Writer don't sell soap

Who is a writer? How is she or he related to the society? What are the responsibilities of a writer? What is the objective or objectives of a writer? Why do they write at all?

Writing is a profession, like carpentry or engineering, like a medical practitioner or a scientist. It is a role played by a person as much as a teacher or a labourer does. The writer produces something and there is a consumer base for it. The content of this production comes from the base and is offered back to the base. A writer observes the world and relates that observation in the mythical tradition of a story. 

The story is as much about the other as it is about oneself, for one is part of the whole and never removed from it. But to get a perspective from the observation, the writer steps aside, as it were, from the subject and recounts as faithfully as possible, as skilfully as possible, the many interesting facets of the subject under consideration. It is hard work. It has its due diligence. It originates from the primary motive to share, to partake, of one's observation and to look obliquely at oneself through the characters one creates. 

While a story is a work of fiction, a figment of the writer's imagination, the basic premises and tenets on which the story rests must necessarily reflect what is observed in the real world. This is the writer's primary responsibility. To hold up a mirror, as it were, to reflect that which is seen clearly by the writer, that which is glimpsed darkly by the reader. The implication is that the writer is a seeker of truth, paradoxically, even though the entire work is presented as fiction. Fiction is not falsehood. Fiction is a way of presenting the truth in a manner that is easily received. 

It is a singularly solitary effort. It is a struggle within oneself to bring out one's deepest thoughts and urges on matters that concern the world in general. Matters that one glosses over in the immediacy of everyday life. The writer essays to shed light on the dark corners of our lives, those feelings and emotions and thoughts that we so feel deeply but never fully come face to face to study in silent contemplation. The writer does all the hard work and presents the kernel of observations as a simple lucid story. The skill of the writer is of paramount importance in engaging the reader. In revealing the observations little by little without smiting the sensibility of the reader.

Fiction writing is not the product of a formula. It is not the outcome of a series of planned and tested sequence of operations. It is not imitation, nor a novelty. It is not an invention based on sound scientific or theoretical principles. It sprouts from a seed, a seed that is born of long observation and contemplation. From the seed grows the sapling and if nurtured right becomes the tree that it is meant to become. The tree blossoms and bears fruit. It is for the fruit that every fiction endeavour is aimed at, the fruit that is the work's culmination. It is this fruit that the reader is offered, bitter or sweet. All that the reader is expected to do is to go along the journey of this growth and receive the reward at the end. It is for this fruit that the reader comes to the writer. It is for this fruit that the writer works so hard to produce. It is this fruit that is advertised and sold in the market. It is this fruit that is overhyped or undersold, ignored or besmirched. It is this fruit that in the end, literally and metaphorically, fulfils the writer's endeavour. 

Where is the market for this fruit? Is it a wrong question? The writer must live of course. There are always the bills to pay. The fruit must sell. He is in the market with his basket of fruit. Are there any takers? The fruit is there on the shelf. The shelf is run by a professional seller. The seller knows which kind of fruit sells and which kind does not, of he or she is a good seller, that is. Eventually, the seller will find a way to sell all his fruit, for after all he or she is in the profession of selling. No stone is left unturned to figure out a way to sell his fruits. The writer's fruit doesn't age with time. It neither gets better nor gets worse, though sometimes it has come out in the wrong season, either too early or too late for the season. But it does not ever decay. It thrives on the shelf or simply removed from it and pushed into a corner. It's time may come or not at all - it depends on the fruit and on the skill of the fruit seller. The producer of the fruit has disappeared: there are other seeds to nurture, other fruits to give birth to. 

