Siddhartha Gigoo shot to limelight with his novel The Garden of Solitude, set against the backdrop of the Kashmir conflict, the displacement of Pandits from Kashmir and their lives in exile.  He refuses to be drawn into a conversation on the politics of Kashmir but is willing to share with us his views on life in Kashmir and his writing. He feels that the Kashmir issue is multi-layered in its complexity. Moreover, it is painful when one recollects the loss of the Kashmiri people (during the last 20 years), the suffering and the collapse of human relationships, the dementia of the old exiles and the predicament of many others who lost their homes and sought shelter in cramped camps and never opened their luggage with the hope of returning to their homeland someday.

After migrating from Kashmir due to the political turmoil and armed insurgency, Siddhartha settled in Udhampur, a small town near the Jammu province. He chose to study as a private student and sought solace in classical music and writing. He took lessons in Hindustani classical music from two musicians who were also living in exile. Siddhartha developed interest in reading and writing from an early age. Being a lover of Romanticism he wanted to write a love story set somewhere in the wilderness in Ladakh. But eventually the story took a different shape and became a subplot in his novel, The Garden of Solitude.

The team in conversation with the boy-at-heart Siddhartha Gigoo, who once left everything and went to Varanasi to convince Ustad Bismillah Khan to accept him as his part-time disciple.

Have you found your solitude?

Solitude can never be attained so easily. I believed that writing could be redemptive, but it is not. The more one plunges deep into the abyss, the more conscious one becomes of one’s own limitations. Having learnt classical music for many years, I get very conscious of the inadequacy of the words and sentences I compose. Notes of a raga become a benchmark for me. How can one perfect a line or a passage and make it comparable to the lilting notes of a raga? But yes, the search for inner solitude continues. The journey and the quest are quite exciting….

How did you start writing?

I was passionate about classical music. So, I learnt how to play the flute from two gurus — Bushan Kaul, a sitarist and Anil Raina, a renowned flutist. They taught me how to do ‘riyaz’. For years all I did was ‘riyaz’ for 5-6 hours a day. On certain days when I didn’t have music lessons, I tried my hand at writing poetry. The poems I wrote were amateur. In 1994, when I was in the second year of college, I collected my poems, got them typed and sent them to many publishers. They were rejected. I wondered if I would ever be able to get my poems published in the form of a book and it was then that I sent my poems to Writers Workshop in Calcutta. We were living as migrants in a rented one-room set in Udhampur those days and there was no email. So I exchanged letters with P Lal and he wrote back in brilliant calligraphy. He took some time and filtered my work and brought out a collection, Fall and Other Poems. I was very excited to see my poems published.

When I leaf through the book now, I feel that it is just immature poetry. But then, who am I to sit on judgment of something I wrote when I was a teenager and when I had nothing much to do?

Poetry is addictive. I continued writing and sent another collection of poems to Writers Workshop. In 1996 Reflections came out. It contained 30 poems. I started writing short stories too. Some of them got published in journals. I started participating in poetry reading sessions and it was interesting to meet other poets. Most of the migrant poets wrote on exile. Love poetry interested me and I continued writing love poems. To keep myself busy, I became a columnist for a local English daily. I wrote for 6-7 months and then moved to Delhi to pursue M.A. in English Literature at JNU.

Sadly, I gave up music and writing in Delhi. I went through an existential crisis of sorts at one point of time. Studies bored me and I started fretting about what to do next. I didn’t want to pursue higher education. I wondered if I would be able to get a job. Years later, I started writing again. Every evening I would write a page or so. A novel took shape, slowly. It was a struggle to find my ground and be disciplined. But that phase was wonderful. I was living in an imaginary world, surrounded by characters and events. That’s how it all began. Writing is not a profession, but a hobby. And I enjoy being a hobbyist. Sometimes one writes just for oneself. It is the joy of writing for the sake of writing that excites me. Every time I begin a paragraph, I feel I am a beginner.

Tell us about your tryst with leftism at JNU.

JNU and its Leftism left me bewildered. I had read nothing of Karl Marx and knew very little of Socialism. It was ironical considering that I was studying in a university which was founded on the ideals of Socialism. It was hard not to expose my ignorance. I was a fresher and a hosteller, and thus a potential candidate who could be easily persuaded to join the Leftists. It was not easy to keep away from the dominant ideology. As a student in such a progressive university, I came to have fancy notions about idealism.

