Indian Candy – Getting Published in India

India is a big giant candy to me. I want to smell it, unwrap it, taste it and chew it till the juice fills up my mouth. Yes, I am a non-resident India (NRI) who is in love with India. This is a truly free society-the “free-est” of the free! There are no annoying rules and regulations, no unnecessary impositions…….you can do as you please, get what you want, and live your live exactly the way you always wanted to.

How I arrived in this hot and dusty city in the middle of summer is of course another story. Like martyrs before me I too was bitten by the writing bug and treaded the forbidden path that leads to ultimate self destruction. Yes, I wrote a novel. And like every starry eyed, trusting, swooning new writer before me and many who will come after me, I too picked up the writer’s market guidebook and send out hundreds of query letters to agents. At the time, I was sure that realizing my talent for writing, the lovers and gatekeepers of all modern day literary work will drop whatever else they may be involved in at the moment and pile up at my doorstep begging me to relinquish my book in their care. I will of course have to sort though the big names and big advances and choose the one most deserving of my affection.

Instead to my ultimate horror, thousands of rejection mails started to fill up my mailbox. Most agencies were very curt and very business like. If they felt my novel couldn’t be sold right then and easily—the did not want to seal with it.

“The novel moves too quickly.”

“Good writing but too slow.”

“The book definitely needs more action.”

Some liked the protagonist and others the antagonists, some the pace, others the voice.

In the end I heard the same thing repeated over and over again…. “Not enthusiastic about your work.”

Translation: I don’t see a big dollar sign.

Each time I received a rejection, I sat on the window seal and rocked myself forward and backwards, my body locked in fetal position. I looked at the moonlit sky and ranted about the unfairness of the universe and of humankind in general.

In the end I wrote to my brother who runs a small printing press in Calcutta located in the busy College Street area.

“This is hopeless,” I wrote, “Here, unless you are built up as a star… big names, big advances, a white collar professional job and your book fits into a popular genre, you don’t sell.”

“Why are you wasting your time trying to market it in America?” wrote back my brother. “Come back to India. Here we do things the “Indian” way. Trust me your work will get recognition here.”

…………

My brother picked me up from the airport in a battered white Ambassador car. The driver hefted the heavy suitcases into the spacious boot and took his place behind the steering wheel. My brother and I slipped in behind him.

“Relax,” said my brother. “You are home now. Here things are under control. You don’t need to take any tension.”

The car picked up speed on the VIP and went past Baguihati. As soon as the car entered Salt Lake City, I stared out the window as if looking at a combat zone. Numerous cars, rickshaws, autos, cycles, and scooters honked furiously at each other and the drivers swore loudly spiting out red beatle leaf juice from the car window.

The driver in our car paid no attention to his car mirrors nor did he seem to mind the lane markings. His car pushed forward through the stream of traffic coming from different directions…. some were turning left, some right, some heading in the opposite direction. Some cars came so close to us that I could smell the grinding of the rubber tyres on the hard tarry road. Other times I closed my eyes as our driver came dangerously close to hitting the car in front of us though my brother seemed to think nothing of it.

Leaning back into the spacious back seat, I studied the driver’s face with interest trying to follow his eyes as he changed lanes or made turns. To my surprise, instead of using mirrors the driver seemed to be talking with other cars by honking his horn. There seemed to be different beeps for different situations though I couldn’t figure them all out.

In USA, I had failed the driving test three times and finally given up the desire to drive. I simply could not remember all those rules. What do the white and yellow lane markings mean? Who has right of way in a 4-way stop? How do you merge into fast moving traffic from the highway ramp?

I crammed all this information day and night till my head ached. Even though I have been a straight “A” student in school, the driving information seemed to overwhelm me. The difficulties seemed unsurmountable. Not anymore, I thought triumphantly to myself leaning out of the window, the Calcutta drivers really opened up my eyes. These rules these traffic pundits want to teach us are completely unnecessary!

The rules seem basic enough here in India. If you see any empty space in front you fill it up quickly and somehow avoid collision. If you don’t, a pedestrian, a bicycle, a scooter or worse even a cow can fill up the traffic hole and block your advancement. When someone cuts you unfairly, use the worst possible profanity that comes to mind. Then clench your teeth and waive your fist viciously at the offender. A shiver of excitement ran down my veins when I realized the ultimate truth about driving. “Keep moving and don’t get killed.”

