Tarun Tejpal on finding India's "street voice"

The author talks about his latest novel "The Story of My Assassins".

For someone who was almost assassinated, Tarun Tejpal comes across as remarkably calm. As the founder of Tehelka, the Indian magazine renowned for its ruthless pursuit of public-interest stories, Tejpal was at the centre of a murder bid when in 2001 Tehelka laid bare the immense levels of corruption in the country’s defence industry – including the number of its patrons working in the Indian government at the time. He opens his latest novel The Story of My Assassins with a parody of this incident: the narrator is informed via the evening news that there had been a botched attempt on his life due to his exposure of deep-seated corruption in the state department of agriculture and food.

The similarities end here however, as Tejpal insists his reporter protagonist is not autobiographical. The book, due to be released this week, was born from his desire to gauge the assassins’ mental states and to understand how they could turn from ordinary men into killers. Yet the scope of the book is far more ambitious than that of a fictionalised memoir; it aims to break from the old ways of thinking about India in the hope of portraying its society in all its vastness, complexities and contradictions.

We meet to talk in the ornate surroundings of his friend V S Naipaul’s Kensington flat, which seems a fitting space to hear the musings of one of India’s most influential commentators. He appears well-grounded for someone with such an intense schedule of talks and TV appearances awaiting him. Yet the relaxed exterior masks a raging intellect; his previous novels include The Alchemy of Desire and The Valley of Masks, both of which achieved global success and critical acclaim. Combined with his position as the founder of India Ink, the publishing house that discovered Arundhati Roy, he is ideally placed to muse on what is lacking in modern Indian writing.

“The problem is that Indian literature written in English is far too shallow and sanitised – it comes from and represents only the upper crust of Indian society. I wanted to create something more authentic, where the person reading it might see more than just a country of either mystical snake-charmers, millionaire software experts or people in immense poverty,” he says. “It’s a place of so many contrasting realities, and the true story of India’s underclass is rarely told.”

Although it may be markedly different from anything previously penned by English-speaking authors from the subcontinent, Tejpal is under no illusions about the difficulty of portraying the vast differences in Indian society. Finding a framework for tackling all the material was a challenge, and it came via the detached and acidic narrator, through whose unpitying gaze Tejpal was able to examine what he calls the “street voice” of India: the mixture of profanity, scatology and philosophy existing at every level of the country. “Journalists are able to do this with much greater ease. It’s far easier for me to access sources about what it’s like for people living below the breadline than if I was just a novelist,” he says.

Despite the crusading anti-corruption role that Tehelka is seen to have by many in India in the wake of the defence scandal, Tejpal insists that corruption is not the country's greatest challenge. It not only has greater levels of inequality than sub-Saharan Africa, with over 2m people existing below the poverty line, but ethnic clashes within its borders are rife.

“We have problems in the north-east as well as in Kashmir, and there still exists a class war between Maoists and the state in central India. All these things need to be reconciled, and corruption is only a symptom of it. Great literature often comes when society is in a state of flux, and it can often be a way of synthesising society’s idea of itself.”

When asked whether he thinks India’s writers have a duty to talk about the country’s internal struggles, he insists that the more urgent question is how much they should pander to white audiences. “If writers become too fixated on what the West wants to read about then the narratives can become insincere.” He insists that “as writers we need to tell the story of our people, not just please the publishers. Obviously journalists do this, but it needs to be addressed in the realm of the imagination too.”

Does he still fear for his safety?

He shrugs. “Working with Tehelka is relentless, as it has such a large voice and we put ourselves on the front line every day. You can’t become a journalist if you’re going to worry about the danger. Trouble is part of the territory you buy into.”

Just before our interview finishes, he stresses to me that the greatest danger is of over-simplifying India. “I want to capture the polyphony of it: the glories and the failings, the beauty and the great horrors. You have to be aware that what is true of India is also not true at the same time.”

The Story of My Assassins by Tarun Tejpal is released on 27 September by Melville House.

