claim him as an influence or teacher. I once asked another fine writer of the American South, Eudora Welty, if Faulkner had been a help or a hindrance to her. "Neither one," she replied. "It's like knowing there's a great mountain in the neighborhood. It's good to know it's there, but it doesn't help you to do your work." Outside the United States, however-in India, in Africa, and again in Latin America-Faulkner is the American writer most praised by local writers as an inspiration, an enabler, an opener of doors.

From this transcultural, translingual capacity of influence we can deduce something about the nature of literature: that (if I may briefly abandon my watery metaphor) books can grow as easily from spores borne on the air as from their makers' particular and local roots. That there are international families of words as well as the more familiar clans of earth and blood. Sometimes-as in the case of the influence of James Joyce on the work of Samuel Beckett, and the subsequent and equal influence of Beckett on the work of Harold Pinter-the sense of dynasty, of a torch handed on down the generations, is very clear and very strong. In other cases the familial links are less obvious but no less powerful for that.

When I first read the novels of Jane Austen, books out of a country and a time far removed from my own upbringing in metropolitan, mid-twentieth-century Bombay, the thing that struck me about her heroines was how Indian, how contemporary, they seemed. Those bright, willful, sharp-tongued women, br.i.m.m.i.n.g with potential but doomed by the narrow convention to an interminable Huis-clos Huis-clos of ballroom dancing and husband hunting, were women whose counterparts could be found throughout the Indian bourgeoisie. The influence of Austen on Anita Desai's of ballroom dancing and husband hunting, were women whose counterparts could be found throughout the Indian bourgeoisie. The influence of Austen on Anita Desai's Clear Light of Day Clear Light of Day and Vikram Seth's and Vikram Seth's A Suitable Boy A Suitable Boy is plain to see. is plain to see.

Charles d.i.c.kens, too, struck me from the first as a quintessentially Indian novelist. d.i.c.kensian London, that stenchy, rotting city full of sly, conniving shysters, that city in which goodness was under constant a.s.sault by duplicity, malice, and greed, seemed to me to hold up the mirror to the pullulating cities of India, with their preening elites living the high life in gleaming skysc.r.a.pers while the great majority of their compatriots battled to survive in the hurly-burly of the streets below. In my earlier novels I tried to draw on the genius of d.i.c.kens. I was particularly taken with what struck me as his real innovation: namely, his unique combination of naturalistic backgrounds and surreal foregrounds. In d.i.c.kens, the details of place and social mores are skewered by a pitiless realism, a naturalistic exact.i.tude that has never been bettered. Upon this realistic canvas he places his outsize characters, in whom we have no choice but to believe because we cannot fail to believe in the world they live in. So I tried, in my novel Midnight's Children, Midnight's Children, to set against a scrupulously observed social and historical background-against, that is, the canvas of a "real" India-my "unrealist" notion of children born at the midnight moment of India's independence, and endowed with magical powers by the coincidence, children who were in some way the embodiment of both the hopes and the flaws of that revolution. to set against a scrupulously observed social and historical background-against, that is, the canvas of a "real" India-my "unrealist" notion of children born at the midnight moment of India's independence, and endowed with magical powers by the coincidence, children who were in some way the embodiment of both the hopes and the flaws of that revolution.

Within the authoritative framework of his realism, d.i.c.kens can also make us believe in the perfectly Surrealist notion of a government department, the Circ.u.mlocution Office, dedicated to making nothing happen; or in the perfectly Absurdist, Ionesco-like case of Jarndyce v. Jarndyce, Jarndyce v. Jarndyce, a case whose nature it is never to reach a conclusion; or in the "magical realist" image of the dust-heaps in a case whose nature it is never to reach a conclusion; or in the "magical realist" image of the dust-heaps in Our Mutual Friend Our Mutual Friend-the physical symbols of a society living in the shadow of its own excrement, which must, incidentally, also have been an influence on a recent American masterpiece, which takes the waste products of America as its central metaphor, Don DeLillo's Underworld. Underworld.

If influence is omnipresent in literature, it is also, one should emphasize, always secondary in any work of quality. When it is too crude, too obvious, the results can be risible. I was once sent, by an aspiring writer, a short story that began, "One morning Mrs. K. awoke to find herself metamorphosed into a front-loading washing machine." One can only imagine how Kafka would have reacted to so inept-so detergent-an act of homage.