<p>Pollution - within or without?</p>

A policeman stopped me at a traffic signal just as it turned green. He stood right in front of the car and directed me to the far left by the footpath. I knew I was in trouble and pulled over apprehensively. He thrust his swarthy face through the window and demanded to see the pollution check certificate. Bummer! I knew I had not got it renewed and had been meaning to get it done for some time. I rummaged through the chaos in the glove box and came up with a certificate. 'This one is expired,' remarked the policeman drily and asked me to pay the fine. I pleaded with him to let me go, but he stubbornly refused. 'You know the rules,' he was saying. 'You have not got it checked in three months. That is a serious offense.' I lied about overwork and pleaded some more. The policeman was not convinced and kept shaking his head. Then he asked me to settle it fast, he had a traffic to control, or else pay the fine - it was six times more than the cost of a pollution check. I 'settled' for the cost of the certificate, but he wasn't interested. He wanted me to double it. I was horrified and showed it, but he couldn't care less. 'Pay the fine, Sir,' he said politely. I figured that after 'settlement' and the renewal of the certificate, it would still be half the fine. I agreed and shelled out hard cash. I bled in my heart, fumed at myself for postponing the inevitable and cursed the 'robber' of a cop who could have easily directed me to a checkup point that was right across the road!

I made a U-turn and headed toward the pollution check point, a stone's throw from where the unscrupulous and greedy cop robbed me. The chap at the roadside checkpoint asked for the year of manufacture and went about performing the computerized test. After a while, out came the details on the computer monitor. He keyed in some details and printed it out. He charged me about 30% more than what I had paid the last time. 'Prices have gone up since,' he enlightened me and stretched his had a little more towards me. I asked for a receipt. 'You got the certificate. There is no receipt.' I said something to the effect that this was not fair. 'Are you authorized to charge so much?' I asked, now thoroughly saddened and desperate. 'You can check elsewhere,' he pointed out. I asked him to show me the official price document. He said there was no such document. 'You can return the certificate if you don't want to pay,' he offered me a way out of the impasse. He looked at the road and shuffled his feet as if he had a line of customers to attend to. There was not a soul behind me, but his manner, unrelenting and impatient, unsettled me. I thrust an amount that was a little less than he asked for and vowed never to get my car certified from him again. He did not insist on being paid what he had demanded. He pocketed the money and said there were some in the city who charged more than he did. He was probably right, for there was apparently no stipulated fee. I knew of course that the price varied every six months or so, but what I did not expect was a price differential for the same service. 

Private operators run this service under the banner of RTA, the Road Transport Authority. Operators house their equipment in a van parked by the side of the road. It is their mobile office and service center rolled not one. Besides the driver, there is just one technician who actually does the job. There was no other operator for miles on either side of the road. There is always a cop not far from the mobile checkpoint. He would intercept you at a traffic junction to make his dirty deal. Reminds me of the nail on the road that pierces the unsuspecting tyre and flattens it. The harried motorist thoroughly dismayed finds a fix not far down the road. You pay what the roadside puncture man demands - they don't allow you the luxury of a haggle. One could argue, 'Why don't you pay what the pollution check technician asks for?' The RTA banner does not force him to abide by government rules - there are no rules. He is just a private operator, an authorized service provider. That's all. 

"The next time you see a mobile pollution testing van in your neighbourhood, chances are that it is running without the government's permission..." warns The Times Of India. It went on to add, "What's more, these centres are also charging exorbitant fees for pollution check." Now, isn't that cool! 

I reminded myself that despite our socialist leanings we are a nation of private enterprise. We pay by the price tag. If there is none, we pay by bargain. If that is not allowed, we have the option to move on and find another. In the process we run the risk of getting caught for non-compliance of government rules. Bribe your way out, but that is only a momentary relief. If you haggle with a cop, it might get worse. He may challenge you on other counts like license, registration papers, seatbelt, tinted glasses and so on. One never knows what is amiss until it is demanded by the authorities. And they do it adroitly - lying in wait for an ambush round a corner, when you least suspect it. Like the nail on the road, dropped deliberately by the puncture man to ensure that his business runs smoothly. 

