Devil’s Advocate is a rolling column that sees the world differently and argues for unpopular opinions of the day. This column, the writer acknowledges, can also be viewed as a race to get yourself cancelled. But like pineapple on pizza, he is willing to see the lighter side of it.
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The last month or so has been hard on authors. Westland Books, a leading publishing house backed by Amazon shut shop, predictably without the rest of the country noticing. And now a film and a series — both on Amazon Prime Video India – are pulling their leg by teasing a world where people want to read what authors are writing.
Both Gehraiyaan and Bestseller paint flattering images of being an author that if they are not being ironic – definitely the case with the latter – must be humbling to a small coterie of people who continue to believe and argue that writing books can and should be a career. It is a ludicrous and luxurious way to be disconnected from the rest of the country. To which effect these portrayals are simultaneously hilarious and the fantasy land most authors are dying to get to. Either way, the joke is on them [and maybe on me too].
A couple of months ago, a friend was shortlisted for a prestigious national literature award. When I texted to congratulate him, he told me that his book was yet to sell a hundred copies. I admire him for his openness, a trait uncommon among these precious beings. If you hear about the royalties most writers earn on their books, you would, like me, shudder at the stupidity of it all. There are of course exceptions: the one book that makes it across oceans to lands where people actually read, and writers are more than just names that might feature as a part of home décor. But that land is not this one.
It is a truth we, who work closest to this field, and are often tempted to belt one out, have learned the easy way. A lot of people just make it hard because they refuse to accept obvious realities. Everyone believes they have the book in mind. Writing it is of course the hardest part. Getting it published, believe me, is actually easier. And most people still will not do it.
In the recently released Gehraiyaan, Karan, an aspiring author, believes a book will set him up for life. In the comically inept Bestseller, there exists a novelist who has six packs, gets ideas naked, has been suffering from writer’s block for a decade, and is somehow still relevant [phew]. In ALTBalaji’s semi-erotic show Bekaboo, a male novelist is stalked and ogled left right and centre by pretty women. Thankfully, the guy himself writes erotica so at least you can fool yourself into thinking 'only if.'
Authors occupy a curious place in our cinema.
From a poignant memoir like Nandita Das’ Manto to the surge of pulp fiction with films like Bareilly Ki Barfi and Haseen Dillruba, the writer has become a focus of attention but in the real world, he [it is mostly a he] is unacknowledged and mighty pissed at being so.
Nowhere is cinema’s deception more prominent than in a film like Udaan. Hailed as a rare coming-of-age story in its time, this film about a teenager wanting to write poetry stopped short of the one problem even publishers and their marketing teams do not have the answer to – who will buy it? Other than academics or writers themselves, no one is really interested in reading something so inaccessible and sophisticated it might as well compete with the annual ITR returns for lack of clarity.
Indians are loose-lipped anarchists who, by default, do not believe in the beautifying powers of conceit and reticence. Yes, we listen to songs and hum ads but then again all roads lead up the Bollywood tree, don’t they? No one, and this has been admitted by moderately successful writers like the forgettable Durjoy Dutta, can actually be a full-time novelist. Which is why the hilarity of shows like Bestseller, the unearned sensuality of the writerly persona feels insincere, bordering on the lunatic. But it is enviously, and most writers will not admit, the place they want to be.
Readers, stalkers, buyers, followers, literally anything will do – whatever it takes. But even these perennial strugglers and existentialism hoarders – including myself maybe – have egos the size that no editor, reader or buyer can put in its place. Perhaps cinema will do one better! I am sure there are plenty of books out there that do not sell copies even in double digits. Let us for a change publish ‘that’ list, call it ‘Worstsellers,’ and celebrate them for being ahead of their time?
In reality, the only people who can afford to write books in this country are people who do not depend on them for livelihood. It is legitimacy they chase, not sales. Most of these books are not even written by them, but by ghost-writers who might have the talent but neither the means nor the market [sadly] to write for. It is a lose-lose situation, and yet writers are some of the cockiest and delusional people around. They believe their books, articles, and blog pieces are being read with bated breath, that everyone ought to leave everything they are doing and read, and that there is no better gift than reading – actually there are like a million.
Ironically, Bollywood has found a way to milk a dying business that could itself use some cynical hacks to survive because it, rather tellingly, remains elusive to both – those who care and those who do not.
Manik Sharma writes on art and culture, cinema, books, and everything in between.
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