I was just around 19 doing my ab-initio training at the 3
GTS (Ground Training School) Air Force Jallahalli on the outskirts of
Bangalore. It was a crowded place full of young recruits from the villages and
little towns of india. But I was very lonely. I had never wanted to join the
Air Force in the first place, not as an airman at least. So, being lonely, I
would spend a lot of time in the library reading national and international
magazines and periodicals. The 3 GTS library was also well stocked with books.
It’s here that I made my acquaintance with RK Narayan, Somerset Maugham, and
other writers. Among the many books I
read here one was Dom Moraes’ ‘My
Father’s Son’ – an autobiography. Having quickly finished the book – I continue
to be a slow reader to this day – I told myself, “But what’s so special, I
could write a more interesting book on my life.”
That passing thought sowed the first seeds of this book. But
it was something preposterously ambitious of me to imagine, considering that I
was beginning life as a soldier and no more. My only credentials by then, if
you can call them so was that I used to be amongst the highest scorers in the
essay-writing class of my school. Even those marks I thought I got by fluke
until one day the English teacher rebuked me, “Where did you copy that essay
from” (This book has a chapter on that). That incident made me realize that,
perhaps, I did write well. It also made me nourish dreams of becoming a
journalist some day – something my older brothers would scoff at, ‘Huh!’
Quitting Air Force after 15 long years I finally realized my dream of becoming
a journalist. I would often tell some of my close friends in the media, “I’ve
to write a book man.” Some believed me.
But with the daily pressure of having to churn out stories I
soon realized my ambition of writing a book might never get fulfilled.
Thankfully, my not-so-glorious foray into journalism was short-lived. After journalism, in the UN’s less rushed
pace of work, I once again started writing the book – in my head only. Finally,
enthused by an office laptop that my English boss Peter Godwin allowed me to
carry home, I began to write. The year was 1994. First it was in fits and
starts and then torrents of words and sentences. Soon I got into flow, transcribing
my unhindered thoughts onto pen and paper…er on the laptop screen. If it was not for the laptop, I would perhaps
never be able to finish the book. And I
was not even devoting long or regular hours. I was just writing at random,
there was no discipline. Sometimes for days on end I did not type a single
word.
But soon the book started taking shape in the form of a few
chapters. The first person to see my unfinished manuscript was not my wife or
my close friends in the media. It was Peter Godwin. He was thrilled, insisting
that he too be featured in the book. I was, honestly, flattered. The
appreciation egged me on to pursue the project with greater focus. By the end
of the year the first draft was ready. By then the UNDP project in which I was
employed was also coming to an end. I had to look for another job, finally
finding my way to UNHCR. When at UNHCR, the UN Secretary-General Kofi Annan
came to Delhi accompanied by Shashi Tharoor his Special Assistant. Shashi was a
close friend of my boss Irene Khan and I took the opportunity to slip in my
manuscript to him for his feedback. For long I did not hear from Shashi. I had
nearly given up when a yellow packet arrived from New York dated 10 June 1997.
It was from Shashi Tharoor. Shashi, returned the manuscript with some glowing
comments, “….I found “An Airman’s Son” (that was the original name of the book)
extremely interesting, full of evocative detail and deeply felt.” He also suggested that I “should not hesitate
to send the manuscript to Delhi-based publishers…Penguin, Ravi Dayal and Harper
Collins”.
Khushwant Singh - who I had been seeing frequently those
days - also went through my manuscript suggesting that I cut down on the
descriptions. He was one of the director’s at Penguin and suggested that I submit
the manuscript to Ravi Singh who was heading Penguin then. Finally Khushwant
himself sent the manuscript to Ravi Singh (that was misplaced). Ravi, though he
said he liked what he read, never got back to me despite repeated attempts. In his last mail dated 19 February 2004 he said,
“Dear Ashim,…… the book fair time is usually very chaotic. I'll get in touch
before the end of the month. Many thanks for your patience.” A month followed
yet another and there was no word from Ravi. I gave up. Dejected, I went
to Rupa. They liked it, saying I needed to work further on the manuscript. They
never got back with a contract. By 1999 I had left UNHCR and was desperately
looking for work. Work came in bits and pieces and the book project was
virtually shelved.
Then in early 2000, while I was at tehelka.com I got my best
chance. Tehelka had just got into the book publishing business through Buffalo
Books. The Books Editor turned out to be a Bengali ‘compatriot’ that encouraged
me to approach her. She did not even want to see the manuscript. ‘Why would
anyone want to read your story?’ she asked. I had no plausible answer to that. Later,
Harper Collins too returned the manuscript with their regrets.
Between 2004 and 2008 I did my stints with the UN Missions
in Liberia and Sudan, the book a distant dream by now. After Sudan I was back
in India waiting to go back to Darfur. The wait that was supposed to be a few
weeks, turned into months and years. With over two years of waiting, and
diminishing coffers, I began to get desperate. That’s when Rajat Banerjee, an
old friend from my journalism days, suggested that I pursue the book project.
It was in one of those idle moments that I sent him my manuscript for his
comments. He reverted quickly on email, “You bum….With your kind of talent I
would take this to a publisher.” He also
asked me to get in touch with Nandita Bhardwaj his friend’s wife who was in the
publishing business. She was working with Roli then. By the time Nandita got
back to me saying, “We have liked what we read….Can you please send us the full
manuscript,” she was at Rupa.
In June 2010 Rupa send a contract that I signed without an
advance. The book was now called ‘Age of Innocence’ then, until I discovered
that an 1870 novel by that name, later made into a movie, already existed. Edith
Wharton’s novel had also won the Pulitzer Prize. With Age of Innocence set
aside, a lot of my friends were pressed into service to find a new name. We got
down to a shortlist of three. To these I added ‘The Sergeant’s Son’. My friends
Partha Banerjee and E.D Mathew liked the title. The rest, as they say, is
history.
Along the way I have many people to thank apart from those
already mentioned. Thanks is due to Abid Shah’s wife who I have never met. She,
if Abid is to be believed, said after reading the book, “This is like Prem
Chand in English.” Others who have helped me keep my faith in the book include
Sohail Hashmi, Max Martin, Debashish Sen and Vinod Dhavan all friends and colleagues
in the profession. Although, in a different context, I also wish to thank Vinod
Dua for his flattering comments. I had
written a profile of his in ‘TV and Video World’ one of the magazines I worked
for. When I met Vinod much later and asked him how he found his profile that I
wrote, Vinod said - hold your breath - ‘I was reminded of Bernard Shaw.’ I was sure
Vinod was pulling my leg and scrutinized his expression. It wasn’t funny. Yet I asked, ‘Why you pulling my leg?’ He did
not deign to answer that.
Special thanks is also due to that precious and lovely institution called family. My wife who, even though she did not act as my first
reviewer, had confidence in me and, more importantly, has stood by me even through
very trying (financial) times. I must
also thank my children Indraneil, Shubham and Shreya who are the fulcrum of my
life; who still dote on me. More importantly, I wish to thank all my readers. If
you enjoy reading the book, I ask you to recommend it to friends and foes
alike. Spread the word through Facebook, Twitter et all. After all, dear reader it’s your duty to ensure that no author lives or dies in
penury.
Write to me at: ashimch@yahoo.com
