Domain of the Devil - A Satire on Indian English Publishing
When at length, Suresh was finding his moorings
at Tihar; Subba Rau was brought in to a near stampede there. Why not, the whole
nation knew him by then as the man who had pricked at the Premier’s face. When
Suresh enquired what the fuss was all about, Rau said it was but a ‘literary
coup’. Probed by Suresh for an account, Rau unfolded the story of his life and
times as an unpublished writer.
In his
mid-forties, Rau was seized with an urge to bring himself onto the fictional
stage. So to lend scope for his boundless creativity, he chose the vastness of
the ‘novel’ as the setting. And for the medium of expression, he bypassed his
mother tongue, Telugu, the Italian of the East. Instead, he chose English not
only for its ability to nuance the complexities of life but also for the flair
of expression he had in it. Drawing from his examined life, he set out to
portray a young woman’s life on the male canvas of India.
Ironically,
it was his love for language that impeded the start, but soon enough he got his
poetic prose right for the narrative in mind. With his creativity in command
over the unique plot he conceived, he wrote with gusto and had his dream novel
for his debut in nine months flat. After toiling for a while, for that ‘apart
title’, he pitched in for ‘Tangent of Fate’. Then, with a top-of-the-world
feeling, he dispatched the manuscript to a leading publisher in New Delhi. While he took
the publisher for granted, he received his manuscript post-haste. And that made
him see the irony of the title he had chosen for his novel!
This
bolt from the blue shook Rau to the core, and he came to doubt his abilities as
a novelist. Thus, holding the manuscript, as one would his dead child, he had a
last look at it, as the father would, before the burial. But seeing it as crisp
on its return as it was when he had posted it, he felt cheated. As he realized
that none at the publisher’s end had an open mind, he saw the rejection letter
all again. He felt sad at the ungracious averment of unsuitability on the
designer letterhead.
Impulsively,
he felt like resubmitting the manuscript with a rejoinder that the concerned
editor could take her own time to read and reject it, if it were a must. But,
on second thoughts, he realized that it would be treated as sour grapes, and
thus kept his own counsel. Anyway, he tried his luck with other Delhi publishers, this
time, all at a time. To his distress, it was like the quote of a cartel: Read
your manuscript with interest but found it unsuitable for our publication.
As a
last resort, in what was a reverse phenomenon, he looked Westward for
salvation, only to be informed that unsolicited souls wouldn’t be baptized
there. Though he felt it was cruel, he thought it was an honest averment
nevertheless. Could it be the unstated policy of the Delhi operatives as well, he suspected, but,
couched by the pretentious unsuitability labels!
To get
a feel of the publishing scene back home, he pored over the periodicals and the
newspaper supplements in right earnest. What amused as well as frustrated him
was that while some publicized the published titles to the hilt, the others
debunked them as junk in the reviews. Taking the reviewers seriously, he
forwarded his manuscript to them, indicating that it had all the ingredients
they believed a novel should have in it. And as none of them responded, he
wondered whether the critics were more interested in condemning a work than
commending any.
And,
to find the pulse of the Indian writing in English, he picked up some of the
well-hyped novels. As he scanned through them one by one, he was amused to find
the two basic features of the published kind: if it was not a case of the
Western characters on the Indian stage, then it must be the Indian Diaspora in
the Western setting. It appeared to him as though writing about the Indians in India was passé
for the publishing world.
In
that he saw a literary conspiracy — inducing Indian writers in English into
churning out self-deprecating stuff to cater to the prejudices of the Western
readers. Well, the aspiring authors too went along to provide vicarious
pleasure to the Western readers by negating India. That was why, realized Rau,
the tent of the Indian novel in English laid with the worn-out Western pegs in
the loose native soil came flat at the whimper of a scrutiny. When it came to
the Diaspora produce, it was the wont of the Western media to launch it in India in the haze
of publicity to dazzle one and all. Well, but, for a novel to impact its
readers, it must be the soulful tale of a people steeped in their native soil,
isn’t it?