…………………….

The car stopped in front of our old house in Narendrapur. Rest of Calcutta may have taken huge strides towards modernization….air-conditioned shopping malls, ATM machines and cell phone towers are at every corner. But in this little nook in the outskirts of the city where we live, nothing has really changed. In the afternoon the liquid shadow of the palm tree glimmers in the green pond, smoke rises from the clay and charcoal ovens when our neighbors cook their meals and the principle means of transportation is still the hand pulled rickshaw that gyrates along gaily on the unpaved gravelly narrow roads. In the afternoons the gray area between sleep and wakefulness is often filled with a shrill melodious tone of vendors selling utensils, vegetable, sweets and ice cream.

Most houses in this neighborhood have cement walls and red tilled roofs. Running water in the house is rare in this neighborhood. Most residents get drinking water from tube-wells and wash their clothes and utensils in the pond water.

My eyes swelled up with unshed tears to see the house where I had spent my childhood and teenage years, now falling apart. It loomed over me like a hundred year old grey haired wizard witness to my first baby steps, my childhood pranks, my earliest crushes and my later youthful transgressions.

My grandfather had left behind four sons and three daughters in this house. So over the years the house was divided between his children and then between their children. After this repetitive slashing of the house each one of us inherited only a tiny portion of this giant property. The long corridors, the balconies and the terrace were soon partitioned with shabby constructions like a tin door or a curtain cut out of a sari to show separation between the families. The giant water tank that provided water to the whole household and the old wooden mail box that held our letters were all sectioned into tiny chambers now serving the fragmented families.

“Not there. The terrace now belongs to your third uncle,” cautioned my brother. “And don’t take off your shoes here. That tulsi plant is Rini auntie’s and she doesn’t like shoes near it.”

The relatives in this house now constantly bicker with each other over water, electricity bill and house taxes. Every bit of furniture, clothing and jewelry that my great grand parents left behind has become a bone of contention. The older connections in this house have started to wither away-some are dying, some are already dead. Age, poverty, ignorance and unnecessary stubbornness have left their mark…..it is visible in the thinning grayish hair, the sunken cheeks, the hollow collarbones and the prominent ribcage under roughened skin of all the aunts and uncles. Some complain about crippling arthritis,, some heart disease and other high blood pressure. I look into their age-heavy eyes, their slow labored gait and feel sorry for them.

“Don’t just stand there, come inside,” my mother greets me from the third floor balcony. As I climb up the familiar stairs she comes out to the landing and exclaims,

“How thin you have become! Is there no food in that rich country of yours?”

……………..

In the days that follow, I got used to the routine in the house. At breakfast I was fed fried dough and spongy rosogollas. There was always lamb or mutton curry for lunch, and at night there was a different kind of fish to taste. During the afternoon, I curled up in the cool bedroom with a book in my hand. Very soon my head flopped back on the pillow and I started to snore. After starving myself for more than a decade to fit into New York society, I finally let go of my fears. I ate and drank heartily and peacefully slept in the afternoon.

Life in India is cushy and comfortable and I basked in its warmth. Everything was taken care of and everything was done for me. The maids did all the cooking, cleaning and washing. A woman came to the house to give me a facial message. I also got a yoga teacher and dance teacher to come to the house to give me lessons.

I soon realized living in India can be compared to swimming in the zero gravity outer space. Labor is cheap and hence everything was available to me effortless and smoothly. The fruits and vegetable wallahs came in the morning pushing their carts with freshly picked fruits and vegetables. I pointed out the juiciest apples and the greenest guavas and the man cut them into small slices and left them in my fridge. After the maid finished washing my clothes, she took them to the pressing-wallahs who used huge irons heated on hot coals to iron all my clothes. Newspaper wallah, the milkman and even the fish seller came to the door to take customized orders from me.

