Manil Suri’s 'A Room in Bombay ' is a story of home, identity and freedom

A family photograph of Manil Suri (centre) with his father, Ram, and mother, Prem, in Bombay. Pics courtesy/Manil Suri

After a trilogy of novels and a non-fiction book, what led you to turn inward towards writing a memoir?
I started this memoir, A Room in Bombay (HarperCollins India), in 2010, as a prospective magazine essay, after finishing my second novel. But the story was too huge, so I put it aside for several years. In 2013 my mother passed away, leaving behind a treasure trove of over 2700 letters I'd written to her over three decades, which she had meticulously preserved. "Maybe you'll use them for a book one day," she'd said. But it was still too soon; her death was too fresh in my mind. Then the pandemic came, and the isolation felt like the perfect time to restart this.

Manil Suri

What were you feeling scraping through the memories as you wrote about the room you grew up in?
I'd written diaries while growing up, and reading some of the entries brought back vivid memories. It felt surreal, as if I was reliving parts of my life. I was transported back into ‘the room', with all its skirmishes over the toilets we shared with two other families, all the noise and dust that billowed in from the balcony, all the angst I felt over my emerging sexuality. I found that even reading a single line or two could bring back a cascade of memories.

An archival picture of Manil Suri with his partner Larry in front of their current house

You write about a sense of freedom after leaving the room in Razia Mansion and Bombay (now Mumbai), and moving to the US. What were some things that you felt liberated from?
Most crucially, from the lack of privacy and space. A defining characteristic of life in Razia Mansion (and more generally, in Bombay) was how everyone was always in your face. Suddenly, I was in an environment with all the room I needed, where nobody really cared what I did. There was no burden of societal expectations or constraints - I was free to explore who I was, pursue my own happiness.

A glimpse of the room where the author lived with his parents

Can you recall your experiences of living as a queer person in 1970s and ‘80s Bombay?
Homosexuality was pretty much invisible in Bombay back in those years. In all my formative years, I remember seeing only one article in The Times of India that mentioned it. It was simply not discussed - not in schools, colleges, or conversations. This cloud had a silver lining. Since the topic never came up, there was no vocalised condemnation of it either. I was very lucky. My mother, who had an MA in Psychology, told me about [Sigmund] Freud's theory that boys undergo a phase of same-sex attraction as part of their normal development. So, when I started having these feelings, I didn't feel guilty. Except in my case, it wasn't a phase.

Manil Suri at the age of two

What negotiations did you have to make while writing about your parents in the memoir?
A long time ago, my mother told me I could write whatever I wanted to about her after she was gone. Whether or not she meant it, I took her up on the offer. To write a memoir that rings true, you have to be completely honest, and that's what I tried to do. The worst thing would have been to try and portray my parents (or worse, myself!) as saints. Bringing out both the strengths and faults of characters makes them more human, more relatable, and more memorable. The best tribute a writer can bestow is to create a portrait that is convincing enough to live on.

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