Everyone has a book inside them

There is a virus floating around in the air. It has been in existence for hundreds of years, but in more recent times, it has taken on the characteristics of an epidemic. It is called the book writing virus. A very prosaic term for a literary pursuit, I admit, but that was the best I could come up with on short order. I have been carrying this infection for the best part of the last few decades. For the most part the contagion has been lying dormant. Let me clarify. I have been writing columns for some considerable time, but to collate them and bring them out in book form was a more recent affliction and one that no vaccine has been able to rid me of. A book with a collection of columns, the toffee-nosed literati might aver, only technically qualifies to be called a book. I realise I am not a novelist and will not be admitted into the hallowed sanctum sanctorum of the authors’ exclusive club. I will have to live with that chip on my shoulder. Then again, Bernard Levin never wrote a novel. Neither did Christopher Hitchens. And they could turn out a pretty nifty sentence, when the muse was with them, which was nearly always. So there! I thumb my nose at the Cassandras.

Getting back to the virus, I had no idea of the number of people in India, forget about the rest of the world, who were burning the midnight oil, swotting and sweating over their word processors writing crime fiction, science fiction, romance, autobiographies, just biographies, learned tomes on classical music, fine art, history, politics, sports and economics – I could go on endlessly. For the moment, I shall leave aside the Narayans, Roys, Seths, Ghoshes, Guhas, Aiyars, Tharoors, to name just a soupçon of Indian writers for taste. There are dozens of others from the elite classes whose masterpieces adorn bookshelves of the good and the great all over the country. I am talking about humdrum wannabe sloggers, such as myself, who would ultimately like to shuffle off their mortal coil with breathless last words like, ‘Able was I. Ere I wrote some books.’ Not quite Napoleon’s palindromic, apocryphal utterance, but I will settle for that.

The result of all this quasi-literary navel gazing is that the writing bug is rapidly progressing from an epidemic to a pandemic. Part of the reason for this not entirely unwelcome situation is that it is now very easy to get a book published and placed online. That is due to the emergence of the relatively nascent ‘self-publishing’ industry. All you have to do is to pay them from a series of package  options they provide and before you can say Atlas Shrugged, your book is ready online with Amazon and Flipkart. You dash off triumphant messages to three or four hundred contacts, all of whom send you congratulatory emojis and go completely silent afterwards, waiting for you to send them a complimentary copy. Which you then proceed to do to a select, trusted few who might have sent you books they have published. Noblesse oblige. However, there are a precious handful who fork out the measly cover price and order online. I grapple them to my soul with hoops of steel. The more conventional publishing bigwigs such as Penguin Random House, Harper Collins, Hachette and their ilk will take an age to ‘consider your submission’ before finally issuing a note of regret. ‘We love your style, but it won’t suit our core readers. Why don’t you turn your hand to writing a full-length novel?’ You know I never thought of that. I cannot blame them either as aspiring writers must be hammering down their doors with submissions 24 x 7. As one publisher said to me, ‘They are coming out of the woodwork like termites. We have had to employ a person just to send regret letters.’

That is precisely the gap that these self-publishing chappies have so shrewdly capitalised on and thus a thriving, business model is born. Thanks to this new avenue for budding authors, we are surrounded on every side by somebody or the other who has just published a book, is just on the verge of bringing out a book or is starting on a book, a ‘startling’ debut, and is still struggling to find the right idea for a plot. And don’t even get me started on AI. Fellows who couldn’t put two cogent sentences together are now budding Ernest Hemmingways! As I am very much a member of this clan of writers (not the AI wallahs) looking for bookworms to inveigle into our web, things can get quite interesting at literary soirees or even just a dinner at a mutual friend’s place.

You breeze into your pal’s home where he has invited a mixed gathering of guests, most of them unknown to you. You are introduced to the first person who happened to bump into you, in a manner of speaking.

‘Ah Samir, I hope you are being well looked after. Don’t spare the Scotch. Meet my friend Suresh, a retired advertising professional, now a serious blogger. Samir is heading a mutual fund house and is quite a nob on investment issues. I will leave the two of you to it.’ The host then waltzes off to mingle with another guest.

Samir opens the batting. ‘Advertising, eh? Did you know Alyque Padamsee? Great friend of mine. Went too early, sadly. He was my client with some pretty heavy portfolios. So, you are a serious blogger. What do you write about?’

Alyque lived to a ripe age of 90, but I let it pass. ‘I am serious about blogging but I write non-serious stuff. Humour, satire, that kind of thing. And yes, I once met Alyque fleetingly eons ago, but can’t really claim to have known him. By the way, since you ask, can I interest you in some of the books I have published? Ideal for passing an idle hour.’

Once I mentioned that I wrote books, this mutual fund honcho began to stir uneasily. Then he came up with a strong, counter move with his White Queen, blocking my black Bishop; the Nizmo-Indian defence. ‘Now that you mention it, I too have written a book that has been very well received in the business and financial world. It is called It’s only money, honey! I can send you a complimentary copy if you would spread the word amongst your friends.’

At which point we were both relieved to part company as the host returned with a ‘Come on Samir, you cannot dominate our ad man turned humourist. Let’s all circulate, shall we?’

I then strolled aimlessly and pronged a Galouti Kebab as a waiter passed by with some comestibles. As I was savouring this delicacy, a young lady stopped me and said, ‘I don’t think we’ve met. I am Sheila. I am what is known as an impresario. You know, I sign up prominent musicians, artists and so on with lucrative contracts for organising events. And you?’

‘Good to meet you, Sheila. Myself Suresh, as they say in these parts. Yes, I do know what an impresario is. Must be an exciting job. I am retired now. Used to be a minor cog in the brand building business. Now I spend the evening of my life writing blogs of a trifling nature. I love music. Do let me know when one of your ‘clients’ is performing in this neck of the woods.’

‘I certainly will, but before that. I have just released a book titled Impressions of an Impresario. Someone like you, a writer of trifling blogs, will love it. Do check it out on Amazon. Do you do reviews?’

I thought of telling her about my new book but gave up on the idea. Everybody at this party was interested in selling his or her ‘new book.’ I quickly gulped down my fresh lime soda, stabbed at another Galouti Kebab, mmm, and made a beeline for mine host.

Found him, looking trapped, being buttonholed by a bearded bloke, who might have been a painter. ‘Sorry to interrupt but I must be off. Tummy trouble.’ The host accompanied me to the door. ‘Sorry about your tummy. You must have gorged on the Galouti Kebab. By the way, that bearded chap. He is a rising graphic artist. He has just released a lavish, coffee-table book, Grappling with Graphics. Only 1100 bucks. Buy one. He has fallen on hard times. Spent all his dough on the book.’

I was on the point of asking him if he gets a cut from all this, but merely thanked him, wished him good night and hightailed it to my car. As I turned on the ignition, the words of the polemicist, coruscatingly brilliant writer and speaker Christopher Hitchens, floated into my consciousness. ‘Everyone has a book inside them, which is exactly where it should, I think, in most cases, remain.’