Kunal Basu, Confluence shailed you as an “Indian” writer. Yet, your novels (The Opium Clerk set in Kolkata, The Yellow Emperor’s Cure set in China and Portugal, The Miniaturist set in Mughul India, and Racists set on African lands) - and you yourself live across continents (UK, America & India). Do you have an issue about being referred to through your nationality?
This is not something that I would go to town with, but it pleases me immensely when someone calls me an “Indian” writer. Marquez lives in Mexico City, but he is a Columbian writer. Similarly, I live and work in the UK, but India continues to be the centre of my creative universe.

So, India inspires you?
India and other developing parts of the world are still topsy-turvy. It forces you to question life and existence. These are the kinds of places where stories are born. When India banned Salman Rushdie’s The Satanic Verses, Rushdie commented in The Guardian: “This is awful. Because every time I go to India, I come back with a sack full of stories.” And indeed, his sack did become empty after The Satanic Verses.

The most exciting work in any kind of literature happens on the margin of society. Think of Albert Camus. His father couldn’t read. His mother was a maid. He was a ‘pied-noir’. And yet, he changed the face of French literature!

Critics have pointed out that yours is a rather atypical case of a non-white writer writing Victorian fiction, non-Muslim writer writing Mughal colonial fiction etc.  Who are your literary influences?
I grew up with a bevy of Bengali authors: Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay, Romesh Chundra Dutt, amongst others. I use fiction as a ground for serious exploration—both within and without. I am fascinated by people like Zola, the Russians. Dickens was a strong influence too. For a long time, I was convinced that Dickens was Bengali since I had only read the Bengali translations of his works!

How do you reconcile your various personas: as an academic, creative writer, actor, and artist?
(Without hesitation)There is almost NO relationship between my academic life and my creative life.

None at all?
No, none. You see, there are some things in life that one stumbles upon by accident, and some by design. I was at university during the Emergency and had to find a job at a time when graduate unemployment was high.

So I studied precisely the wrong subjects - for which I had no love. I finished my Bachelors in Engineering and had a full scholarship to do a Masters in the USA. I thought to myself: “Who is ever going to pay me to travel and see the world?”

In retrospect, that was faulty reasoning, because these decisions led me further and further away from the artistic person that I was at my core.

You are prolific even in your artistic pursuits…
My primary orientation and sensibility had been towards painting and drawing. I had my first solo exhibition when I was 13 years old.  Which is why even my primary literary orientation is visual and imagery-driven.

Afterwards, I acted on stage and had a few film offers. But those were the decadent 80s, which were very problematic for the arts. So I asked myself: which of the arts could I pick, which would be least disruptive in terms of a career?

During that indecisive phase, someone suggested to me that I take on a PhD in Management. My reply was: “What’s that?” I had never heard of Management as a subject, and didn’t think it was terribly intellectual! Having read through a few management papers, I said to myself: “I can do this.” I never said: “I want to do this!” I was merely trying to find a survival strategy. Management eventually took me away from the regime of numbers to the republic of words.

You talk about your primary orientation being visual. How come, then, is The Miniaturist not your first book?
The story of a novel or a short story is not a strategic decision. If it is a story that grabs my imagination, it will keep me awake at night. That’s what happened with The Opium Clerk, my first novel.

One evening while trekking with my wife Sushmita in Thailand, my guide lent me this dog-eared paperback on drug trafficking in the Golden Triangle. While casually leafing through this book, a sentence jumped out at me: “In the 19^th C, the world capital for drug trade was Calcutta.” I thought to myself: “That can’t be!” When I returned to Montreal, I looked this up and the whole novel unfurled in front of my eyes. So,The Miniaturist didn’t get a chance to come in.

Hanif Kureishi, who teaches creative writing, was recently quoted as having said that “Creative writing courses at universities are a waste of time.” Do you think creative writing can at all be taught?
Whatever gets you through the night is all right. You basically need to know where you’re coming from, and what you’re aspiring to be.

I have no qualification to write fiction. I last studied English as a subject in 1973. Some Oxbridge literary pundits aren’t very favourably disposed to people like us. There is this attitude of: “You’re a Management Professor. What business do you have writing fiction?” People know that I write. But am I central to the literary life of Oxford? Absolutely not! Oxford, like most systems of higher education, is unable to “create.” They are completely sterile when it comes to “creation.” They only have the business of accreditation and assigning value. The valuers of culture always lag the creators of culture.

Your mother was a renowned stage actress in Kolkata. Does your love for the performing arts stems from your mother?
My father was an independent publisher. My mother, as well as being a stage actress, was a well-known author of Bangla fiction and non-fiction. She was the first woman to write about feminism in Bengali. My family belonged to the world of the left intelligentsia. I grew up with authors, actors, filmmakers. Satyajit Ray used to come to our house. And I was a very precious child, so I used to eavesdrop into their conversation.

Like Bihzad, your protagonist from The Miniaturist?
(smiles)Like Bihzad…That inculcated a love for the performing arts, which has stayed with me. And every now and then, I get drawn into film projects.

I didn’t consciously write The Japanese Wife for cinema. Aparna Sen initiated this conversation, I quickly realized that she and I shared the same sensibility about the story. She asked me to write the screenplay. I refused. I had invested all my passion in writing the story and I wanted somebody to take the story forward. But I still wanted an oversight of the project. So it was collaborative. I did not even attend the shootings, except for three days during which Aparna craftily got me to do a cameo! (laughs)

You have mentioned that journalism is the third front of your writing portfolio.
Well, a very weak third front. If you are a writer in India, people expect you to comment on current affairs. One of the most important things about being a fiction writer is engaging with society. You cannot be a parasite in society and write fiction.

If that engagement calls for commenting in vehicles such as newspapers or magazines, then I do it. But I do it very sparingly and write when I feel completely fired up.

Your engagement is also apparent in your research on Corporate Social Responsibility (CSR). You have likened CSR practices with the Italian Mafia. Why?
Italian Mafia practices CSR by stepping in where the State has failed. In return, they get all kinds of favours: protection, new recruits, etc. I was using the metaphor to show how there are various motivations for doing CSR. Even belligerent organisations practice CSR, and it is therefore self-serving. For example in Madagascar, Rio Tinto is involved in a huge mining project, which in the eyes of Human Rights organisations is screwing up the natural habitats of the country. Tinto, on the other hand, is a huge spender in CSR.

This is why I have somewhat reserved views about CSRs. I don’t feel that window-dressing and brain-washing can be a substitute enough for real engagement with society.

Do you have any advice to young and aspiring writers?
I am in no position to give advice, but the only thing I would say is: “trust your instincts.” Inside your mind is a huge universe in which you will find nuggets that will be worthy of story-telling. Don’t be oversensitive to critics. I will tell you a story:

Marquez, in his early years, met a famous Spanish writer visiting Cartagena, Columbia. Marquez had just written the first draft of “a” novel—which is not the draft that would become A Hundred Years of Solitude. He gave this manuscript to the Spanish author. The later read through parts of the manuscript and said: I’ll give you 2 pieces of advice. One was a very technical piece of advice about “time.” The second piece of advice was: “Never show your unpublished work to anybody.” That was good advice. I see too much diffidence. If you’ve read books, if you’ve imbibed a certain sensibility, and if this the story that you want to tell, do go ahead and tell it.