Students in JNU were very serious about ideology and politics. I was a bit carefree and didn’t care much about academic things. I was going through a critical phase and lacked conviction in the various ‘isms’ which were floating around. Yet, I got along well with everyone, the rightwingers and the leftists. Somehow I managed to keep aloof from the din and the humdrum of it all. When Chandrashekhar, the Students’ Union President, was murdered, I joined the students’ protest. He was an acquaintance and a great leader. One day we were protesting at the Bihar House in New Delhi. Someone said to me, ‘Education means nothing if you do not protest against inhuman acts.’ I was struck by it. I had seen protests in Kashmir. I knew what it was to be part of a mob amid a dangerous situation. I knew what it was to be among the protestors amid a violent clash between two groups. I had my own ways of dealing with situations.

I left JNU after my MA and couldn’t keep disillusionment at bay.

How was the experience of getting your first book published?

Getting published is not a piece of cake. One needs to be patient and preparedfor rejections. My first novel faced rejections too. Racy stuff sells easily. Publishers in India mostly look for novels which have mass market appeal. After all publishers make investments and expect good returns. First timers like me need a lot of luck.

When I visit a bookstore and look at newly published novels, I see most with a ‘National Bestseller’ tag. People pick them and want to finish them at one go. Many young authors are game changers. They have created an entirely new segment of readers – college going kids, housewives, corporate folks, retirees, among others.

It took me about two years to get published. I didn’t know how publishing works. For loners it is all the more difficult.

It is important that someone who reads and evaluates your writing should understand and appreciate your vision.

Not all what gets published in India today is good – in terms of literary merit. I talk of fiction mostly. But one has to understand the psyche of the readers. Be conscious of their demands. Be aware of the new trends. The role of literature is evolving with the times. Not all people seek to broaden their experience and understanding of human life and the world. Many seek an escape. They look for entertainment. In this context, as a writer, I have to make my choice. And be prepared to struggle.

How painful was it to revisit your childhood while writing “The Garden of Solitude”?

After leaving Kashmir, we moved to a rented accommodation near a camp in Udhampur, a small hill town on the outskirts of Jammu. Despite living in a wretched condition, I took things in their stride. The sight of the displaced and homeless people living in camps (canvas tents) was dreadful. I tried to cultivate detachment – in a slightly philosophical sense. I had a feeling that the terrible days would not last long and that good times would return. ‘This too shall pass,’ I would think.

Years later, while writing my novel, when I reminisced about those days – my childhood in Kashmir, the violence during the militancy era, the migration, and the initial years spent in exile – I became conscious of my memory. I would wander into the past, trying to relive the memories. I was overcome with a sense of despair when I went to Jammu some years back and saw some migrants still housed in camps. They had become used to a wretched life in the camps and that for me was horrifying. It is this faint remembrance of shared pain which made me go on and on while writing the novel. When I look back, I see interesting upheavals and adventures.

How has the response been from people around you? How did you handle the critics?

Many readers and reviewers said good and interesting things. Some not-so-favourable reviews also came out. Given the responses, I feel people read my book at different levels – particularly in the context of the divide between the Kashmiri Muslims and the Kashmiri Pandits (which is a debatable topic even these days) and the perceptions of the two communities on Kashmir’s troubled past and present. There is so much divergence and ambivalence in these perceptions.

Some readers pointed out that the novel was ‘too balanced’ so far as ‘representations’ were concerned. Inevitably, there were a couple of reviews too, criticising me of bias and prejudice. With fiction one can do anything. So I enjoyed reading the reviews. I took all criticism positively. Some scholars wrote academic papers on the book.

I was overwhelmed when some migrants from the camps said that this was one of the few books they had ever read in their lives and that they found their lives in it. Such responses are a source of inspiration. Reviews don’t matter much.

Overall, so far as responses are concerned I am satisfied. So far as writing is concerned, I have got to work towards improvement.

The times were very difficult. What prompted your family to move out of Kashmir ?