………………………

On Thursday my brother took me to College Street to meet a man who will help me publish my book. College Street is a narrow road between M.G. Road and Bowbazar road, in Kolkata. I walked through Eden Hospital Road, past Poonam’s beauty parlor, Janta brick store, past the tea stalls opposite to Calcutta Medical College and almost bumped into a sugarcane juice vendor. Inside temporary shelter where plastics sheets were propped up with long bamboo sticks, sat little girls playing with clay and tin cups. Some boys chasing a kite ran down the tramcar tracks that run through the middle of College Street. Further down the road there were thousands of makeshift bookstalls made of bamboo, wood and canvas covered by corrugated tin-sheets.

I clutched onto my manuscript and held it tightly to my breast. For the first time since I landed in India, I was hopeful. Surely something will work out. This is the country that taught me to read and write, to appreciate good work of literature, to be a voracious reader. This is the country where my work will find appreciation finally. Here in the heat of political discussions, the rallies, the meetings and processions, in the rings of smoke that leave the rounded lips of young intellectuals, my issues are still alive, still thriving.

My brother bought me an ice-cream cup from a vendor in front of Presidency College. I dug into it hungrily. As a child I never could afford to buy these expensive cups and now I savored my favorite flavor with closed eyes.

“Where are the trash cans?” I asked looking around.

“You have been in America too long,” admonished my brother. “The whole road here is a trash can.”

Seeing my hesitation, he urged, “Be daring. Take the first leap and the rest is easy.”

After much hesitation I dropped my coffee cup next to a drain. It was a liberating experience, excitement ran through my veins! I realized that the West tries to curb our basic impulses and restricts our movements with numerous rules and regulations. Here in India people really enjoy a lot of freedom.

I held my manuscript close to my chest and stepped forward. It started to drizzle and I had to balance my umbrella with one hand and press the manuscript closer to my chest. I was determined not to let go of a single sheet.

Just then a monkey wallah walked past me with two monkeys at the end of a long leash. The monkeys were dressed in little female costumes and the monkey wallah was carrying a small drum. The monkeys looked starved. Their fur was covered with fleas, their neck red and swollen just around the place where the metallic collar was secured with a tiny lock. The man was looking for an audience where he would make these poor animals perform tricks to earn money. As I stared at the monkeys in horror, one of the monkeys made direct eye contact with me and stuck out its tongue. That in itself was too much for me to bear and with all the rescue impulses only a true Westerner can possess, I snatched the end of the metallic leash from the man’s hand and said “Run, run, little monkeys you are free now. Stay away from this evil evil man.”

But as luck would have it, instead of heeding to my precious advice, the monkey leaped forward, climbed into my lap and with its powerful front paws placed a decisive slap on my left cheek. I lost my balance momentarily and stumbled forward losing the grip over my manuscript which slipped from between my fingers into the muddy drain waters and moved quickly towards an open manhole.

I tried to dive forward to save it from being washed away but to my dismay, the outraged monkey wallah pulled me back.

“Look look babus, this crazy lady is trying to steal monkeys from this poor man.”

His allegation made me cringe inwardly. Obviously this man had not heard about animal rights or any such thing and took me to be mere thief. From the corner of my eyes, I watched the manuscript spinning in the dark swirling water and edging towards the open manhole.

“Save my papers,” I cried in desperation. “I will give you five hundred rupees, I promise.”

The man eyed the papers in surprise and then looked back at me to determine if I was bluffing.

“Please,” I pushed against his hand, “That manuscript is my life.”

I don’t know what that meant to him but he let go of my hand. Then lifting one of his monkeys, he gave a gentle push.

“Go Chameli go,” he said, “Memsahib ka kagag le aa.”

The monkey leaped forward and dived into the dark brown water swirling around the manhole. For a moment its form disappeared underneath the water. Then it re-surfaced with my wet, tattered manuscript held between its teeth.

I rushed forward snatching the document from its mouth while my brother dug into his pocket to pay the monkey-wallah.

“What will I do now,” I cried out in despair. “This document is completely ruined.”

“Don’t worry,” consoled my brother. “The man we are about to meet will not care about this document.”

“Thank heavens” I said out loud. “I was really worried.”

What kind of publisher is he, I wondered inwardly, which publisher does not care about a manuscript?

