Out of Print Workshop at MAP

Out of Print Workshops

In collaboration with the Museum of Art and Photography

Over the first weekend in October, Out of Print partnered with the Museum of Art and Photography (MAP) to conduct a creative writing workshop with a focus on fiction. 

Indira Chandrasekhar, founder and principal editor of the magazine led the workshop 

Titled ‘Write from Art, Write from Story’ the workshop centred around the works of artist and writer, Ram Kumar whose exhibition ‘Shape of a Thought: Letters from Ram Kumar’ was on at MAP. The exhibition featured two aspects of Ram Kumar’s creative work: 

- the visual which included vibrant to dark abstracts and monochrome cityscapes 

- the written where excerpts from his letters and rare collections of his short stories in translation were on display

Both days of the workshop began with an exceptional walk through the exhibition by the curator of the exhibition, Priya Chauhan followed by a brief discourse in the workshop space by Indira before moving into the work of the session.

The Stories

Out of Print offered to publish select completed works by the participants on their blog. Four stories by three authors were selected and are being published today, October 26th as this extraordinary exhibition by Ram Kumar closes its doors.

Below the list of published authors and their stories:

Untitled, Red by Suchi Govindarajan

Kaleidoscope by Prachi Uchil

Tragedy is a Comedy Misunderstood by Prachi Uchil

Maramalli by Aiswarya APV

Workshop Day 1

The writing focus on first day of the workshop, was inspiration and imagination, allowing the writers to think about how visual triggers can open the mind in interesting and unexpected ways. The paintings in the Ram Kumar exhibition were to be those visual triggers. 

It was a crisp Saturday morning. Participants went from the brightly light lobby of the museum, down the corridor, into the softly darkened exhibition gallery on the first floor, a rather magical transition. After giving the writers a few minutes to quietly absorb the visual works, Priya introduced them to Ram Kumar’s oeuvre, the wide range of his experiments with painting and drawing, his artistic journey, contextualised his work in terms of the artistic movements of the time, and gently guided the writers into seeing the works. 

Indira’s discussion on visual inspirations followed in the workshop space, with readings from her own work from her collection Polymorphism, and Vanamala Viswanatha’s translation of Kuvempu’s novel, bearing the English title Bride in the Hills,. She referenced the synchronicity of mood and narrative in Ram Kumar’s short stories that were to be discussed in greater depth the following day. 

The writers produced a range of extraordinary pieces in their individual styles, taking inspiration from Ram Kumar’s paintings in fascinating and diverse ways, thus embodying the words that headline the exhibition: 

“It is a beautiful painting, but I am not able to understand it”

“There is nothing to understand, it is only to be felt from within”

Excerpted from The Artist and the Collector

map-india.org/exhibition/shape-of-a-thought-letters-from-ram-kumar

Day 2

On the second day of the workshop, the focus was on craft. Indira made use the stories of Ram Kumar and some from Out of Print to illustrate specific points of craft.

Priya’s initial walk-through opened up the extraordinary world of Ram Kumar’s correspondence – with Abhishek Poddar, founder of MAP, with friends and with fellow artists. The letters are personal and revealing, and sometimes quite stark in their critique of the world and its impact on his art and creativity. To be exposed to the inner world of a creative individual was both revelatory and sobering and many of the writers were taken to different space from where they were the previous day.

The specific aspect of craft that was addressed by Indira were the following:

- the psychology of character in a piece

- back story – tips to avoid paragraphs of ‘tell’ that could drag down the pace and energy of a story

- the mood of a narrative and how landscape and setting can impact mood

The workshop led writers to dig deep. Many continued to explore what they had been invested in for some time, inspired by Ram Kumar’s words to extend their work. Others wrote pieces that were inspired by the story of the artist himself. A travel essay emerged. It was an altogether intensely surprising response and the workshop experience was rich.

Out of Print Workshop at MAP: 'Untitled, Red' by Suchi Govindarajan

Untitled, Red

Suchi Govindarajan

Karthik wishes he were tall. He also wishes he looked different. Not better, just different. He wishes he did not have to bear, in his face and his body, the burdens of his family. He has his father’s dark eyes, his mother’s cleft chin. His forehead is broad like that of his paternal uncles. When he was younger, it had seemed outsized compared to the proportions of his face. Teachers had told his parents it was a sign of wisdom. When it did not show in his work, he came to believe he would be a late bloomer. What age this blooming was fixed for was unclear. The blooming always walked ahead of him.

Now, on the crowded platform of Banaras station, Karthik feels especially small. He does a kind of quick hop to look above the heads of the pilgrims, to where the coolie walks ahead. He tries to keep that one figure in focus, blurring all else. 

 

Is the coolie tall? Or does he just seem that way because of his red turban stacked with cases? Karthik wonders if he should start wearing a turban. That would teach his family. 

The thought cheers him up, quietens his anxiety. He walks a little more confidently. He feels sure he will not lose his luggage.

At the edge of the station, having found the coolie and paid him, Karthik buys a cup of chai and stares out into the town before him. There is no holy river in sight here, only a stream of people. It is dusk by now, and the phosphor lights of the station are just coming on. A group of women, all in yellow sarees, are rushing somewhere. Karthik watches them board a beat-up red bus. The bus windows become frames of yellow. 

