I have heard it said that when you become a published writer you meet a lot of strangers but you also lose a few friends. Up until last year I could never quite figure the second part of that statement. Why would friends turn their back on me, I wondered? My friends would, in all honesty, be thrilled, over the moon for my success. They had seen me struggle over the years pursuing what — even in private moments — I was quietly beginning to admit was another fragile illusion. They had silently cheered the dream, applauded the aspiration. (Although applauding silently is stretching the imagery a tad.)
Anyhow, my novel in verse got published and there was even a book launch. This wasn’t a run-of-the-mill publishing route. The book was not going to be displayed in stores around India, or indeed the world. The whole thing was a quiet, private arrangement whereby I permitted the publication of the book for two print runs of 250 copies each where all the sales would go into a fund to help promote other aspiring Anglo-Indian writers. I felt, and continue to feel, honoured — to be able to give back in a small way something to my own community. I’ve had people who usually steer clear of poetry or verse (I don’t like the tag of poet, for this is merely a book in verse), going out of their way to procure a copy of the novel, if only to contribute to the cause. It was heartening, for a novel written entirely in verse is always going to aim at a small audience. I am aware of that.
Why didn’t you choose the medium of prose, I have been asked a few times. I’ve always responded that this particular story — which is a search for identity and which mirrors my own community’s search to the eternal question ‘who exactly are we’?
Well, this particular novel I felt could only be written this way, in this form – because it reflected the kind of people we Anglo-Indians are, vibrant, colourful with a sense of our rhythm and metre and a wholly unique poetry different from other things Indian, or other things British.
It would have fallen flat in prose and flatness is not who we are. These have been some of my responses at various interviews and chat sessions.
My publisher recently informed me that the book is entering its second print run which, dare I say it, far exceeds my expectations. And, as mentioned above, friends and relatives have been forthcoming with their emails and phone calls of congratulations. It feels good, even if this book may never find a main stream publisher, even if its potential to be turned into a stirring movie doesn’t find a Mira Nair. It’s an achievement and it makes me pleased.
Frosty reception
In all the general hoopla I realised when the early noise had died down that I hadn’t heard from one of my friends. I wrote, asking if they knew I had a book out. I feared this person may not have been monitoring the constant updates I’d been pasting on Facebook. Did this person know? Yes, was the terse reply. The ‘yes’ could have been written in font with frosting, so icy and cutting did it read.
What had gone wrong? I enquired. ‘Nothing’, was the reply.
Turns out, I hadn’t sent the person a personally autographed copy.
Did the person know that I am getting nothing from this venture at all?
That all sales are going toward a cause? That buying a copy would help the cause?
‘Yes,’ said another friend who’d been in touch with ‘Frosty’, ‘but that seems to be beside the point.’
I honestly didn’t know there was more than one point to a friendship. Best leave it there.
But I am certainly getting a glimmer of understanding into the second part of that statement now.
Credit: Kevin Martin is a journalist based in Sydney.