New vehicles don't pollute as much as their older cousins, less so the diesel variety. According to a government-run website, four wheelers of the petrol variety cause 12% of total pollution from automobiles as against only 2% by the diesel vehicles. Why not make an exception for diesel motorists? And for new cars less than five years old. But it is easier to make overarching rules, a lot easier to enforce, a lot easier to collect more money by way of penalty for non-compliance, a lot easier to assess annual returns from the number of registered vehicles, a lot easier to comply with international norms for pollution check. It is, alas, a lot easier for the cop on the road to make quick money on the sly.

Work schedule

Why is it so difficult to stick to a writing schedule? Many accomplished writers have sworn by the schedule that brought them success. Some do writing as the first thing in the morning. Some write when everyone in the house has gone to sleep. There are some who retreat into a secluded spot to write. There are of course some who write whenever the inspiration strikes. The mood becomes important. The muse when it visits must find a congenial time to whisper in the ear. But if you put it to vote, most people swing in favor of a schedule, a regimen to follow. Stare at the blank page, if you must, say the die-hard schedulers, but keep at it until the words come out. Stick to a schedule, they urge you, no matter how many times you have to stare at a blank page, or for how long. For if you lisp for words, the words must come. 

It is not that I don't have anything to write. I am working on some writing projects that are in various stages of completion. From an idea for a story at one end of my writing spectrum to a finished manuscript at the other, I am sufficiently covered from boredom and consequently the distraction that it entails. And yet I often find myself doing anything except being immersed in my project work. Why? Some say it is the lack of a schedule that is keeping me from working while some others say that I am too lazy. I think the truth of the matter swings more towards my supreme indolence, which I cherish and share with many masters of the craft of writing, be it fiction or software. A schedule would be actually a hindrance for someone who likes to work when he pleases and laze around when he is not writing. I don't usually get bored, though. Lazy people seldom get bored; boredom is the hangover of workaholics. 

It is not that I haven't tried scheduling my work. I have always been a believer of organized work. I have drawn a work timetable so many times that I can churn it out in a matter of seconds. I have become adept at it. I have a few apps to help me come up with a beautiful schedule to keep me working from morning till night. I also set reminders to help me stick to the schedule. The reminders include audible alerts, screen notifications and email messages. I have always set multiple alerts to ensure that I don't miss my tasks. I spent hours looking for scheduler apps; many don't come even close to what I need, but I don't give up my hunt for the right one, one that matches my temperament, my mood swings and my innate inability to stick to a schedule. 

I think what I need is a prime mover, the motivator, that urges me to set to work. It could be money or a muse. When there is neither in sight I look around and lose focus. I feel disoriented. I kick the schedule and return to chaos, the sweet nothingness of a vacuous mind. A mind that spins the web of imagination of characters and events, of ideas and plots, of story lines and synopses. But nothing gets done until the muse returns, or there is a chance of making some money. 

Poster

Just posted a note about my debut novella at http://tactilize.com/ananddotb/cards/47448

In addition to the marketing efforts by the publisher Indireads, it is incumbent on every author for self promotion. Reach the audience as wide as possible. It is advertisement sans propaganda. 

Even though i am old school and still love to hold a book in my hand, especially if it is written by me, but still the fact remains that traditional bookstores are either closing down or are languishing. The digital publishing is gaining ground and penetrating even the niche areas of book publishing by established authors. Many traditional publishers are treading digital waters warily but definitively. 

Both the print and online versions of books needs to be advertised via the social media networks. Author portfolio, unknown and quite unfamiliar concept probably only a decade ago, is now prominent on blogs and is encouraged by publishers of both the traditional and modern kinds. 

