Works in Progress (2021)

By Richard Crasta

"Works in Progress (2021)" is a smorgasbord of nine widely varying pieces: joyful, contemplative, humorous, serious (a public interest essay), personal essays, and dark stories, many of which are almost ready to publish independently, but will cost much more if purchased separately. The memory tax, family pride and ancestor snobbery placed in context (Letters to the Dead), our attitudes to beggars, stories about fatherhood, some tools that may come in handy when talking to writers (or else, or for writers dealing with the public), and many others.

 

Real life is a combination of light and dark moments, and though I am often known for my humor and satire, there are untold stories within me that demand to be told, that would kill me not to tell them. A writer who fails to tell his stories is untrue to himself. This is why "Works in Progress (2021)" is a book I call upon all my true friends to read. Please, please, please: you don't know who I am, what I am hiding, and what burdens I am carrying, until you read at least this one book of mine, in which I keep my promise to myself and to my readers: to tell my truth.

 

Why do I publish this book now? Because, feeling the fragility of life especially keenly at this moment in my life, I never know which book could be my last published book. And every moment is precious.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Invisible Man Press
• Release date: Jan 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393127499

Richard Crasta

Richard Crasta is the India-born, long-time New York-resident author of "The Revised Kama Sutra: A Novel" and 12 other books, with at least 12 more conceived or in progress. "The Revised Kama Sutra," a novel about a young man growing up and making sense of the world and of sex, was described by Kurt Vonnegut as "very funny," and has been published in ten countries and in seven languages.Richard's books include fiction, nonfiction, essays, autobiography, humor, and satire with a political edge: anti-censorship, non-pc, pro-laughter, pro-food, pro-beer, and against fanaticism of any kind. His books have been described as "going where no Indian writer has gone before," and attempt to present an unedited, uncensored voice (James Joyce, Vladimir Nabokov, and Philip Roth are among the novelists who have inspired him.).Richard was born and grew up in India, joined the Indian Administrative Service, then moved to America to become a writer, and has traveled widely. Though technically still a New York resident, he spends most of his time in Asia working on his books in progress and part-time as a freelance book editor.

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Works in Progress (2021)

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Richard Crasta

Copyright © 2020, 2021 Richard Crasta

All rights reserved. The contents of this book may not be reproduced by any means except for brief quotations for the purposes of legitimate review.

All characters are fictional, unless specifically stated to be otherwise. Any perceived resemblances to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

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Published by the Invisible Man Press, New York

Author’s website: http://www.richardcrasta.com

Table of Contents

Dedication

Preface

Letters to the Dead: Volume 1, Chapter 2

The Western Beggar

Fatherhood: Chapter One

Fatherhood: Chapter Two

Fatherhood, Chapter Three

Fatherhood, Chapter Four

Fatherhood: Chapter Five

Fatherhood: Chapter Six

Fatherhood: Chapter Seven

Father, Interrupted

To Kurt Vonnegut, June 1998

Preface to Long Essay on Memory

Memory

Lord Bush of Iraq

Act I: The Discovery of the Treacherous SWMDs

Act II: Dubya’s Dream of Daddy Bush’s Dream About His Family Heritage And Burden

Act III, Scene 1: Oh Let My Bombs Fly on Wings of Prayer

Act III Scene ii: The Holy Dream of Lord Dubya Busholini

Act IV:  Rough Beasts Over Baghdad

Act V: If You’re Not With Us, We’ll Vaporize You

Are You Famous? Should I Know You?

Do You Want Fries With That?

Preface to Fatherhood

Addicted to Sex, or to Love?

Other Books by Richard Crasta

About the Author

Dedication

To my sons Rohit, Dev, and James

Preface

Acutely aware, in this year of Covid-2020, that life is a gift that can be withdrawn at any second, I feel that I do not, any longer, have the luxury, nor afford the arrogance, of waiting for perfection for any of these short books, on which I have spent much time, emotion, and reflection. One of these books I had hidden out of concern and love for my children, with whom I was repairing a damaged post-divorce connection infused by tumultuous emotions and profound love.

Actually, by now, the title Works in Progress is a kind of copout, or an act of humility, one that states that nothing is final for me, that I am always open to rethinking my conclusions, and that my stories and voice are just one tiny strand in the vast tapestry of human history and thinking.

To tell the truth—the deep truth, as I see it—has been one of the passions of my writing life. Also, to trust the creative process, to believe that much of what I have written was meant to be published and read, and therefore what I owe to the world regardless of short-term obstacles: writing being for me a mission, a calling, rather than a choice—it is what I have always believed, though not with consistent passion.

I now believe that perfection is an illusion, or a subjective judgment. To further delay publication while waiting for perfection may be an excuse concocted by my Inner Coward. And I am tired of my excuses, of fooling myself. And I do not believe that I have the right to postpone these and other books. To some extent, you write for yourself; but you also live in, benefit from, and are the product of a society, and this society deserves to hear what you have to say. An artist is, in some sense, an enabler of democracy and discourse, of feeling and self-discovery.

So why have I included in it some works that stand alone as short humorous books or essays? To make this otherwise serious book more palatable, and more varied, and because those short independently published essays/stories haven’t gotten the audience they deserve.

Thank you for giving this book your trust and your time and ... hopefully, your love.

Letters to the Dead: Volume 1, Chapter 2

Dear Ancestor Bwa-wa-wa (Ancestor Homo Erectus* to the Crasta and Coelho family, circa 2 million B.C., Africa, and possible cousin to the Great Apes):

Whether or not you’re actually a Homo Erectus or a Homo heidelbergensis (I hear Great-great-greatest Grandma’s nickname for you was Erectus, because you were in nearly all her friends’ pants in those pants-less and pantie-less days), I’m writing to you for permission and wisdom in responding to a possible dispute between two of your descendants, one of whom is a Coelho, and another a Crasta, both related to you, though the Crasta family tree is lost in the mists of history (possibly used as firewood by Portuguese padres)—yes history, which the too-pious, rosary-novena-prayer-obsessed Catholic community only began to record in the late 20th Century, relying on scraps of paper from here and there.

