George Subraj: A Stellar Blessing to the Writer

I fetched this burden, not like a ponderous cross to some fatal moment of crucifixion, but I walked, lived, laughed, wept and slept with it in a duality of duty and rebellion, in a vacillation between life and death, yet in a mingling of creation and perfection. With the Muse’s eyes always fixed on me, with the god’s voice harsh and imperative, with the angel’s smiles tempting and soothing, I traversed heavens, hells and human planes to locate a language of universes, ages, and civilizations. In this journey I searched for treasuries of words and imageries to exalt the human mind to the status of a regency infinite, luminous and invincible. Thus, in this burden to carve words into jewels, to translate human ways for the understanding of beings of the higher worlds, to write with a passion to satiate gods and goddesses, I became a stranger, even an apathy, to the materialistic mind averse to cosmic extravagance. Hence, like other writers hurled into such a plight, I suffered in mortal existence: in poverty, derision, rejection and exploitation. This confession, though a dark chamber of my innermost self, it is soft and tender, heralding an abridged introduction to a book one day I must write, a book that will also celebrate the life of a man, George Subraj, who has stepped into the writer’s world with a benevolence worthy of the brightest constellations. My book will glorify him as a man who had rescued me from the dungeons of human despair, a liberator who had unfettered me from my long years of anguished chains, a benediction who has given me the highest place of human recognition, a simple teacher who has taught me that we mortals are parallels to the beings of celestial kingdoms. Now I am writing in a style to celebrate a great moment, writing in such a way to affirm that my Muse, the god or angel had done me no wrong, no injustice, no trickery, no annihilation. They had only led me into a long trail, into a labyrinth of excruciating trials, for me to arrive at a sweet and golden destination, to be welcomed by surprises, gratitude, and acknowledgment, where George Subraj has become one of my brightest sanctuaries. My story with George Subraj was a sudden one, unplanned, flippant and without expectations. It began one day when I called up my brother, Jaskarran Persaud, and asked him to take me around to a few people and persuade them to buy my books. In a bid to publish my doctoral dissertation into two books, I had decided to raise money by selling my already published books. Publishing my dissertation (an academic thesis titled Sanskrit Aesthetics and Theory, and a novel, A River Dreams Red), I thought, will give light to the strenuous, scholarly, artistic and literary work I did in my doctoral program, a major effort that will certainly give me just visibility in the academic and literary worlds to place me as a writer and scholar of immense significance. On a Monday morning we went to George Subraj’s office on Hillside Avenue, an elegant place with a huge sign on the façade of a resplendent building. We walked through halls, corners, corridors and passages to reach a reception area designed, organized and embellished as one of the finest places of Indo-Caribbean business and success. At once I felt the air of courtesy, geniality and acceptance, a feeling that I was in my own home, my own zone, the ambience of writers and angels. George Subraj came out a few minutes later and ushered us into his office, then without any preambles asked what I really wanted. I told him that I was selling my books to raise money to publish the books of my doctoral dissertation, and handed him a few bundles of my books together with the manuscript of Sanskrit Aesthetics and Theory. He flipped pages and looked at me severely. I winced a little and thought he would say that he was not interested in my work. Instead, he asked me what would be the cost of the publication of Sanskrit Aesthetics and Theory. I told him four thousand dollars with one of the best publishers, Xlibris, an arm of Random House. Then he said: “Churaumanie, you are a scholar and a great writer in New York. A man like you I would like to help, and I will help you. I will pay for the publication of your book, Sanskrit Aesthetics and Theory.” I felt stunned, holding back an exclamation of torrential emotions. No one had ever spoken to me like that, so prompt, direct and final, then fulfilled a promise with a nod of the highest decency and generosity: Three weeks later he wrote a check of four thousand dollars payable to Xlibris. Thus George Subraj, in the caliber of a philanthropist and benevolence, has sent a message to all Indian organizations of the Western Hemisphere, to act with a special gesture to creative writers, not to praise them with dry lips, but to help them in solid ways without false promises. This message is vital since two main Indian organizations in New York talked effusively about helping me as a scholar and writer, but when the real moment came they did not help me but turn to the fulfilling of their own personal missions. Simple people, though, helped me. I cannot forget Gordon Pooran and Alan Jewat who helped to publish a small book of mine locally. I cannot forget Jewan Chowtie who helped me in small ways when my nose was below water. And how could I forget Pandit Seeratan and other pandits who bought my books! What these people did was to make a crown, a beautiful one, for George Subraj to shine on as a jewel. Truly, I am elated to get money to publish the first book of my doctoral dissertation, but I am more elated to meet a stalwart like George, a man of truth, humane ways and brilliance. My meeting him reminded me of my Yaddo experience. Yaddo is a literary paradise that gave me a break in my writing career when the administrators and judges of that organization announced that I had won the Vera Rubin Residency Award, one of the most prestigious literary awards of the world. This was a moment of my greatest exaltation. Now George Subraj has heightened this moment beyond what my pen could strive to say. He has not only given me honor but also has BY CHURAUMANIE BISSUNDYAL I did not choose writing as my career. The Muse or some stringent god, or even a coaxing, sweet-voiced angel must have had thrust upon me an oppressive burden to scourge my imagination in the relentless journey of my fragile life. made a divine statement to all writers, past, present and future. In a sort of way, he, too, has become an expression of angels, the infrastructure to house and celebrate literary exuberance. My pandit friends and many others had told me the good things George had done, from the ineffable deed of a kidney transplant to generous donations to educational institutions and mandirs. But, for me, he has elevated himself into a celestial prophecy to let me know that greater moments await my long days of writing, to reward my struggle to form greater garlands of phrases and imageries, all in my days of testing trails and trials. Hence no writer can ask for more. George reminds me of a great philosopher who once said that gods, goddesses, and angels play games with the writer for him to find his invincibility and genius. And now I am seeing a light at the end of the tunnel. So I pray for a stellar benevolence like George Subraj, and many more, to continue pouring their bounteous warmth and generosity on the lives of the writer, on us who live angelically on words and beauty for the exaltation of the human spirit.