A charter for the republic of neglected authors

A charter for the republic of neglected authors

We the Authors of India should finally do what everybody else in this country does when life hands them a lemon: Form a morcha

The farmer at least knows what her wheat will fetch. We pour three years and two relationships into a novel and the statement arrives twice a year with the seriousness of court summons to inform us that we have earned Rs 15,251.25 for six months of existence.

As I sat looking at my bi-annual royalty statement this week, I realised that the first of November was the day of us nacheez authors. National Author’s Day is when the US and a few other countries celebrate great pensmiths like Mark Twain, Stephen King and Harper Lee. Those who gave us explosive books, a decent punch, left us dazzled, even aided revolutions. It made me look at the mugshot on one of my statements, put there to fill the space, and wonder if We the Authors of India should finally do what everybody else in this country does when life hands them a lemon. Form a morcha.

Every community worth its salt has a charter of demands and somebody’s cousin in the Vidhaan Sabha. What do we have? Reading glasses, a tote bag from a 2019 lit fest and a WhatsApp group that has been fighting over the Oxford comma since the Covid lockdown. It is time we organised. Comrades of the quill, let’s start with our very own charter:

A Minimum Support Price for words: The farmer at least knows what her wheat will fetch. We pour three years and two relationships into a novel and the statement arrives twice a year with the seriousness of court summons to inform us that we have earned Rs 15,251.25 for six months of existence. Minus returns. The chaiwala on Rani Road has made more out of me last winter.

A spot on bestseller lists: Fifty per cent of all slots must go to books actually written by the person whose name is on the cover. Cricketers, film stars, swamis and CEOs who discovered their “journey” at a corporate retreat may compete in the general category, along with the ghosts who write these books and deserve a quota of their own.

No more royalty statement emails: In publishing, advance is the polite word for the last money you will ever see from a book. We demand that publishers stop sending us bi-annual emails with the royalty statement, a phrase that has caused more heartbreak than any Bollywood climax, unless there are three zeros after the royalty figure which should not start with a zero.

Protection from pedantic panels: I have just received an invitation from a lit fest to be a part of ‘Interrogating the Post-Truth Anthropocene Novel’. This daunting panel consists of three people I have never read with a moderator who has no intention of reading us. I wonder how I can refuse a fest that has offered me a hard-earned session. But I would rather be talking about writing mysteries to an audience of timid readers with a 9-to-5 job who crave a bloodbath and a thrill.

The fundamental right not to be asked, “But isn’t AI going to replace you soon?”: Also included in it, “Why don’t you give me a copy of your book?” (from acquaintances who have four parking spaces); “My son has also written four books. And he’s just in Grade III!”; “Have you thought of making it into a web series?” and “You can use the dictation app to write more quickly”. Offenders will be sentenced to read our complete works. Aloud.

Hundred compulsory reviews for each book: The time pre and post a book release is the most harrowing for us. We end up begging and cajoling readers and relatives, anyone who so much as gives us a lousy smile, to leave a review.

Inclusion in Schedule I of the Wildlife Protection Act: Having written about wildlife over the years, I can say with authority that the Indian author is as endangered as the one-horned rhino. We are solitary, nocturnal and found mostly in cafes, nursing one coffee for six hours. Not to say we can’t afford two but it will drain our budget for the week. Our habitat is shrinking as every reader is converted into a reel-scroller. Project Tiger has done wonders. It’s time to do a Project Writer.

A hunger strike seemed natural given that most of us are already in training. A rasta roko is another idea but half of us would stand there taking notes for our next novel. We can consider a dharna at Jantar Mantar, but every participant might insist on reading “just a short excerpt”.

Even if we manage to do all of the above, the government will respond the way it always does. It will set up a committee. The committee will submit a 600-page report. Nobody will read it.

As an author in India, I know exactly how that feels.

Tehsin is a writer, most recently of The Fourth Girl