Perhaps because so much second-rate writing is derivative-and because so much writing is at best second-rate-the idea of influence has become a kind of accusation, a way of denigrating a writer's work. The frontier between influence and imitation, even between influence and plagiarism, has commenced of late to be somewhat blurred. Two years ago, the distinguished British writer Graham Swift was accused by an obscure Australian academic of something odorously close to plagiarism in his Booker Prizewinning novel Last Orders Last Orders: the "substantial borrowing" of the multi-voiced narrative structure of his novel from William Faulkner's As I Lay Dying. As I Lay Dying. The British press whipped this accusation up into a sort of scandal, and now Swift was accused of literary "plundering," and those who defended him were sneered at for their "lofty indulgence" toward him. All this in spite of, or perhaps because of, Swift's ready concession that he had been influenced by Faulkner, and in spite, too, of the awkward fact that the structures of the two books aren't really so very alike, although some echoes are apparent. In the end such simple verities ensured that the scandal fizzled out, but not before Swift had been given a media roasting. The British press whipped this accusation up into a sort of scandal, and now Swift was accused of literary "plundering," and those who defended him were sneered at for their "lofty indulgence" toward him. All this in spite of, or perhaps because of, Swift's ready concession that he had been influenced by Faulkner, and in spite, too, of the awkward fact that the structures of the two books aren't really so very alike, although some echoes are apparent. In the end such simple verities ensured that the scandal fizzled out, but not before Swift had been given a media roasting.

Interesting, then, that when Faulkner published As I Lay Dying, As I Lay Dying, he himself had been accused of borrowing its structure from an earlier novel, Nathaniel Hawthorne's he himself had been accused of borrowing its structure from an earlier novel, Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter. The Scarlet Letter. His retort is the best possible answer that could be given: that when he was in the throes of composing what he modestly called his tour de force, he took whatever he needed from wherever he could find it, and knew of no writer who would not find such borrowing to be completely justified. His retort is the best possible answer that could be given: that when he was in the throes of composing what he modestly called his tour de force, he took whatever he needed from wherever he could find it, and knew of no writer who would not find such borrowing to be completely justified.

In my novel Haroun and the Sea of Stories, Haroun and the Sea of Stories, a young boy actually travels to the ocean of imagination, which is described to him by his guide: a young boy actually travels to the ocean of imagination, which is described to him by his guide: He looked into the water and saw that it was made up of a thousand thousand thousand and one different currents, each one a different color, weaving in and out of one another like a liquid tapestry of breathtaking complexity; and Iff explained that these were the Streams of Story, that each colored strand represented and contained a single tale. Different parts of the Ocean contained different sorts of stories, and as all the stories that had ever been told and many that were still in the process of being invented could be found here, the Ocean of the Streams of Story was in fact the biggest library in the universe. And because the stories were held here in fluid form, they retained the ability to change, to become new versions of themselves, to join up with other stories and so become yet other stories; so that . . . the Ocean of the Streams of Story was much more than a storeroom of yarns. It was not dead but alive.

By using what is old, and adding to it some new thing of our own, we make what is new. In The Satanic Verses The Satanic Verses I tried to answer the question, how does newness enter the world? Influence, the flowing of the old into the new, is one part of the answer. I tried to answer the question, how does newness enter the world? Influence, the flowing of the old into the new, is one part of the answer.

In Invisible Cities, Invisible Cities, Italo Calvino describes the fabulous city of Octavia, suspended between two mountains in something like a spider's web. If influence is the spider's web in which we hang our work, then the work is like Octavia itself, that glittering jewel of a dream city, hanging in the filaments of the web, for as long as they are able to bear its weight. Italo Calvino describes the fabulous city of Octavia, suspended between two mountains in something like a spider's web. If influence is the spider's web in which we hang our work, then the work is like Octavia itself, that glittering jewel of a dream city, hanging in the filaments of the web, for as long as they are able to bear its weight.

I first met Calvino when I was asked to introduce a reading he gave at the Riverside Studios in London in the early 1980s. This was the time of the British publication of If on a Winter's Night a Traveler, If on a Winter's Night a Traveler, and I had just published a long essay about his work in the and I had just published a long essay about his work in the London Review of Books London Review of Books-disgracefully, this was one of the earliest serious pieces about Calvino to be published in the British press. I knew Calvino had liked the piece, but nevertheless I was nervous about having to speak about his work in his presence. My nervousness increased when he demanded to see my text before we went out to face the audience. What would I do if he disapproved? He read it in silence, frowning a little, then handed it back and nodded. I had evidently pa.s.sed the examination, and what had particularly pleased him was my comparison of his work with that of the cla.s.sical writer Lucius Apuleius, author of The Golden a.s.s. The Golden a.s.s.