Breaking into e-print

It has been a long and arduous journey from a nebulous idea to a tight narrative of my debut novella Magnificent Loss. The journey began at a frenetic pace and like all journeys that begin with much enthusiasm faltered towards the end. The end kept moving like a mirage and I doggedly persisted to reach it. Unknown to me it awaited the final nudge that would propel me towards the destination. The push came from Indireads, an e-publishing startup that aimed to bring out new voices from South Asia. Now that the required impetus came, I could see the end clearly, driven by the forces of circumstances in the life of the characters that I created and also their nature that inevitably drove them to a satisfactory conclusion. Satisfactory it was, from the point of the writer, my writerly self, and hopefully it would find an echo in the discerning reader. 

It is a story of a young man in search of a life that is untrammeled by his past, who struggles to come to terms with his loss, and despite numerous indications to the contrary strives to make peace with his past and charts a path to the future. It is a love story that delves into the undercurrents of doubt, fear and memory with a surreal background and a strong yearning to live and love. 

Indireads made it available for purchase and download to your favorite ereader with several purchase options and ebook formats to choose from. It is available here - 

http://www.indireads.com/books/magnificent-loss/

The book cover clearly echoes the spirit of the story between its cover pages. 

Nothing is more precious for the author than to receive feedback on his debut effort. It is much appreciated if the reader leaves a comment and rates the book according to its perceived merit. The comment may include not only about the story, but also about the publishers who worked hard with their paraphernalia of publishing services - reading the draft, editing the manuscript, converting to ebook format and finally launching on their website. 

Happy reading!

Rules of Engagement

There are rules laid out by the predecessors governing the manner in which two families interact with one another. The rules set the expectations. The rules are defined at every level, from the time the marriage takes place to the time of death of either one in the family. The rules lay down the conditions to which members of both families adhere. The rules may not be broken, for there is a social prestige associated with their compliance and a social stigma with the lack of it. The rules are an unwritten law and there is no authority to amend them and no forum to review them. There is no one to whom they can be appealed. There is no court to try the offenders, though in villages the village head and elders arbitrate. But in cities, there is no arbitration. The rules are flouted at the cost of dissension in the family, at the cost of unhappiness and resentment by the affected parties. 

Some rules have been superseded by the law of the land, the universal secular law that has overarching jurisdiction across regional and caste distinctions. Many rules have undergone change due to assimilation of new ways of living, new ideas from other cultures, new thinking on account of enlightened understanding. But there are many that simply remain to be followed, for they are neither too autocratic, nor too difficult to follow. But many families get away when they can without adhering to their side of the bargain. These rules are mostly of the nature of give and take. Ignorance of a rule is not condoned. Flouting of a rule is not taken lightly. Brazen opposition of a rule is rarely observed or entertained. There are the other families in the society to condemn the offenders. Even the most isolated of families, even the so-called enlightened ones, expect certain modicum of the rules of engagement. The cost of breaking rules by one family is nothing short of a travesty of trust, of humiliation, of loss of respect for the other family. 

Rules are sacrosanct. They are the protocols. They are manners. They make for a civilized society. They are the signs of a cultured society. They are designed to bring strangers to a commonly held pattern of living. Everybody is expected to know the rules. Everybody is expected to abide by them. Everybody knows on every occasion what rule applies and what needs to be done. There is indeed a rule for every occasion, from birth to death and beyond. Rules of engagement are the tradition of a society, the legacy of posterity, the inheritance of every man, woman and child. As long as a person is part of a family, he or she is expected to know and abide by the rules. A person who is ignorant of a rule is uncouth, coarse, gross, and not properly raised by the parents, not belonging to a good family and so on. There is no institution that teaches these rules. They are handed down from parent to child. They pass from generation to generation, sometimes lose their significance, sometimes their stigma, sometimes their purpose. But the progeny carry them forward in whatever manner they are remembered or told by their peers or elders available for them to know from. There are rules - they have always been and always will be, though not necessarily in their pristine form. 