The driver shouts something and then the bus jitters, begins to move. It rushes past him, a little too close. Everything turns red for a moment. He is amazed by how easily the women’s colours and faces disappear into the larger animal of the bus. 

His mother had told him that the colour of this city was white. White of purity, white of priest’s clothes, white of widow’s sarees. He remembers one childhood night, walking behind his father in the narrow lanes, trying to keep up with him. He had smelt it first. Flowers and death. He had heard footsteps behind him, and then the chants. Ram Naam Sathya Hai, Ram Naam Sathya Hai. Four men walked by, carrying a bundled body on a makeshift cane stretcher. There was an agility to their movements, as though they carried nothing. Petals from roses had fallen to the ground like blood.

Now, with the heat of the chai on his fingers, Karthik thinks the colour of Banaras is red. Its power has always made sense to him. Some would say it is the colour of danger, the colour of stop lights. But who, in this country, stops for red? Red is the colour of things that courses through people and then drains from them, leaving them weightless.

Tomorrow, he would take a boat out on the river at this time. And let his father’s ashes be consumed by the red sun rippling in the water.

Out of Print Workshop at MAP: 'Kaleidoscope' by Prachi Uchil

Kaleidoscope

Prachi Uchil

The day dawned bright with the morning stars smiling down as she skips down the path near the cliff, heather blooming on one side and the deep blue sky gently kissing the raw boulders of the cliff on the other. Oblivious of what lies ahead as the gulls screech above, begging for food, she looks at her reflection in the small, clear pools of water that fill the crevices of the stones. Her delicate face framed by the azure of the sky, highlights her jet black hair. The scene surrounding her fills her with joy, and she bursts into a song filled with laughter and hope.

The lighthouse on the cliff stands solitary and tall against the stillness. She looks up towards it, wondering how long it would take her to reach the top. As she gets closer, she can see the beacon of light, guiding the ships to come ashore. She squints her almond eyes, looking to the top in case she can see him manning the light. She waves and calls out loudly. But her voice is lost to the sudden change around her.

Dark clouds rush in from the horizon, enveloping the blue sky. The morning star vanishes as a storm picks up rapidly. As she tries to clamber up the path, a fire burns bright. She is drawn into a whirl of emotions. Staring into the embers as they ebb into a deep red glow, slowly dying down forever. Is this feeling from within that resonates in her mind? Right before her, the roof catches fire as the rain lashes down, drowning her screams. She falls to her knees, and the lunchbox in her hand gets blown away over the cliff into the lashing sea.

The storm passes away as quickly as it has come. ‘Hey,’ he calls out as a ray of sunshine breaks through the clouds.

Out of Print Workshop at MAP: 'Tragedy is a Comedy Misunderstood' by Prachi Uchil

Tragedy is Comedy Misunderstood

By Prachi Uchil

‘Tragedy is a comedy misunderstood,’ echoed the words of a famous author, leaving a thoughtful resonance as the curator concluded her heartwarming narration of the works. Kumar was left to ponder the blurred lines between humour and sorrow.

For most, it was a typical Sunday morning. Yet, for Gen Z, the day truly began in the middle hours. Kumar, dressed in chequered shorts and a vest, made his way to the refrigerator, driven by the protests of his hungry stomach. A pair of eyes followed his every move. Without turning, he called out, ‘Don’t stare at me. Finish your food and let me get mine in peace.’

Peering through his thick, black-rimmed soda-bottle glasses, Kumar surveyed the contents of the fridge: just a couple of white bread slices and a solitary egg, both enjoying the chill of 4°C. He pulled out the bread, checked the expiration date, and shrugged. ‘Stale bread, hmm,’ he mused, debating whether to toast it or discard it. Turning to the watchful eyes, he announced, ‘It’s stale,’ holding up the packet. A tilt of the head from his companion signalled agreement.

‘Should I throw it away?’ Kumar asked, seeing the sad look in the eyes facing him. ‘Or should I make a gazpacho?’ The thought lingered, but making cold soup from stale bread felt like too much effort.

Kumar picked up his phone and opened the Blinkit app, knowing he could receive a multi-millet bread – a healthier option – in just five minutes. He leaned against the counter and asked his phone, ‘Gemini, give me a gazpacho recipe.’ The AI assistant responded instantly with multiple suggestions, but Blinkit’s convenience seemed more appealing.

Looking for reassurance, Kumar glanced up only to find the empty bowl left behind, prompting a chuckle as he carried it to the sink.

He wondered why he should settle for another packet of bread when Zomato could deliver a hearty breakfast in the same timeframe, one that could easily serve as both breakfast and dinner.

As Kumar waited for his meal to arrive, he surveyed his bare 8x10 kitchen. A couple of plates and mugs sat in the otherwise empty cabinets, and a solitary saucepan dangled loosely from a hook. A memory flickered – Kumar as a child, running in and out of a laughter-filled kitchen, the gentle knocking of steel ladles against brass vessels. Shelves once full of dals and masalas completed the picture.