"Give me a penny and I'll tell you a golden story," the old Milesian oral storytellers used to say, and Apuleius's tale of transformation had used the fabulist manner of these ancient tellers of tall stories to great effect. He possessed, too, those virtues that Calvino also embodied and of which he wrote so well in one of his last works, Six Memos for the Next Millennium Six Memos for the Next Millennium: the virtues of lightness, quickness, exact.i.tude, visibility, and multiplicity. These qualities were much in my mind when I came to write Haroun and the Sea of Stories. Haroun and the Sea of Stories.

Although the form of this novel is that of a child's fantastic adventure, I wanted the work somehow to erase the division between children's literature and adult books. It was in the end a question of finding precisely the right tone of voice, and Apuleius and Calvino were the ones who helped me to find it. I re-read Calvino's great trilogy, The Baron in the Trees, The Cloven Viscount, The Baron in the Trees, The Cloven Viscount, and and The Nonexistent Knight, The Nonexistent Knight, and they gave me the clues I needed. The secret was to use the language of the fable while eschewing the easy moral purpose of, for example, Aesop. and they gave me the clues I needed. The secret was to use the language of the fable while eschewing the easy moral purpose of, for example, Aesop.

Recently, I have again been thinking about Calvino. The sixth of his "memos for the next millennium" was to have been on the subject of consistency. Consistency is the special genius of Melville's "Bartleby the Scrivener," Calvino was planning to suggest-that heroic, inexplicable Bartleby who simply and unshakably "preferred not to." One might add the names of Kleist's Michael Kohlhaas, so inexorable in his search for small but necessary justice, or of Conrad's n.i.g.g.e.r of the Narcissus, who insisted that he must live until he died, or of chivalry-maddened Quixote, or of Kafka's Land Surveyor, eternally yearning toward the unattainable Castle.

We are speaking of an epic consistency, a monomania that strives toward the condition of tragedy or myth. But consistency also may be understood in a darker sense, the consistency of Ahab in pursuit of his whale, of Savonarola who burned the books, of Khomeini's definition of his revolution as a revolt against history itself.

More and more I feel drawn toward Calvino's unexplored sixth value. The new millennium that is upon us already shows signs of being dominated by alarming examples of consistency of all types: the great refusers, the wild quixotics, the narrow-minded, the bigoted, and those who are valiant for truth. But now I am coming close to doing what David Malouf warns against-that is, discussing the nature of my own embryonic, and fragile (because as yet uncreated), work. So I must leave it there, and say only that Calvino, whose early support and encouragement I will always remember, continues to murmur in my ear.

I should add that many other artists both of cla.s.sical Rome and of modern Italy have been, so to speak, present at my shoulder. When I was writing Shame, Shame, I re-read Suetonius's great study of the twelve Caesars. Here they were in their palaces, these foul dynasts, power-mad, libidinous, deranged, locked in a series of murderous embraces, doing one another terrible harm. Here was a tale of coup and counter-coup; and yet, as far as their subjects beyond the palace gates were concerned, nothing really changed. Power remained within the family. The Palace was still the Palace. I re-read Suetonius's great study of the twelve Caesars. Here they were in their palaces, these foul dynasts, power-mad, libidinous, deranged, locked in a series of murderous embraces, doing one another terrible harm. Here was a tale of coup and counter-coup; and yet, as far as their subjects beyond the palace gates were concerned, nothing really changed. Power remained within the family. The Palace was still the Palace.

From Suetonius, I learned much about the paradoxical nature of power elites, and so was able to construct an elite of my own in the version of Pakistan that is the setting for Shame Shame: an elite riven by hatreds and fights to the death but joined by bonds of blood and marriage and, crucially, in control of all the power in the land. For the ma.s.ses, deprived of all power, the brutal wars inside the elite change little or nothing. The Palace still rules, and the people still groan under its heel.

If Suetonius influenced Shame, Shame, then then The Satanic Verses, The Satanic Verses, a novel whose central theme is that of metamorphosis, evidently learned much from Ovid; and for a novel whose central theme is that of metamorphosis, evidently learned much from Ovid; and for The Ground Beneath Her Feet, The Ground Beneath Her Feet, which is informed by the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice, Virgil's which is informed by the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice, Virgil's Georgics Georgics were essential reading. And, if I may make one more tentative step toward the unwritten future, I have for a long time been engaged and fascinated by the Florence of the High Renaissance in general, and by the character of Niccol Machiavelli in particular. were essential reading. And, if I may make one more tentative step toward the unwritten future, I have for a long time been engaged and fascinated by the Florence of the High Renaissance in general, and by the character of Niccol Machiavelli in particular.