But
then, why the guys should go to such lengths after all? Well, wouldn't have
they sensed the potential of the myriad hues of Indian life to shape
fascinating pictures of fictional world? What if, in time, some
Mahabharata-like creativity resurged in Indian writing in English? Would not
the emerging Indian enterprise commercialize it by inundating Western markets?
If that were to happen, wouldn’t the public there lap up the same and give up
on the Western pulp fiction?
So,
reckoned Rau, the Western publishers had set up shop here to avert that
eventuality. And the tactic employed by them was to encourage hybrid fiction
through publication and dissuade the genuine novel by its rejection.
Understandably, Indian writers fell into the trap and began inking hotchpotch
on the Western dotted lines. Moreover, to ensure that none deviated from the
set course, the publishers had seen to it that the shape they gave it became
the norm of the Indian novel. This they could achieve by picturing in the local
media that the Indian writing in English was making waves everywhere in the
West. Yet, taking no chances, they would keep the bait dangling by doling out
hefty advance, on and off, to an odd insider to keep up the farce. It was thus
that, the vested interests of the West managed to nip in the bud the genuine
Indian novel in English, and averted its challenge to their commercial writing.
However,
raising Rau's hopes, as some literary luminaries projected themselves as Man
Fridays of the budding authors; he became expectant and felt the world of
writing was not all that rough. But when they too cold-shouldered him, he
realized that they were only at self-image building, knowing fully well that
someone calling their bluff was remote enough. Thus, he realized that the media
was but a manifestation of the make-believe at its best. Nevertheless, he
philosophized that all could be expected to be busy, getting on with their
lives, besides pursuing their own interests. He felt at length that it would be
a futile exercise on his part to seek help from any quarter.
Just
the same, the irony of the writers’ plight pained him. While the ‘hard to
please’ editors reduced the aspirants to the ranks of unpublished writers, the
‘harder to amuse’ reviewers seemed to wait in the wings to turn the published
ones into failed authors! Anyway, while tending to debunk the book on hand, Rau
had observed that most of the reviewers aired their grandiose views on the
book’s topic or tried to exhibit their profound scholarship and/or both. It was
as if the book under review provided a stage for their literary exhibitionism!
What
distressed Rau most about the reviewers though was the tendency of some to
wonder why the book was written at all! And it was in the advice of the
reviewers that the author should cease writing that he saw the hand of cruelty
in the world of letters. He wondered why they wouldn’t realize that their
advice was inimical to their own interests, for without books, where would be
the need for reviewers? Wasn’t there a felt need for the prevention of cruelty
towards the writers? Above all, the publishers and the reviewers alike appeared
unconcerned about the hapless readers for whose sake the show was supposedly
run.
It was
then that he turned to God in desperation. As though addressing his prayers, He
appeared in his dream and expressed His helplessness. God said that as publishing
was in the devil’s domain, there was nothing that He could do to help his
cause. Thus, abandoning his further forays into the publishing world, he
decided that if he were ever to write again, it would only be for the pleasure
of writing, never mind the publishing.
When
he could put his bitterness behind, his muse moved him all again. Weaving a
story in an intricate plot, he completed his second novel in double quick time.
It was as if his bottled up creativity was too eager to find its way out. Naming
it as the ‘Consigned Conscience’, he nevertheless sent the manuscript to all
the Delhi-wallahs at one go, though with a sense of resignation. And as
another subject with a new dimension infused his urge to write, he plunged
himself into his third novel.
As he
was in the thick of action by the time the expected rejections arrived, they
failed to dampen his spirit. And, one publisher’s missive that the theme was
interesting but they wouldn’t be interested in publishing the same amused him
as well. And that made him wonder as to how to write a theme-less wonder for
their approval, that was, if they were serious!