Rules are a tacit contract between two families who agreed to build a relationship through marriage. They are a contractual agreement, no less important or significant than a business contract. Broken marriages are the result mainly of broken contracts. When a daughter breaks a rule, the mother is first and foremost afraid of a backlash. She is scared that her daughter may be subject to punishment, which is usually meted out as ill-treatment by her in-laws. When that happens, it is more than likely to snowball into a discord between the families where the child's parents and other elders will be treated with disrespect at the least and contempt at the worst. Sometimes the disagreement surfaces and leads to quarrels, but in most educated families in the towns and cities, it simmers and disrupts smooth interaction. A cold war ensues. Among the most hit will be the married couple, then their parents, and lastly by all and sundry who are associated with them. The war has a cascading effect and sometimes continues for generations in one form or the other. Peace and affection take on wings and fly away. A tremulous truce in an unending war remains as the only bond between the married couple. Sometimes there is an ever present danger of a break in the union. After all, things put together are always in danger of breaking apart. The rules are the glue to keep things together. When the glue dries up, the things return to their original state, albeit in a more bruised and wretched state. 

Some rules may be waived on mutual agreement, on compassionate grounds, for all families are not made equal. Rules mostly favor the family with the male child. Therefore, the family with the male child has the last word on the matter. Rules may be bent to favor one family, but then the other family expects a favor on some other count. Rules are not exactly the same for all families, even for the families that belong to the same caste and sub-caste and sub-order within the sub-caste. Rules are bound to differ, for families belong to different regions and are raised according to their perception of a rule. The same rule is applied differently by different families of the same order. Rules are notoriously unclear. Where there is ambiguity, the family with the male child dictates. But in most cases, barring minor infractions and variations, the rules are well known to all. Ignorance of a widely held rule is not tolerated, conformance to a minor rule is demanded, waiving of a rare and little known rule is ignored in the best interests of both the parties. But the male party has the last say in the matter, for it is the female child that leaves home and must adjust in its new and adopted family. 

It goes without saying that the wife must conform to the rules of the family that she steps into. It is the wife who leaves her family home to build a new family. She gives up her family name and adopts her husband's family name. Her children automatically receive the husband's family name, follow the husband's family rules, inherit the family fortune, if any. It is she who must now 'belong' in her adopted house. It is incumbent on her to remove the wrinkles - the family differences - between the two families, to bridge a relationship of trust and affection between the two families, to ensure that she balances her affection towards her parental family and the duties in her adopted family. And she begins this exercise by following the rules. A great burden indeed on a girl who is just out of teens and she couldn't do it without the support from her own family in the discharge of her duties towards her adopted family. The duties are rules, the rules that govern her married life. All this goes without saying because it is the way the rules have come into being. Living in a family is abiding by these rules at every turn in the girl's life. If there is a discord between her husband and his family members, she shall not interfere, for her sole objective is to follow the rules set for her. If the husband breaks from his family, the wife shall continue to maintain cordial relations as much as possible. For it is a delicate apple cart she is towing, any bump will upset it at any time in her life. Like a razor's edge. Like walking a tightrope. There is more to lose for her than for any member of the family, this side or the other side. 

This is what a good mother wishes to teach her daughter. This is what brings harmony in the house that the daughter has adopted. This is what a mother has gone through. This is what she has experienced. This is what she wants her daughter to learn, to be aware of the dangers, to keep clear of conflict, to try and not break rules so that she is accepted as part of the adopted family, so that she 'belongs' there, lives like one of them, even at the cost of losing touch with her own family. For nothing gives more comfort and happiness to a mother than seeing her daughter well adjusted in her adopted home. This is the pinnacle of her achievement. She can then proudly speak about her daughter in the family circles, in the society. She can walk with her head held high even among her daughter's in-laws. For she has passed on the rules to her daughter. She has raised her in a manner that is socially acceptable. The mother has taught her daughter the rules of engagement. 