The demonization of Machiavelli strikes me as one of the most successful acts of slander in European history. In the English literature of the Elizabethan golden age, there are around four hundred Machiavellian references, none of them favorable. At that time no work of Machiavelli's was available in the English language; the playwrights of England were basing their satanic portraits on a translated French text, the Anti-Machiavel. Anti-Machiavel. The sinister, amoral persona created for Machiavelli then still cloaks his reputation. As a fellow writer who has also learned a thing or two about demonization, I feel it may soon be time to re-evaluate the maligned Florentine. The sinister, amoral persona created for Machiavelli then still cloaks his reputation. As a fellow writer who has also learned a thing or two about demonization, I feel it may soon be time to re-evaluate the maligned Florentine.

I have sought to portray a little of the cultural cross-pollination without which literature becomes parochial and marginal. Before concluding, I must pay tribute to the genius of Federico Fellini, from whose films, as a young man, I learned how one might trans.m.u.te the highly charged material of childhood and private life into the stuff of showmanship and myth; and to those other Italian masters, Pasolini, Visconti, Antonioni, De Sica, and so on, and so on-for of influence and creative stimulation there can really be no end.

March 1999

Adapting Midnight's Children

This is the story of a production that never was. In 1998 I wrote the scripts for a five-episode, 290-minute television adaptation of my novel Midnight's Children, Midnight's Children, a project on which two writers, three directors, at least four producers, and a whole pa.s.sionately dedicated production team worked for over four years, and which foundered for political reasons when everything was in place and the beginning of princ.i.p.al photography was only a few weeks away. a project on which two writers, three directors, at least four producers, and a whole pa.s.sionately dedicated production team worked for over four years, and which foundered for political reasons when everything was in place and the beginning of princ.i.p.al photography was only a few weeks away.

Midnight's Children was first published in 1981, and after it won the Booker Prize that autumn there was some talk of making it into a movie. The director Jon Amiel, who was pretty "hot" at the time because of his television success with Dennis Potter's was first published in 1981, and after it won the Booker Prize that autumn there was some talk of making it into a movie. The director Jon Amiel, who was pretty "hot" at the time because of his television success with Dennis Potter's The Singing Detective, The Singing Detective, was interested, but the project never got off the ground. I was also approached by Rani Dube, one of the producers of Richard Attenborough's multi-Oscared was interested, but the project never got off the ground. I was also approached by Rani Dube, one of the producers of Richard Attenborough's multi-Oscared Gandhi. Gandhi. She professed herself very keen indeed to make a film of my book, but went on to say that she felt the novel's crucial later chapters-dealing with the excesses of Indira Gandhi's autocratic rule during the so-called Emergency of the mid-seventies-were really unnecessary and could easily be omitted from any film. Unsurprisingly, this approach, of which Mrs. G. would no doubt have heartily approved, failed to find favor with the book's author. Ms. Dube retreated, and after that things went quiet on the movie front. I put all thoughts of a film or television adaptation out of my mind. To tell the truth, I wasn't too bothered. Books and movies are different languages, and attempts at translation often fail. The wonderful reception that had been accorded to the novel itself was more than enough for me. She professed herself very keen indeed to make a film of my book, but went on to say that she felt the novel's crucial later chapters-dealing with the excesses of Indira Gandhi's autocratic rule during the so-called Emergency of the mid-seventies-were really unnecessary and could easily be omitted from any film. Unsurprisingly, this approach, of which Mrs. G. would no doubt have heartily approved, failed to find favor with the book's author. Ms. Dube retreated, and after that things went quiet on the movie front. I put all thoughts of a film or television adaptation out of my mind. To tell the truth, I wasn't too bothered. Books and movies are different languages, and attempts at translation often fail. The wonderful reception that had been accorded to the novel itself was more than enough for me.

Twelve years pa.s.sed. Then in 1993 Midnight's Children Midnight's Children was named the Booker of Bookers, in the judges' opinion the best book to have won the prize in its first quarter century. This great compliment attracted the attention of not one but two television channels, and within weeks I was in the fortunate position of being wooed by both Channel Four and the BBC. It was a close thing, but in the end I chose to go with the BBC, because, unlike Channel Four, it was able to fund and produce the serial itself; and because of the rea.s.suring presence of my friend Alan Yentob at the corporation's creative helm. I trusted Alan to steer the project safely through whatever troubles might lie ahead. was named the Booker of Bookers, in the judges' opinion the best book to have won the prize in its first quarter century. This great compliment attracted the attention of not one but two television channels, and within weeks I was in the fortunate position of being wooed by both Channel Four and the BBC. It was a close thing, but in the end I chose to go with the BBC, because, unlike Channel Four, it was able to fund and produce the serial itself; and because of the rea.s.suring presence of my friend Alan Yentob at the corporation's creative helm. I trusted Alan to steer the project safely through whatever troubles might lie ahead.