Tarun Tejpal at the Paris Book Fair in 2010. Photograph: Getty Images

Madeleine Fry is a freelance journalist who has written for the Daily Telegraph, the Financial Times and Open Democracy. She blogs at notarevolution.tumblr.com.

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Women on the edge: new films Jackie and Christine are character studies of haunted women

With their claustrophobic close-ups and desolate wide shots, both films are stunning portraits of life on the brink.

Jacqueline Kennedy and Christine Chubbuck may not have had much in common in real life – the former briefly the US first lady, the latter a put-upon television news reporter in the early 1970s in Sarasota, Florida – but two new films named after them are cut resolutely from the same cloth. Jackie and Christine are character studies of haunted women in which the claustrophobic close-up and the desolate wide shot are the predominant forms of address.

Both films hinge on fatal gunshots to the head and both seek to express cinematically a state of mind that is internal: grief and loss in Jackie, which is set mainly in the hours and days after the assassination of President John F Kennedy; depression and paranoia in Christine. In this area, they rely heavily not only on hypnotically controlled performances from their lead actors but on music that describes the psychological contours of distress.

Even before we see anything in Jackie, we hear plunging chords like a string section falling down a lift shaft. This is the unmistakable work of the abrasive art rocker Mica Levi. Her score in Jackie closes in on the ears just as the tight compositions by the cinematographer Stéphane Fontaine exclude the majority of the outside world. The Chilean director Pablo Larraín knows a thing or two about sustaining intensity, as viewers of his earlier work, including his Pinochet-era trilogy (Tony Manero, Post Mortem and No), will attest. Though this is his first English-language film, there is no hint of any softening. The picture will frustrate anyone hoping for a panoramic historical drama, with Larraín and the screenwriter Noah Oppenheim irising intently in on Jackie, played with brittle calm by Natalie Portman, and finding the nation’s woes reflected in her face.

Bit-players come and go as the film jumbles up the past and present, the personal and political. A journalist (Billy Crudup), nameless but based on Theodore White, arrives to interview the widow. Her social secretary, Nancy Tuckerman (Greta Gerwig), urges her on with cheerleading smiles during the shooting of a stiff promotional film intended to present her warmly to the public. Her brother-in-law Bobby (Peter Sarsgaard) hovers anxiously nearby as she negotiates the chasm between private grief and public composure. For all the bustle around her, the film insists on Jackie’s aloneness and Portman gives a performance in which there is as much tantalisingly concealed as fearlessly exposed.

A different sort of unravelling occurs in Christine. Antonio Campos’s film begins by showing Christine Chubbuck (Rebecca Hall) seated next to a large box marked “fragile” as she interviews on camera an empty chair in which she imagines Richard Nixon to be sitting. She asks of the invisible president: “Is it paranoia if everyone is indeed coming after you?” It’s a good question and one that she doesn’t have the self-awareness to ask herself. Pressured by her editor to chase juicy stories, she goes to sleep each night with a police scanner blaring in her ears. She pleads with a local cop for stories about the darker side of Sarasota, scarcely comprehending that the real darkness lies primarily within her.

For all the shots of TV monitors displaying multiple images of Christine in this beige 1970s hell, the film doesn’t blame the sensationalist nature of the media for her fractured state. Nor does it attribute her downfall entirely to the era’s sexism. Yet both of those things exacerbated problems that Chubbuck already had. She is rigid and off-putting, all severe straight lines, from her haircut and eyebrows to the crossed arms and tight, unsmiling lips that make it difficult for anyone to get close to her. That the film does break through is down to Hall, who illuminates the pain that Christine can’t express, and to the score by Danny Bensi and Saunder Jurriaans. It’s perky enough on the surface but there are cellos sawing away sadly underneath. If you listen hard enough, they’re crying: “Help.” 

Ryan Gilbey is the New Statesman's film critic. He is also the author of It Don't Worry Me (Faber), about 1970s US cinema, and a study of Groundhog Day in the "Modern Classics" series (BFI Publishing). He was named reviewer of the year in the 2007 Press Gazette awards.

This article first appeared in the 19 January 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The Trump era