Chapter 35: The Book Launch

Jaya's book launches in April.

Not the blog — the book. Doosri Innings: Stories Between Truth and Fiction — published by Westland, edited by a woman named Rhea who Jaya describes as "the only person who has ever made me rewrite a sentence and be: grateful," printed on paper that smells like: possibility and ink and the particular confidence of a debut author who has waited four years for this moment and who is: terrified.

"I can't breathe," Jaya tells me. We're at her apartment in Khar — the apartment that I've never visited because Jaya doesn't host (Jaya writes; hosting is: the opposite of writing, because hosting requires you to care about: other people's comfort, and writing requires you to care about: your own truth). But tonight — the night before the launch — Jaya has invited me over because Jaya needs: a witness. A witness to the terror.

The apartment is: exactly what I expected. Small. Books everywhere — not arranged but accumulated, the way sediment accumulates in a riverbed, layer upon layer, each layer a period of reading that Jaya has never: organised because organisation implies: completion, and Jaya's reading is: never complete. There are books on shelves, on the floor, on the kitchen counter, on the bathroom window ledge (a copy of Interpreter of Maladies balanced on the edge of the tub, warped from steam, evidence that Jaya reads in the: bath).

"What if nobody comes?" Jaya says.

"Forty-eight hundred regular readers. They'll come."

"What if they come and they hate it? The blog is free. The book costs: four hundred and ninety-nine rupees. When you charge for words, people expect the words to be: better. What if the words aren't better? What if the words are: the same, and the same isn't: enough when you're asking someone to pay?"

"The words are extraordinary. Rhea said so. Kavitha said so. I've read the book — I said so. The words are: extraordinary."

"You're my friend. Friends lie."

"I'm your friend and I don't lie. I told you your dal was too salty last week and you didn't speak to me for: three hours."

"The dal was: perfectly seasoned."

"The dal was: an ocean. And the book is: extraordinary. Stop. Breathe. Make chai."

She makes chai. The Jaya chai — strong, black, no milk, no sugar, the chai of a woman who takes her stimulants: undiluted, the way she takes her truth: undiluted. The chai that I've been drinking at the juice bar for a year and that I've learned to: appreciate, the way you appreciate all acquired tastes — not immediately but with: time.

The launch is at Kitaabghar. The bookstore where I met Chetan — the bookstore that is: not just a bookstore but a nexus, the place where lives intersect and stories begin. Kitaabghar's owner, Meera (not Chetan's Meera — a different Meera, because Mumbai produces Meeras the way it produces: autorickshaws — in abundance), has given Jaya the main hall.

The hall is: full. Not the full of a bestseller launch (that's: five hundred people, spotlights, television cameras). The full of a debut launch — seventy people, which is: exactly right, because seventy people who chose to be here is: better than five hundred people who were: invited. These seventy people came because they read Doosri Innings online and because the writing moved them and because they want to: see the person behind the words.

I'm in the front row. Beside me: Vandana (purple, because Vandana treats book launches as: fashion events and fashion events as: opportunities). Aditi (who has read every blog post and who considers Jaya "the only writer on the internet who doesn't annoy me"). Sunaina (white, candle-steady, the stillness at the centre). Jai (with his camera, shooting, because Jai shoots everything now — the man who stopped has: started, and the starting is: unstoppable). Nikhil (who reads Jaya's blog because "a good blog is: better than most novels, and Jaya's blog is: a good blog"). Kamini (who flew in from Jaipur because "a book launch is: a blessing, and blessings require: attendance").

And Chetan. Chetan who knows what a book launch means — the exposure, the vulnerability, the moment when the private act of writing becomes: public. Chetan who published three novels and who knows that the moment a book enters the world, the book is: no longer yours. It belongs to: everyone who reads it.

Jaya reads.

She reads from Chapter 7 of the book — the chapter titled "The Day I Stopped Saying Fine." The chapter where the fictional Jaya (or is it the real Jaya? — this is autofiction, the boundary is: the point) stops saying "I'm fine" after her divorce and starts saying: what she actually feels. The chapter where she stands in a supermarket in Khar and someone asks "how are you?" and instead of "fine" she says: "My husband left me and I can't decide between penne and fusilli and I think fusilli might be: a metaphor for my life, which is spiral-shaped and: going nowhere."

The audience laughs. The laughter that a debut author hears for the first time from: strangers. Not friends-laughter (friends laugh because they know you). Stranger-laughter. The laughter of seventy people who are hearing your voice for the first time in: real life and who are laughing because the voice is: funny. Genuinely funny. The funny that comes from truth, not from jokes.

Jaya looks up from the book. She looks at: us. The front row. The people who have been listening to her voice for a year — at the juice bar, in the changing room, on Carter Road walks — and who are now listening to her voice in: print. In a book. In a physical object that will sit on shelves and in bags and on bathroom window ledges and that will outlast: everything.

"This book," Jaya says, putting down the text and speaking to the room, "is dedicated to eight casual acquaintances who became: everything. You know who you are. And if you don't — read the: acknowledgements."

The acknowledgements. I've read them. Jaya sent me an advance copy and the acknowledgements say:

To Madhuri, who arrived in salwar kameez and taught me that starting over is not an ending. To Vandana, who dresses for every occasion because every occasion deserves beauty. To Sunaina, who taught us that the floor doesn't change lanes. To Cheryl, who is in Connecticut but whose Hawaiian shirt is: permanent in our hearts. To Aditi, who said no and in saying no said: yes. To Jai, who hid thirty-seven masterpieces and needed to be told: not maybe. To Nikhil, who stepped back with grace. To Chetan, who walks Marine Drive every morning and pours chai for: love.

To all the women who are living their doosri innings. The second innings is: always the one where the real game happens.

I cry. The crying that a person does when a person sees themselves in: someone else's words. The crying that books produce when books are: true. Not factually true — emotionally true. The truth that makes you think: she knows me. She wrote me. She put me in: sentences.

After the reading, signing. Seventy copies. Jaya signs each one with the focus of a woman who is touching each book as if the book is: a person, because to Jaya, books are: people. Each copy is a relationship. Each signature is: a handshake.

I hand her my copy. She signs it:

To Mar — who made the second cup stronger than the first. Pehli se zyada kadak. — Jaya

I hold the book. The weight of it — the physical weight of two hundred and sixty pages of a friend's truth, printed on paper, bound in a cover that shows: a woman's silhouette, the silhouette of: any woman, every woman, the woman who starts over.

"Congratulations," I say.

"Thank you for: existing," she says. "In January. In salwar kameez. At Seaside Fitness. Thank you for: arriving."