Not long afterward, Channel Four signed up Vikram Seth's A Suitable Boy, A Suitable Boy, and then there were two "India projects" on the go. I was heartened to think that British television was willing to invest so much time, pa.s.sion, and money in bringing to the screen these two very different contemporary novels from far away. We might offer a welcome change, or so I hoped, from the many costume-drama adaptations of the English literary canon that came out every year. and then there were two "India projects" on the go. I was heartened to think that British television was willing to invest so much time, pa.s.sion, and money in bringing to the screen these two very different contemporary novels from far away. We might offer a welcome change, or so I hoped, from the many costume-drama adaptations of the English literary canon that came out every year.

From the outset I made it clear to Alan Yentob and the original producer, Kevin Loader, that I would prefer not to write the adaptation myself. I had already spent years of my life writing Midnight's Children, Midnight's Children, and the idea of doing it all over again was both daunting and unappealing. It would feel, to borrow Arundhati Roy's memorable condemnation of the act of rewriting, "like breathing the same breath twice." Besides, I had no experience of writing large-scale television drama. What we needed, or so I argued, was a television professional who would be sympathetic to my book but able to reshape it to fit the very different medium it was now preparing to enter. We needed, in short, an expert translator. and the idea of doing it all over again was both daunting and unappealing. It would feel, to borrow Arundhati Roy's memorable condemnation of the act of rewriting, "like breathing the same breath twice." Besides, I had no experience of writing large-scale television drama. What we needed, or so I argued, was a television professional who would be sympathetic to my book but able to reshape it to fit the very different medium it was now preparing to enter. We needed, in short, an expert translator.

We first approached the highly regarded Andrew Davies, who re-read Midnight's Children, Midnight's Children, thought about it for a while, but eventually turned us down, saying that while he was an admirer of the novel he didn't have enough of a feel for India to be confident of success. Then Kevin Loader proposed Ken Taylor, the adapter of Granada TV's thought about it for a while, but eventually turned us down, saying that while he was an admirer of the novel he didn't have enough of a feel for India to be confident of success. Then Kevin Loader proposed Ken Taylor, the adapter of Granada TV's The Jewel in the Crown. The Jewel in the Crown. I readily agreed to the suggestion. I was not an admirer of Paul Scott's so-called Raj Quartet but had thought the TV adaptation, with its high production values, brilliant acting, and finely crafted scripts, to be a marked improvement on the original. And, of course, as a result of his work on I readily agreed to the suggestion. I was not an admirer of Paul Scott's so-called Raj Quartet but had thought the TV adaptation, with its high production values, brilliant acting, and finely crafted scripts, to be a marked improvement on the original. And, of course, as a result of his work on Jewel, Jewel, Ken knew a good deal about India. Ken knew a good deal about India.

At our first meeting, Ken, while evidently attracted to the project, expressed worries about the nature of the text to be adapted. Television drama has long been dominated by naturalism, and Ken's own inclinations and dramatic instincts were strongly naturalistic. How, then, was he to approach a novel with such a high content of surreal and fabulistic material? What was he to make of hypersensitive noses and lethal knees, optimism diseases and decaying ghosts, humming men and levitating soothsayers, telepaths and witches and one thousand and one magic children, indeed of the novel's central conceit, that Saleem Sinai, a boy born at the instant of Indian independence, had been somehow "handcuffed to history" by the coincidence and that as a result the entire history of modern India might somehow be his fault?

I told him that, however highly fabulated parts of the novel were, the whole was deeply rooted in the real life of the characters and the nation. Many of the apparently "magical" moments had naturalistic explanations. The soothsayer who seems to be levitating is in fact sitting cross-legged on a low shelf. Even Saleem's "telepathic" discovery of the other "magic children" can be understood as an extreme instance of the imaginary friends invented by lonely children. Saleem's idea that he is responsible for history is true for him, I said, but it may or may not be true for us. And all around Saleem is the stuff of real Indian history. On the novel's first publication, Western critics tended to focus on its more fantastic elements, while Indian reviewers treated it like a history book. "I could have written your book," a reader flatteringly told me in Bombay. "I know all that stuff."