Though much in Mr. Coelho’s letter deserves a fuller response (that my team of historians and lawyers, headed by Rudy Giuliani, are composing), I will confine myself, for now, to debunking one myth that has long persisted among the upper and upper middle classes: that the Jesuits—and all the clergy in general—treated their students and members of their flocks grandly (as it treated them), and gave all students, regardless of their family name and wealth, a fair chance of equal opportunity to reach their goals—and all thanks to the munificence of a few illustrious moneybags and fat cats whose gravestones and bones form the foundation of the Milagres Church.

Suffice it to say that late in the 1920s, your illustrious descendant (and my father) John Baptist Crasta, a future author and prisoner of war, who had walked from Kinnigoli to Mangalore to join St. Aloysius High School, was curtly informed by the Jesuit headmaster that he wouldn’t be allowed to appear for the final Matriculation exam that was just days ahead because, being poor, he was behind in his school fees. My shocked and distraught father walked back to Kinnigoli to tell his mother, who dashed off to the local parish priest and pleaded for help. The parish priest, a soft-hearted man who was more Christian than the headmaster, helped my father to sit for his exams, which he passed, shortly thereafter commencing his distinguished career by shoveling coal in Karachi (well, you have to start at the bottom, unless you are a Coelho or an Albuquerque, I suppose?). He joined the British Indian Army two years later as an NCO (which would have been impossible without his high school diploma), and later was sucked into the Second World War.

Around 12 years after my father’s St. Aloysius College experience, his younger brother, Bonaventure (Bonu) Crasta, was kicked out of the eighth standard because he had not paid his school fees on time. Instead of complaining to his mother, he ran away to Bombay, where he slept on the streets until he found his way to modest (compared to his fellow dropout Bill Gates) business success. Unlike my father, who respected priests as if they were gods, my uncle was very cynical about them because, for a few miserable rupees, these men of God had ruined his chance of getting an education. Later, other men of God and godly Catholic sheep gave him a hell of a time for marrying a Konkana Saraswath Brahmin, instead of the Catholic he was required to marry to save his soul.

Around 38 years later, my father’s son (i.e. me), who was at the top of his class in most subjects, was forced by the godly principal, Father L.F. Rasquinha, to repeat every class in the B.A. for an entire year, because, being bored out of his mind by the droning and soporific Political Science teacher, Mr. J.M. Rebello, he had bunked a few classes in order to be better entertained at New Chitra cinema, or reading a book, sometimes an anatomically informative book (especially to make up for a Jesuit educational lacuna)—resulting in being short of minimum attendance by around 4 percent (56% instead of 60%). Would this have happened to the sons of the wealthy, of the big families, or of police commissioners? I can tell you anecdotes about differential treatment for the well-off and the children of the unknown or lower classes, but will reserve that for another letter. Father Stany Vas, the vice principal, was opposed to this draconian punishment, felt a case could be made to condone my absence; but he was powerless against the iron-fisted Fr. Rasquinha, who had received reports that, in Religion class, I had questioned the existence of God—possibly his real grouse. But had he not failed us by providing us with a teacher much inferior to the standards of the college (Mr. Victor, Mr. Hebbar, Mr. Shanker Bhat, Fr. Terence Colaco, were all good enough or outstanding and inspiring teachers—especially Mr. Victor, who introduced me to Shakespeare with fire in his voice)? Had he been appointed because of his religion or some relationship to a member of the establishment? Political Science was in fact a fascinating subject, as I discovered in preparing for the I.A.S. Exam (alone, self-taught), and in the Academy (not to say in Trumpian America).

The punishment devastated my father, who reacted with shame, anger, depression, and dark predictions, and for nearly a year, friends questioned my mental health, relatives shunned me, and my father never forgave me until I made it into the IAS.

I, luckily, survived this, using these repeat classes for reading and writing under the table, and living to have my voice be heard one day and even translated into a few languages. But how many voiceless poor have similar stories of their lives being ruined by unjust priests and being stamped with the label inferior by a class-obsessed society? And whose stories you don’t hear because they are not distinguished and privileged enough as to make it to this forum (or any other)? And how many government forms did the college fill out with less than complete scrupulousness, given that government forms often ask unjust or unanswerable questions (one being the tourist visa form, which until recently required you to state your religion, giving no option for no religion or atheist)?

Finally, writers are supposed to ask questions. What exactly does it mean to say I am proud of my father/grandfather/great-great-etc? That I am taking credit for their achievements? For me to say I am proud of my son/daughter: that’s a different matter. Because, though they deserve 98% of the credit, I did indeed have a hand in raising my children, and bad or vicious parenting could have damaged them; besides which, to say, I am proud of you, son, would in fact feel good to a son, warm his heart, make him stronger, perhaps, in the continuing struggle that is life for most of us. But isn’t taking credit for being from India, where we invented yoga and the zero, which produced the Google CEO—a bit of a stretch, if not more? Why not: I’m proud to be from the planet that sent a man to the moon? On the other hand, I am proud of you, Bwa-wa-wa, because without your antics and priapic gifts, I might not be here.

Your humble but proud descendant,

Richard Crasta

Author of Impressing the Whites, The Killing of an Author, Country Matters, What We All Need Works in Progress (2021) etc. and essayist/editor of Eaten by the Japanese: A Memoir of Unknown Indian Prisoner of War.

*P.S.: The honorific Erectus has nothing