…………………

Coffee house, opposite to Presidency College is still visited by artists, writers, revolutionaries and students. This place is well known for having animated discussions on any topic over a cup of coffee. We went up the stone staircase, past the poster splattered walls that smell of stale urine and human sweat. A waiter in white uniform and turban greeted us at the door and ushered us towards an empty wooden table. Looking around I marveled at the slow moving ceiling fan that cast circular shadows on the tables and the floor lit up by crossing beams spilling into the room through the high ventilators.

Sinking his body into a chair my brother pulled out a cigar and took a long puff.

“What are you doing?” I asked in hush suppressed tone, “They will throw us out.”

“Look around then. They will have to throw a lot of people out.”

He was right! The business men in the next table were crushing cigarettes butts into their ashtrays. The doorman and the server were exhaling rings of smoke from their rounded lips. The manager himself was waving a cigarette as he instructed the cook.

The temptation was too much, too great to resist. It was as if a river damn had collapsed and the water came gushing out. I grabbed my brother’ cigar and took a long puff. Indians really know how to enjoy life, I thought to myself. This is indeed heaven.

“My name is Ramani Das,” a very dark skinned man with paan stained teeth folded his hand into a namaste.

“This is my sister,” said my brother. “She is here only for a few days. See what you can do about her book.”

“Anything you want Sir…err Madam. Anything is possible.”

“Anything?” I looked at him confused. The man looked like a pimp or a used car salesman. Surely this man is not a publisher, I thought in shock. I doubted if the man had ever flipped through the pages of a book. Then I reminded myself again. This is India, anything is possible.

“Anything you want madam.” He nodded his head reassuringly. “From tiger’s milk to the Kohinoor diamond, I can get you anything.”

“Who is this guy,” I asked my brother sharply. “Is he a book publisher?”

“No no Madam,” the man stuck out his tongue to show his shame. “I am a small man. How can I read those fat English books? No one in my family has ever been to school.”

“I see,” I sighed with relief. “So the publisher will join us soon?”

“No publisher fublisher is going to join us,” said my brother irritated. “I brought you here to meet this man. Why don’t get over your New York jet set mentality and listen to what he has to say.”

“All I am saying madam,” said the man hastily rubbing his hands, “Penguin, Harper Collins, Random House, Rupa and Roli. I know them all. ‘Ramani,’ they say ‘You are like our brother. What will we do without you.’ The editors, the proof readers and the marketing people…. they are all my friends. They will not turn down Ramani’s words.”

“What nonsense,” I cried out. “Just because you know them does not mean they will publish my book!”

“Hear him out first,” snapped my brother. “Why can’t you keep your mouth shut.”

“Two to three lakhs that’s all,” said the man.

“What?”

“No no madam. No less than that. This is the discounted rate they give to Ramani.”

“Who will take money from whom?”

“Madam you want your book published right?”

“Yes.”

“Then Ramani will take care of it. Any publishing house you want. You just pay the money.”

“I am sure big names like that cannot be bought!”

“Madam in India we buy and sell human beings. People sell their kidney, their eyes, their womb for money. What is a book publisher? You give the money and I will get you a big name.”

I stared at the man for a long time. Then slowly I put down my coffee cup, stuck a hundred rupee note under it and walked out of the coffee house.

………………….

Since the day I spent in College Street, I had started to smoke everywhere. I smoked in buses, in taxis and even in movie theatres. The smoking soon led to a dry cough. I would wake up in the middle of the night with a throat irritation.

“What you need is antibiotics,” said the family members, “Let’s get you started.”

But the word “antibiotic” hurt my fragile Western sensibility.

“My doctor in U.S. will never prescribe antibiotics at this stage…..it can be viral,” I protested. Once again a collective sigh followed my naïve remark.

“You don’t need a doctor or prescription to get antibiotics in this country. You just tell the pharmacist what you need and he will get it for you.”

As simple as that! Aminoglycosides, Cephalosporins, Fluoroquinolones, Macrolides, Penicillins, Sulfonamides, Tetracyclines. You ask for it and the pharmacists gets it for you.

So one night after my visit to the pharmacist, I made a cocktail with amoxyllin, penicillin and augmentin and threw it down the throat. There you go evil bacteria…I said, if you are hiding in there…screw you.

…………….