Somewhat rea.s.sured, Ken agreed to undertake the task. It's easy to be wise after the event, but I now think it was quite wrong of me to "sell" Ken this naturalistic version of my book. I suppose I thought it would allow him to pull the dramatic structure of the serial into shape, and if the scripts needed an injection of "unnaturalism," that could be added later. Things turned out to be more complicated.

Who would direct the scripts? Much too early to think about that, I was told; script first, director later. And would there be difficulties in gaining approval to film from the Indian government? I hoped not; after all, the novel itself had always been freely available throughout India, so what logical reason could there be for objecting to a film of it? In those early days, it was easy to shelve such matters until later.

Ken went punctiliously to work on a seven-episode screenplay, and I went back to my own writing. In these years I was finishing The Moor's Last Sigh, The Moor's Last Sigh, beginning beginning The Ground Beneath Her Feet, The Ground Beneath Her Feet, and co-editing and co-editing Mirrorwork, Mirrorwork, an anthology of Indian writing, so most of my attention was elsewhere. There followed a long phase in which Ken beavered away, Kevin Loader left the BBC, producers came and went, an Indian production company was signed up, one of its major tasks being to secure government approval; and concerns grew about how much the project was going to cost. Meanwhile, over at Channel Four, an anthology of Indian writing, so most of my attention was elsewhere. There followed a long phase in which Ken beavered away, Kevin Loader left the BBC, producers came and went, an Indian production company was signed up, one of its major tasks being to secure government approval; and concerns grew about how much the project was going to cost. Meanwhile, over at Channel Four, A Suitable Boy A Suitable Boy bit the dust. It's an ill wind and so on, and there was a small ign.o.ble feeling of relief at our end-we would no longer be competing for the same actors, the same sources of co-financing, the same audience-but we were also saddened, and chastened. The Vikram Seth cancellation was a bad omen for us, too. bit the dust. It's an ill wind and so on, and there was a small ign.o.ble feeling of relief at our end-we would no longer be competing for the same actors, the same sources of co-financing, the same audience-but we were also saddened, and chastened. The Vikram Seth cancellation was a bad omen for us, too.

I was abroad when a director was finally signed up: Richard Spence, a young filmmaker with a reputation for visual flair. At much the same time, it was decided that seven episodes were too many; could we compress the story into five? In the end we agreed to a feature-length opener followed by four fifty-minute episodes. Two hundred ninety minutes instead of 350: a whole hour less.

When I got back to England I met Richard and was impressed by his ideas. We talked for hours, and I began to feel that we had the makings of something exciting. Richard's imagination would build on the solid foundations of Ken's work.

It soon became apparent, however, that the working relationship between Ken and Richard was deteriorating. When I heard that Richard was asking Ken to make further drastic cuts in the story line-in particular to the hero's childhood years-I began to worry. Midnight's Children Midnight's Children without children? The original impulse for the novel had been to write a story out of my memories of growing up in Bombay; were we really going to make a TV version which cut all that out? without children? The original impulse for the novel had been to write a story out of my memories of growing up in Bombay; were we really going to make a TV version which cut all that out?

There was a crunch meeting in Alan Yentob's office at the BBC. For a moment it seemed as if the whole project might founder there and then. I tried to mediate between Ken and Richard. Ken was right that the childhood sequence was essential, and was in his serious way acting as the faithful guardian of my book. But Richard was right that Ken's draft scripts needed revision, to inject exactly that quality of imagination and magic which I'd hoped the involvement of a director would add. By the end of the meeting it seemed we might have hammered out a way forward.

But within days it became plain that Ken and Richard couldn't work together. One of them would have to go. In Hollywood the decision would have been simple and ruthless; whoever heard of a director being fired because the writer couldn't work with him? But this was England, and Ken had been working on the project for a long time. The BBC backed him. Richard was disappointed but graceful, and took his leave.

By now, I had begun to worry about the scripts, too. We had lost our director, the money people at the BBC were not "green-lighting" the production, and I heard that the scripts we had were not attracting other directors or inspiring confidence in the BBC's corridors of power. I myself was now sure that the scripts did need a lot of work, I had all sorts of ideas about how they might be revised, and Ken and I had long telephone conversations about what might be done. But the changes made were minimal. We were going nowhere fast.

It was around this time that Alan Yentob asked me if I'd consider taking over as scriptwriter. I had begun to think this might be the only way forward, but my fondness for Ken and respect for his efforts stopped me from agreeing. Also, I would have to set aside work on my new book, and I wasn't at all keen to do that.

