My father’s beliefs were contradictory; that is, his beliefs about religion. His beliefs were to do with human beings, the future of the country, and, most important, the upbringing of children. Children must be given love and pride of place, but career must be given priority, too, for the opportunities it will provide, eventually, one’s children. God he hardly mentioned at all, except during the crises in his career, when he would mention him philosophically rather than religiously, saying, for instance, “Well, no one can change what God has already determined.” When I write these words about him, I feel I’m not only describing my father but a general figure, someone whom many other people will recognise in their father. Mothers and fathers belong half to fiction, anyway; it’s not as if you’re only their biological offspring; they, too, have reinvented themselves as parents to give you, while you live, the fiction of themselves.

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WHOM DOES ONE write for? At least one of the answers will have to be—“David Davidar.” When I do put my thoughts in order, when I do finally set out on this project, it’s him I shall be thinking of. Because he gives me, and others like me, a valid reason. It gives us hope that someone will rescue our manuscripts, our thoughts put down and carefully typed on paper, from oblivion and eternity. Because I am sure that he doesn’t—I don’t know him, but I have composed him, as an individual with motives and conceptions and almost no prejudices, willy-nilly, piecemeal from what I’ve read from twenty or thirty articles about writing and publishing over the last eight or nine years—I’m sure he doesn’t consign anything to the dustbin until he’s given it a proper chance. And Lord knows, he must have quite a few manuscripts upon his table. Not all of them are from famous people. When he came into our lives about ten or eleven years ago (I can’t remember exactly when), it was as if he wasn’t quite real—we might have dreamed him up. It was as if he’d come from nowhere. But apparently he actually comes from the South; or at least he looks like a South Indian (I’ve seen him on television). One day—not too far from now, I hope—my manuscript will be waiting at his table.

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WHERE TO BEGIN? As I’ve said to you, the only language I have is English. I remember learning longhand in kindergarten, rows of letters, first a series of a’s, then b’s, and so on.

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