He brushed away the nostalgia with a wistful smile as MyGate pinged for preapproval. The sound of a thud and the swivel of his computer chair reached him, and Kumar grinned, saying, ‘Again, you have taken my spot.’ The bell rang in response. A young delivery boy, chattering on his Bluetooth, handed over the parcel without waiting for a greeting and quickly returned to the lift.

Kumar slowly opened his Kerala breakfast – appam stew, with an extra helping of chicken curry. He headed toward his solitary chair but chose the comfort of the floor instead, smiling as he settled down.

‘Master Shifu,’ he said, addressing his ginger cat, who was now fast asleep on his back legs sprawled in different directions, his little tongue just peeking out of his mouth. The solitude in the companionship was more profound than busy chatter over Bluetooth devices.

Out of Print Workshop at MAP: 'Maramalli' by Aiswarya APV

Maramalli

Written and Illustrated by Aiswarya A P V

The road was jammed with metal and smoke. Neha took a turn and cut into a small alley with giant cars parked along it; the noise faded away like a door had closed behind her. She suddenly stopped and grabbed her phone. She had an urge to capture the flowers fallen around the pavement on her camera. Neha walked carefully without stepping on them and crouched low to photograph the maramalli-covered footpath. Undisturbed and bright, the old and dry flowers faded into the dark weathered pavement, making a bed for the new ones. 

A horn blared behind her, sharp like a slap. Neha hurried to her scooty, tucked her red scarf around her face. He must think I'm crazy or something, but those flowers were beautiful, right? Neha thought while winding the scarf tight. She fired the engine and pierced back into the traffic. 

Image by the author

Sheela‘s Ladies PG, was written in bold pink letters on a tall gray building. Neha parked and walked through the cold iron gate. As she entered the warm smell of chapatis crisping on shared pans flooded the corridor, a familiar comfort. She avoided the long queue for dinner, walking past the new and familiar faces. Oh the quiet girl beside our room has vacated, she always smiled, she thought. Caught up in thoughts of the constant change around her, she gently opened her door. The room was dark and filled with an awkward silence. Riya was already in the bathroom, and the sound of rushing water came from behind the door. Swetha was, as always, tucked into a corner of her bed, her face bathed in the blue light of her phone, completely absorbed and unbothered. 

Neha loosened her scarf and sank onto her neatly folded bed. A chill seeped up from the mattress. She closed her eyes, and the day’s exhaustion pulled her down. The hum of the hostel blurred into something soft. She felt cold water sliding over her feet. She reached down to touch the crystal water, dipping her hands in the cool current. The water escaped from her fingers, vanishing back to the flow. As she stared into the stream, a face appeared beside her reflection, calm and still. She looked up. It was her mother. Her eyes were bright with a familiar hope. Her skin was bright and loose along her bones. Her thin hair fell over her shoulder. 

Neha moved forward and took her mother’s hands, caressing her warmth. Her eyes filled with guilt. Her mother squeezed her hand gently and whispered, ‘I'm fine, mole’. Neha closed her eyes a warmth rolled down her cheeks. 

The bathroom door slammed open. ‘Why don’t these people ever clean the bathroom properly?’ Riya yelled, her voice shattering the peace. ‘It's disgusting!’ She stormed out of the room, rushing to the staff. 

Neha’s eyes flew open. She was back in the dark room. Reaching for the phone, she saw the picture of Maramalli, bright and undisturbed. Neha could not help to unsee the long list of missed calls. With a long sigh, she locked the bright screen and slipped it under the pillow, and walked towards the corridor. The smell of chapatis lingered like a promise, and down the hall, Riya was still arguing with the indifferent walls.

Out of Print 57 - Responses from our Readers

For this edition of Out of Print, which is the first in our fifteenth year of publishing the magazine, we asked our readers to tell us how they responded to the fifteen featured stories,  rather than telling them how we read the works.

Today, we begin to publish a selection of their comments here on the blog.

- Six-anna Ticket by Bhagwati Charan Verma, translated from Hindi by Ankita Gupta 

Wonderfully narrated incident. So relatable. Many have had an uninvited guest foisted on them, who simply don't go away. And then there's the middle-class mentality that wants to maximize every drop from a lemon. Two beautiful truths, wonderfully spun together to form an entertaining story. 

- Anonymous

- The Smoky World of Aravamuthan by Ramanujam Parthasarathy   

The story ‘The Smoky World of Aravamuthan’ made excellent reading. The description of Vijayawada environs, the Nature surrounding Aravamuthan's house (before he chose to move) are very convincing. One could almost smell the fresh air of the morning and its fragrance, along with the acrid cigarette smoke radiating from the neighbouring Professor's balcony. The story moved with a sedate pace which helped the author as it provided a complete contrast to the finale – which made Aravamuthan's heart  to beat faster than ever.

On the whole, the story evoked R K Narayan's vivid descriptions and sudden endings which leave the readers and the characters surprised or sometimes shocked.

Sri Ramanujan Parthasarathy is known for his racy narrations which appear sometimes in Facebook in his timeline. I have grown fond of his writings. I thank Out of Print for publishing this story.

- D S Kesava Rao