Meanwhile, Gavin Millar had expressed an interest in directing, but had radical ideas about script revisions. In a doc.u.ment ent.i.tled "A Modest Proposal" he offered up a series of provocative thoughts, the most extreme being his idea that we should change the narrative sequence of the story. Instead of beginning, as the novel does, with the story of the narrator's grandparents and then parents, Gavin suggested that we should plunge into Saleem's own story, and then tell the other tales in a series of flashbacks that went further and further back in time.

Gavin's note provoked in me a sort of "lightbulb moment." I suddenly saw with great clarity how to write the scripts. I saw how to make his "Modest Proposal" work and, beyond that, how to change the architecture of the screenplay into something much freer, more surrealist. (Later, I would decide to abandon Gavin's time-scrambling ideas and go back to the novel's original, simpler time line. I'm sure it was right to do so, but I'm also sure that Gavin's iconoclastic intervention had freed my imagination, and without it I might never have worked out how to proceed.) I think that Gavin's note caused an equal and opposite reaction in Ken. It made him feel enough was enough; it made him dig in his heels, and stand by his drafts as if they were shooting scripts. At this point I understood that if anything was ever going to happen, I would have to take over, and after the pa.s.sage of so much time and effort I wasn't prepared to let the project founder. So I agreed to do it. The moment I started work I saw that little or nothing of the existing screenplays could survive. The entire manner of the scripts would be different now, the episodes would start and finish in different places, the selection of material from the novel and the internal arc of each episode would be different. All the two versions had in common was the dialogue taken directly from the book.

I asked the production team to make it plain to Ken that what had started as a rewrite had become an entirely new piece of work. There was no nice way of saying this, but it needed to be said. Unfortunately, the executives concerned delayed telling Ken, which meant that the human mess was eventually much worse than it need have been. Ken was hurt and angry, I was upset, our friendship was damaged, there were accusations and counter-accusations. In the end, Ken withdrew, like the dignified man he is. I only wish it had all been handled better.

For a while I worked with Gavin, but in the end, he backed out, too, on the grounds that he didn't have the "feel" for India that the films required. I had been writing feverishly, convinced that the scripts could be made to work, and Gavin's withdrawal, coming after everything else, felt like a sledgehammer blow.

All this coming and going had delayed us by over a year, but the delay did give us one lucky break. Tristram Powell, who had earlier been unavailable to direct, was now available. In 1981, when Midnight's Children Midnight's Children was first published, it had been Tristram who made the Arena doc.u.mentary about it. He professed himself keen to make the films, but only on the basis of my new approach. I began a mad writing burst. In five weeks in November and December 1996, I finished a draft of the entire five-episode screenplay. I gave myself Christmas Day off, but otherwise was hardly ever away from my desk. As I have already mentioned, I had a great time. I was much less respectful of the original text than Ken had been. His fidelity to the novel, his sense of himself as my representative, had constrained him. Perhaps n.o.body would have felt free to make the kinds of changes I made so guiltlessly. Out went long sequences-the sojourn in the valley of Kif, the war in the Rann of Kutch. Out went some of the novel's more fanciful notions (a politician who literally hummed with energy) and peripheral characters (the snake-poison expert who lives upstairs from the Sinai family). In came new devices, such as the idea of allowing the peep-show man, Lifafa Das, to introduce each episode as if it were a part of his peep show, and occasional "unnaturalist" moments at which the narrator, Saleem, remembering his past life, is able to step into the bygone moments and watch the action unfold. was first published, it had been Tristram who made the Arena doc.u.mentary about it. He professed himself keen to make the films, but only on the basis of my new approach. I began a mad writing burst. In five weeks in November and December 1996, I finished a draft of the entire five-episode screenplay. I gave myself Christmas Day off, but otherwise was hardly ever away from my desk. As I have already mentioned, I had a great time. I was much less respectful of the original text than Ken had been. His fidelity to the novel, his sense of himself as my representative, had constrained him. Perhaps n.o.body would have felt free to make the kinds of changes I made so guiltlessly. Out went long sequences-the sojourn in the valley of Kif, the war in the Rann of Kutch. Out went some of the novel's more fanciful notions (a politician who literally hummed with energy) and peripheral characters (the snake-poison expert who lives upstairs from the Sinai family). In came new devices, such as the idea of allowing the peep-show man, Lifafa Das, to introduce each episode as if it were a part of his peep show, and occasional "unnaturalist" moments at which the narrator, Saleem, remembering his past life, is able to step into the bygone moments and watch the action unfold.