The rules, however, are not always followed, especially by the male party. Though there are exceptions that only prove the rule. Differences among the male family members translate into ill-treatment of the daughter-in-law. Differences over the compliance of rules lead to misery for her. In rare cases, the adopted home becomes a nightmare. Sometimes, the daughter flouts rules with impunity and and manages to break the adopted family to suit her own agenda. Many variations occur, but these issues are outside the scope of this essay. 

What are these rules of engagement? 

The Last Rite

The last rite is performed with diligence. The departed must attain peace. Peace ensures a quick return to the mortal world. There is very little peace from birth to death. There is very little one can do to attain it while one is alive. The least we can do to expect peace is by the rite someone performs so that we may abide in peace after death. The least the living can do to the dead is to perform the last rite in order to help attain it. 

For peace is easier attained dead than living. Everyone expects last rites to be performed for them, for they have never had peace in their life. Peace is not a commodity that can be exchanged, nor a thing that can be shared. And therefore we are at a loss to receive or give it. By the last rite through divine invocation we are more likely to attain it than in our daily life. We place a great importance to this one rite for this very reason. In the end we all want peace. In the end. Not in the beginning. Not in the middle. In the end. When it is all over. When the struggle for living is over. When we are no more. When the mortal clash has ended, for there can be no quarrel with the dead. And because the quarrel has ended, the dead are more likely to be at peace than the living. Who, in turn, await their turn to receive 'the peace that passeth understanding'. 

A pact we have with each other. Pax, we say, let's bury our differences. And one of us gets buried by the other so that peace may exist between us. For peace must exist, if not in the living then certainly among the dead. In that region that man knows not, where quarrel cannot continue. It comes to a halt. Abruptly so. And peace has a chance to survive. Even if it is not among the living. It is there among the dead and that gives us hope. Hope that in the end we will find it. So that when we return to the living, we can merrily go on as before, knowing fully well that peace will reign in the end. At the final frontier. 

It is not possible for peace to survive among the living. It is too fragile, too shy, too vulnerable, too weak. It has no spine. It is not bold to assert itself. It is forever hiding behind cliches, behind suave talk, behind hypocrisies. Slinking, lurking, timid, furtive, fearful, tremulous. How can such a thing live in this world? Survival of the fittest and peace is anything but fit. Peace is for the weak minded. For the spineless. For peace-mongers are among the weakest people on earth. Peace is not for the humans. It is for the gods. The last rite is an oblation to peace because the gods love it. The divine grace is bestowed on those who perform this rite. Their largesse extends to the departed as well. And everyone is in peace at last. At long last. In the abode of God there is peace. And that is where we direct the departed to hasten. 

The chants rise in pitch and the urgency with which the entreaty for peace is made is captured in the rising voices of the priests. By their loud chants the gods awaken from their peaceful slumber and invite the dead to their abode. Once the guest is allotted his or her place in the heaven, they can go back to their rest in peace. May the dead rest in peace. May the gods leave them in peace. May peace be bestowed on their soul. May the gods be pleased to send them back as humans so that they can spread the message of peace among the living. The gods are aware that peace cannot survive among the humans, but gods are after all gods. They cannot wage war. They cannot force anyone. They cannot order people or lord it over them. For they are the peaceful lot. But because they have great faith in peace, and in humanity, they think that eventually peace will return to earth. For peace was there on earth before humans sent it packing. Our chants invite it back. The slokas are an ovation to peace. The chanting priests pay homage to it in unison, urging peace to return to the earth. Or, failing which, they must accept the departed in their abode of peace. 

Poor gods! They always fall for this particular human artifice. This trick by the priests never fails to succeed. Time and again, they feel propitiated and do man's bidding. Time and time again man shatters peace and implores the gods to send it back. And the cycle goes on. In the rounds of rebirth this sham takes place. For the god's hope in man is undying and man's hope in god's obduracy is equally undying. And the drama of life and death continues. 

Let peace be to the gods. For we have no use for it here on this planet earth. And those who seek it, let them fall in line with the rest or await their turn for the last rite.