Line between real and imaginary India is thin, says satirist Gautam Bhatia

In a candid interview with DNA, satirist and architect Gautam Bhatia talks about the making of his latest book Lie, the future of Indian cities and why writing a book in India is always a challenge.

How has your background in architecture affected your evolution as a writer and satirist?
Architecture is entirely responsible for me becoming a satirist. When you are in the construction business in India, the demands your clients sometimes make are so bizarre that even a regular person will turn into a writer. Years ago, when I had just returned from the US with my degree, two brothers from Punjab approached me. They wanted to build a home in Delhi that looked exactly like Thomas Jefferson’s home. It was incredible. The new buildings in Delhi are desperately trying to ape buildings in the West. There have been times when I have stood outside private bungalows and laughed uproariously. Once I was so loud that the owners stepped out to ask me what was so funny. Writing came easily because architecture was funny.
 
What about architecture in Mumbai?
Mumbai is no different. Money is being thrown at bigger cities, so people use steel and glass exteriors just because they can afford them. There is no concept that Mumbai is a distinct city with a distinct culture and the architectural style should reflect that. Most of the new buildings are blindly aping European and American design styles. In our race of becoming a developed country we will  end up losing our identity.
 
What motivated you to write Lie?
Lie was a part of a project called Desh Ki Awaaz — a collaboration between traditional, popular and graphic artists. The book is similar to one of my previous books, Whitewash. The state of affairs in India — the corruption, the nepotism, the greedy politicians who will do anything for money, forest officials who sell off a part of their protected land — inspired me to write this book.
 
Was it easy working with the Jaipur miniaturists?
I wanted a graphic style that can pack in a lot of information and detailing in one panel. The miniaturists are known for this. The artists I have worked with are extremely skilled and intelligent but complex people. For years they have just been drawing the Ramayana and Mahabharata. So when I told them that I required a graphic of a minister pissing against the parliament, they were shocked. I ended up sketching some of the drawings myself eventually and then got them to improvise. They had never worked on a graphic novel before. I had to convince them to draw frames that showed movement.
 
Were there conflicts?
Not really. But our ideas were so diverse. For instance, they were very innocent about the future of India. They did not think that politicians were corrupt and had faith in the Indian system. They also thought that India had a bright future. The challenge was to convince them of my ideas. The drawing part was easy. 
There are a few elements in the story that are very interesting, for instance, the McDonalds logo on the Parliament or the election symbols of political parties, like the greased palm for the Congress.

What were you aiming at?
We had fun with these elements. It added to the story. The McDonalds logo on Parliament was drawn partly to give you an idea that our hallowed institutions are very happy to sell off anything if they get the right price. Frankly, the party symbols in the book — the greased palmed congress, the crying Gandhi — are more appropriate symbols than what the parties have today.

Some of your characters resembled politicians, particularly Indira Gandhi and Lalu Prasad Yadav. Was this a deliberate choice? Can you comment on this?
People react instinctively to familiar faces and situations. When you speak of politicians people immediately think of Lalu Prasad Yadav. In my book Bhola Mishra does resemble Lalu for that reason. The film star looks similar to Amitabh Bachchan and the prime minister to Indira Gandhi. I wanted to give people something that they can relate to. I didn’t want to make the characters abstract or unrecognisable.

India as a country in Lie is fraught with problems and tragedies.
Everything in Lie is exaggerated. The subversion, also, is intentional because I wanted a certain impact. The ministers in reality are not as bad as they are made out to be in the book or not all government employees shirk work. But it often happens that you write an exaggeration of a real situation, thinking it is so absurd and it would never happen; then you read something similar in the newspaper within a few days. There is a very thin line between the real and the imaginary in India.
 
A satire is a diagnosis of what’s wrong. Where would you look for a solution?
We have a very bleak understanding of what we have as a country. India in 20 years is heading towards becoming a 2nd rate America with no identity of its own and we are doing everything possible to get there — the architecture, the technology we invest in. The people running this country have a very regressive view of progress. We behave like we are incapable of solving our problems, constantly trying to ape international models, be it architecture, agricultural policy, or something as simple as city transport. We have shut ourselves to the option of developing our own point of view.

Our cities are the first indicators of where we are heading. Ten years from now, there will be nothing in our cities that will be worth preserving. We are destroying our cities — more cars, larger roads, massive structures. The worst part is that nobody is trying to think or define the kind of life we should try to live. But I am very optimistic of the people who are not in positions of power in India. The common man is our only hope. If he were to take control, I am positive that things would get better. 
 
What are you working on now?
I am working on a satire on the futility of religions in India. It is dangerous territory, but that is what makes it interesting. My friend, a lawyer, keeps warning me against it.  That’s the fun of working in India. You have to constantly keep looking over your shoulder and check if you are being chased by the censor board or religious fanatics.