Story lines were altered to suit the requirements of episode structure and dramatic form. For example, Saleem's visits to Pakistan were reduced and condensed, and indeed now take place at somewhat different points in the story, to avoid the problem of yo-yoing back and forth at high speed between Bombay and Karachi. Also, in the novel, Saleem's uncle General Zulfikar is murdered by his embittered son. In the screenplay, however, it seemed absurd to introduce a different Pakistani general later in the story, at the end of the war in Bangladesh. So I kept Zulfikar alive until then, and arranged for him to be b.u.mped off in quite a different way.

Perhaps the most significant changes in the plot have to do with the central duo of Saleem and Shiva, the two babies who are swapped at birth and thus lead each other's lives. In the book, Shiva never learns the truth about his parentage, and it doesn't matter, because the reader is aware of it throughout. On the screen, however, so large a plot motif simply insists on a climactic confrontation, and so I have provided one. There is a part of me that thinks that the version of events in this screenplay is more satisfactory than the one in the novel. (At the end of the book, Saleem is not certain if Shiva is dead or alive, and continues to fear his return. In the television version, the audience is offered a resolution of greater clarity.) The new scripts were well received. There followed a period of several months in 1997 during which Tristram Powell and I worked on the text, refining, clarifying, adding, subtracting. Tristram was so sharp, so helpful, so full of suggestions and improvements, and so completely in tune with the novel that I was sure we had found the ideal director for the job. The two of us worked together easily, and the scripts grew tighter by the day. Even when we had to change things purely because we couldn't afford them, we found solutions that didn't compromise the spirit of the work. For example, all the shipboard scenes in the screenplay now take place in dock; we didn't have the cash to go to sea, but didn't need to. More significant, the Amritsar Ma.s.sacre of 1919 now happens off-camera. To my mind, the horror of this famous atrocity is actually increased by suggesting rather than showing it.

The production's other problems began to surface. The BBC's bizarre bureaucracy-there were no fewer than five layers of "suits" between the producer and the controller of BBC2-made it virtually impossible to get any definite decisions. Also, it became clear, we were competing for our budget with other drama projects, notably Tom Jones. Tom Jones. And the money the BBC was putting up was simply not going to be enough. We needed outside investors. And the money the BBC was putting up was simply not going to be enough. We needed outside investors.

We found them, in the form of an American-based ex-banker and a businessman, both of Indian origin, both fired by patriotic pride. And so, finally, the sums added up, and the long sessions in which Tristram and I worried away at the scripts had produced a screenplay which everyone involved was excited by. We did three casting read-throughs in London, and the quality of the British Asian actors we saw impressed me greatly. At the time of the original publication of Midnight's Children, Midnight's Children, there would have been very few such actors to choose from. One generation later, we were able to audition a diverse and multi-talented throng. I was touched and moved by the actors' feelings for my novel, and their professional excitement at reading for roles other than the usual corner-shop Patels or hospital orderlies that came their way. The only snag we encountered was that some of the younger actors, born and raised in Britain, had difficulty p.r.o.nouncing Indian names and phrases! there would have been very few such actors to choose from. One generation later, we were able to audition a diverse and multi-talented throng. I was touched and moved by the actors' feelings for my novel, and their professional excitement at reading for roles other than the usual corner-shop Patels or hospital orderlies that came their way. The only snag we encountered was that some of the younger actors, born and raised in Britain, had difficulty p.r.o.nouncing Indian names and phrases!

Not all the parts were cast in this way. Some of the senior Indian actors-Saeed Jaffrey, Roshan Seth-were approached and offered their choice of roles. There were also casting sessions in Bombay, and it was there that we found our Saleem, a brilliant young actor called Rahul Bose. Other "discoveries" included Nicole Arumugam as Padma, and Ayesha Dharker as Jamila (her sensational voice stunned us all when, in the middle of one read-through, she burst into unaccompanied song), and it is intensely frustrating that we were not able in the end to give them the opportunity they so richly deserved.

For when the "green light" moment was finally upon us, the Indian government simply refused us permission to film, giving no explanation at all, and no hope of appeal. Worse still was the discovery that the BBC's Indian partners had been told months earlier that the application would be refused. They had not informed us, perhaps believing they could get the decision changed. But they couldn't.

I felt as if we'd nose-dived into the ground at the end of the runway. I also felt personally insulted. That Midnight's Children Midnight's Children should have been rejected so arbitrarily, with such utter indifference, by the land about which it had been written with all my love and skill was a terrible blow, from which, I must say, I have not really recovered. It was like being told that a lifetime of work had been for nothing. I plunged into a deep depression. should have been rejected so arbitrarily, with such utter indifference, by the land about which it had been written with all my love and skill was a terrible blow, from which, I must say, I have not really recovered. It was like being told that a lifetime of work had been for nothing. I plunged into a deep depression.