Pandits started leaving their homes in January 1990 because they feared for their lives. There was mistrust and suspicion when some Pandits were killed by the militants. Many militant groups pasted posters on the walls asking Pandits to leave the Valley. Many Pandits got death threats. Those days, there were no such things as community welfare associations where people could sit together and assess the situation and make wise decisions. The uprising intensified and resembled a war-like situation. Every day there were clashes between the militants and the security forces. Curfew was imposed for days. Fear ruled in the hearts of people. Many people thought that Azadi was around the corner. Pandits thought that Kashmir was becoming Pakistan. Such were those times….and it is not easy for me to analyse the situation, given the socio-politico-historical background of Kashmir. The truth is that we left out of fear and a sense of persecution, thinking that we would return soon once the violence ended and the situation normalised. But it was not just about the violence or the militancy, but about people, their likes and dislikes, their aspirations and ideological and political affiliations, their choices and preferences…….

Please continue…

The two communities got divided on sectarian and religious lines. Affection turned into bitterness. Friends turned into foes. The militants had an agenda and a mission. Some extremist militant groups wanted to rid Kashmir of the ‘infidels’. The Pandits were pro-India and chose to leave. Pandits were perceived to be a commuity of learned men, predominantly from the service class.  We’ve never had a warrior-like attitude.

People analyse the events that led to the exodus of the Pandits. Some see conspiracy behind it. Others blame the Muslims for hounding us out. Militants were responsible for it all.

Our silent departure from our homes heralded a strange arrival to new beginnings. And in this journey from one home to an unfamiliar one, we discovered some new roots.

How was life as a migrant?

We lived in abject conditions during the initial years. We were a family of 6 and lived in one small room for a few years. Thousands lived in sheds, barns, canvas camps and makeshift migrant shelters set up in schools, temples and government buildings. It continued for years.

My father is a lover of art. To distract us from wallowing in self-pity, he decorated the walls of the room with reproductions of the paintings of Picasso and Dali. The room became an art gallery of sorts.

Yet it was impossible to stave off deprivation and alienation. During the monsoons life was an ordeal. I remember one night my parents spent hours chasing snakes and insects out of the room. It was a question of survival for many of our neighbours who had to live without proper sanitation and make both ends meet on the meagre relief money doled to them by the government. Yet, we were not alone. The conditions were the same for all the migrants. For families from the villages, it was worse. They lost their livelihood when they migrated. They brought along nothing and had no choice but to fight for their survival in shanty tents.

But, in retrospect, I feel the journey has been rewarding and fulfilling in many ways. It brought us together, taught us how to live through and face difficult times.

You went back as a tourist thrice. Was that an intention different from just tour? Any interesting anecdote you remember?

Some yeas back, I went to Kashmir after more than 15 years. I was on a pilgrimage to the Amarnath cave. On my way back I happened to visit my old house in downtown of Srinagar. It was an unplanned visit. A family which lived there trusted me, a stranger, and allowed me to spend sometime in the rooms.  I roamed in the neighbourhood streets for a while. A middle-aged woman spotted me, stood in front of me and asked me to recognise her. When even after some moments, I was not able to recognise her, she slapped me gently and said,’ You were a boy when you used to come to our place with your father….We were neighbours….’ She sighed and so did I.

One of my friends narrated an anecdote. He had a different experience while visiting his house in Verinag after eighteen years. His house had been razed to the ground. A shopping complex stood at the place where once his house was.

Given an opportunity would you like to go back and settle?

I’ve thought about this several times. We sold our house for a small amount. Now only emotional ties remain. A memory! A longing! I live in Delhi now. I wonder if Pandits will ever get to return to their homeland. I imagine the future and wonder what it will hold for us.

What according to you is the biggest pain that people in exile suffer from?

I will speak for myself. When my grandparents left their ancestral house in Kashmir and lived as migrants they never gave up hope. My grandmother still calls Kashmir ‘my  home’. She continues to wait for the day she can be home. Even after more than 20 years I can see the waiting in her eyes. The yearning! The abiding sense of loss! The hope!

Poetry or short stories?

Writing shorts stories is daunting. I started with poetry and then switched to prose. When I write a poem,  I can paint a cloud red or yellow. A river can flow backwards. But then I feel that words become hollow in poems.

Your favourite writers?

I am an admirer of Nikos Kazantzakis, Hermann Hesse, Thomas Mann, Garcia Marquez, Faulkner, John Fowles, Maugham, Mishima, Danilo Kis, Sebald, Boleno, Salman Rushdie, Dostoevsky and many others.