When
in time, he completed his third novel; he realized that he was back to the
reality of life. By then, however, he realized that to be published, one needed
either a reference or a recognizable name. As he knew none who ever stepped
into the corridors of a publishing house, he thought, before submitting his
fresh manuscript, it was an idea to make a name for himself.
Realizing
that in the media world, the divider between notoriety and fame was rather
thin, he wanted to turn notorious to help the cause of his writing. So he came
to New Delhi,
to be a part of the crowd that greeted the Prime Minister on his birthday. With
a rose with thorns in his hand, he had no problem with the security personnel
there. It was thus, he found himself in the queue and waited for his moment.
And when the Prime Minister came near him, he pricked at his face with that
rose of thorns. When the security detained him for wrongful assault, the media
picked up the story to splash it on the front pages.
And
that gave him the much-wanted name, didn’t it? Even before he could grasp the
import of his notoriety, every publisher in Delhi approached him to commission him into
writing ‘Why I pricked at the PM’s face!’ Though vindicated, he experienced the
problems of plenty as all pressurized him to sign for them. But, for
sentimental reasons, he opted to write for that book house, reading whose
publications helped him mature into a writer. Though he wrote his three novels
at breakneck speed for they carried conviction, he found himself struggling to
put a sentence in place for the commissioned work.
When
in the end, Suresh wanted to know how he believed his rejected works were worth
their effort, Rau said that it was a good question, and mulled over for an
answer.
“If
only you know,” said Rau, “why a hand-to-mouth someone, neglecting his means of
survival, wrote ten hours a day for years on, that would answer your question.
But as that is too abstract to carry conviction, let me draw your focus on my body of work. Well, all my
novels were products of original ideas from the plot downwards. Good or bad
that makes them works of art. After all, what is a novel but a creative idea
that ever holds in the context? Besides, the beauty of fiction in part is that
it tends to lead towards the fact.”
“Why
did you write the second and third novels when there were no takers for the
first one?”
“In
its essence, writing is primarily an art of self-expression,” said Rau. “And
about novel writing, didn’t Jane Austin say that ‘in a novel the greatest
faculties of human mind are on display.’ Only after handling a couple or more
themes would a novelist come to know about the true capacity of his creative
mind. Besides, of what worth is a novelist if he fails to make each of his work
unique in itself. But, the bane of the modern world of letters is that many are
writing though they have no business to write. But with so many imitating the
existing, or writing out of the libraries, there is a surfeit of pseudo
fiction. But, a novel is the brainchild of imagination and not a hotchpotch of
all that’s known. And it is this narrative routine that makes the genuine
readers skeptical about the novels in general. And that’s how the classic novel
and the genuine novelists have come to grief alike.”
Finally,
Suresh wanted to know how Rau handled the failures.
“The
beauty of the endeavor obliterates the ugliness of the rejection,” said Rau.
“As I was ever engaged in trying, I had no time to masticate my failures.”
“All
said and done,” said Suresh, “what sense does it made of being a writer?”
“If
anything,” said Rau, “writing a book is like planting a seed. And if it gets
published, it’s like the sprouting of a plant. If not, it’s a lonely furrow in
a no-man’s land. Like the gardener tends the plant into a tree, it’s the
readers who help the book grow in stature. Blessed are the authors who would be
able to live long enough to smell that their readers savored the fruits of
their creativity. Oh, how that affords such the emotional fulfillment
associated with original writing and the ego gratification that applause
accords! And in spite of the media hype to the hilt, I'm not sure if all the
writer-celebrities derive the emotional fulfillment associated with creative
writing. Whatever, in my case, the pain of rejection made me immune to
frustration.”
After having heard Rau, Suresh felt that in the
world of letters, the published and the unpublished writers, being free, were
alike condemned.
------------------------------
Excerpted from "Jewel-less
Crown: Saga of Life" my novel in the public domain
https://www.wattpad.com/story/174490771-jewel-less-crown-saga-of-life
Google
https://g.co/kgs/A6ysjS
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