You’ve spoken about your father’s library shaping your early love for reading and writing. Growing up in Kerala’s small coastal town of Varkala, what was your early relationship with reading, and what kinds of books did you read?

Small towns can be brutal to a lonely child, especially before the advent of the Internet and satellite television. In childhood, I had no friends, nowhere to go, and no dreams to chase. So I started spending more time in the home library, which was well stocked with classics and contemporary literature. Thankfully, pulp fiction had no place in my father’s vast collection of books. And I had no other option than to read what was available: V.S. Naipaul, George Orwell, Graham Greene, William Faulkner, Marquez, Christopher Isherwood, Milan Kundera, Saul Bellow, and John Updike. My literary career would have taken a different path if we had fewer books at home.

Before publishing your first novel in 2011, you wrote in relative obscurity with several unpublished manuscripts. What kept you going during those years, and how did the early rejections and years of unpublished writing shape the writer you are today?

Each rejection indeed shattered me, but it also gave me the strength to write more. Even when I was turned down by publisher after publisher and agent after agent, I knew I would get at least one book published. So, I kept writing until I could get that one book written. And by the time I got my first book deal, I had three other manuscripts ready for submission.

You have an extensive background in advertising. How has it shaped your approach to storytelling and crafting narratives in your novels?

I keep advertising and writing as two separate streams of my life. Advertising demands an entirely different craft and a totally different skill set. And the sense of satisfaction advertising brings is short-lived. I am in advertising to earn a living, and I write books to preserve myself.

Which writers and authors from your formative years have profoundly influenced your own writing style and thematic concerns?

My favourite authors were V.S. Naipaul, George Orwell, and Graham Greene. But their books crushed my confidence as an aspiring writer more than influenced me. What I learned from their books is invaluable, though. If you want to be heard, you need to listen to your inner voice and write honestly and boldly about what you feel.

Anees Salim frames death as central to his storytelling, which is a defining feature of The Blind Lady’s Descendants. | Photo Credit: By Special Arrangement

Death is a constant theme in your novels—from The Blind Lady’s Descendants to The Bellboy. What draws you to this theme, and does it stem from your own experiences or anxieties about death?

Death has always been an interesting subject for me. Death has more dimensions than life. Very early in my life, I formed this idea that graveyards are the most fertile land for fiction, and each funeral is a synopsis of the book the deceased wanted to write but could not. Death sneaks into my narratives as naturally as it does in life outside fiction. And why not? How can you talk about life without talking about death?

The day you die, everyone evaluates your life kindly; probably that is the only day when the world sees virtues even in your follies, magnanimity even in your craftiness, and love even in your hatred. Death doesn’t change the dead, but it changes the way the living look at you. While I have no anxieties about my own death, I keep wondering what kind of story each mourner will pick up from my grave. Maybe that’s why I have long started to crave a quiet burial.

Your novels are predominantly set in small towns rather than urban centres and big cities. What draws you to the rhythms and everyday intimacies of small-town life as a novelist?

Three of my books are set in small towns, two of which are anchored in my hometown, even though I have left most of the places unnamed. The other books have big cities as their backdrops, which are mostly fictitious metropolises. I don’t pick and choose my settings; they come with the storyline. Having said that, I find it easier to write when the perimeter of my story is small, probably because I grew up in a small town.

Your novels vividly portray the complexities and lived experiences of Indian Muslims, where personal narratives convey deeper political undercurrents. How do you see your role as a writer amid India’s increasingly polarised socio-political landscape, marked by rampant stereotypes of the Muslim community in mainstream media and Bollywood, alongside persistent threats of violence?

I believe that any form of art thrives under challenges. When you know your art is being scrutinised and frowned upon, you can write better, and you can write between the lines. It’s not just India that is being polarised at a neck-breaking speed, and it’s not just one community that finds itself constantly at the receiving end. The world is getting more polarised by the day, and art is going to flourish in the shadow of hatred.

You’ve said that you often think in Malayalam and then translate the emotion into English. How do you preserve the nuanced richness and essence of those emotions from your native language when rendering them in English?

Frankly, I don’t remember saying that. If I said so, I wonder why, because I don’t think thoughts or emotions come in any particular language. The seed of a book just falls on your head like an apple, and you nurture it in your mind until it takes the shape of a story you can relate to.

Cover of Vanity Bagh. | Photo Credit: By Special Arrangement

You’ve previously described G.V. Desani’s All About H. Hatter as a “wonderful and liberating work of fiction” that deserves far more attention. Are there any other underrated or overlooked Indian novels you feel deserve more readership?

Thanks to social media, we are living in an age where it’s hard to decide if anything is underrated or not. Everything is blown out of proportion; every kind of mediocrity is celebrated, and people give you ratings after reading the synopsis of your books, or without even doing that. I remember getting a 5-star rating for one of my books the moment it was up for pre-order. I used to get mail and follow-up mail from “professional” reviewers offering positive reviews at the “best rates in the market”. Thankfully, they have stopped. The word “underrated” now stands for a book that is read by the people it has intended to reach.

You’ve previously noted that “writers these days write to be seen, not to be read”. In this context, how has the rise of literary festivals in India impacted readership? Does the “festival culture” cultivate a genuine community of readers, or has it been reduced to more of a stage for performance and self-promotion for writers?

I have nothing against literary festivals, but I am not cut out for them. Every city has one. The city I live in hosts three. Maybe literary festivals are good. They break down the wall between writers and readers, they turn readers into aspiring writers. But why are they called literary festivals as they invariably include standup comedy shows, musical events, art exhibitions, and dance performances? Shouldn’t they be called cultural festivals instead?

Are there any recently published books across genres that you’ve particularly enjoyed and would recommend to your readers?

Three books I read in the past few months stood out in craft and content and made me wonder if women are way more talented in storytelling than men. Hangman by Maya Binyam, Creation Lake by Rachel Kushner and Small Things Like These by Claire Keegan. Hangman is about an exile’s journey to his homeland in Africa, and I find the narrative utterly compelling. Creation Lake is an espionage novel with a touch of pre-history. Small Things Like These tells the story of a coal merchant and his shocking discovery about Magdalene laundry. The book I finished reading this week was Departure(s) by Julian Barnes, which is his last book. Though it’s labelled as fiction, it is evidently autobiographical, through which Barnes takes a final bow at his audience and retires to his deathbed. Departure(s) deeply touched me.          

Do you have any advice for young writers, especially from historically underrepresented and marginalised backgrounds, on crafting authentic English fiction without diluting their cultural essence while navigating a competitive publishing landscape?

No matter where you have come from and where you are headed, try to remember one thing. What you write can turn out to be better or worse than what other writers do. But only you can write your story, and no one can steal your voice.