I did meet my publisher during my stay in Calcutta. I ran into him accidentally in a shared taxi. We were both going towards Narendrapur so we hopped into the same cab leaving Golpark and decided to split the taxi fare. Sinking into the wide back seat he lit a cigarette and gave out a long deep puff.

“Hope this does not bother you,” he murmured.

“Not anymore.” I smiled to myself. Then noticing his bearded face and longish hair, I blurted out, “You must be a professor.”

“Why would you say that?” he looked at me surprised. “I don’t recall saying anything particularly thoughtful or intelligent during this brief meeting.….other than the ‘do you want to share a cab with me?.’”

“From the beard…errr.. I assumed…..” I stammered.

“Publisher,” he nodded his head. “I am a publisher. And yes publishers in Calcutta often have beards.”

And that was how it started. I introduced myself immediately, relating to him my unsuccessful encounters with literary personalities and how I still believe I have a good book and I am still looking for someone who truly feels passionate about this work.

In the end he agreed to take a look at it. When I reached home, I emailed him a copy and he send me a brief test msg on my mobile phone.

“I can’t say it’s a great book because the plot is somewhat shallow and fast moving. But it has a un-put-down able quality to it and hence it is publishable. Bring the polished manuscript to my office in College Street on Sunday.”

So on Sunday, I printed out my whole manuscript and wrapped it up in a plastic bag and set out to meet with my publisher in College Street. The plan was to go to Garia first and then take a bus from Garia to College Street. The distance between Narendrapur and Garia is short and perhaps walk able. But the road itself is no more than a few feet wide and is host to millions of buses, trucks, autos, cycle rickshaws, scooters, bicycles, bamboo pushcarts and vans. To avoid this enormous chaos I decided to hop onto an auto rickshaw. There are thousands of autos that run in this route. They are all cheap and convenient. The three wheelers can fit in five people comfortably but sometimes they even take seven people, couple passenger sitting on the driver’s lap.

The entire stretch of the road from Narendrapur to Garia is lined up with a number of craters, open culverts, manholes and drains. As the auto-rickshaw bounced its way forward over the craters and the potholes, my head hit the roof of the vehicle several times.

That day the rain had made the potholes fill up with slush and our auto almost skid off the main road towards the open drains. Luckily the man sitting next to me was quite good looking and every time the vehicle skid of the road I voluntarily or involuntarily landed up in his lap. Though each time, I apologized profusely for this inconvenience, I was secretly waiting for the next pothole when the incident will repeat itself. When we finally reached Garia we exchanged phone numbers and smiled at each other coyly. The road breaking pits and craters had managed to seal a relationship between two strangers.

…………………

I felt confused and dazed in Garia. The sheer volume of traffic on the narrow road, the honking of horns and the impatience of the shoppers was quite daunting. The open drains on the road sides hosted some dark, viscous liquid which had spilled out and collected into small puddles. I tried to jump over the diseased water trying not to upset the rickshaw pullers, the bicyclist and hand -cart pullers.

“Use the pavement,” they yelled, “The road is for us.” I stared back at them in surprise. The pavement was just a concept they had created in their mind. There really was no pavement.

A few minutes later I was waiting for the number 5 bus to take me to College Street. My legs were now flaring up from mosquito bites. Ever since I landed in India, the tiny scum have been sucking my blood like the evil vampires. I am normally mild tempered, it takes a lot to get me worked up but the suckers have even succeeded in making me use wild profanity.

Garia is an ever-busy, and ever-crowded traffic junction from where a variety of public transports leave in different directions. Numerous shops, restaurants and businesses are scattered here adding to the overall chaos of the location. All around me I saw billboards, posters and graffiti promoting one product or another. Advertisement in this location feels like a mini explosion taking up pretty much every inch of available and unavailable space.

There were numerous billboards, some on single poles, some on giant goal post type bill boards, some on top of private buildings, some hanging from second and third floor balconies. These billboards sold everything from good Darjeeling tea to a balm that cures all sexual diseases, revives the libido and enhances the breasts.

For Indians who can’t read, there were loudspeakers mounted on every lamppost that blared day and night making sure that public opinion is swayed towards one brand of soap or shampoo. Not only that, there were loudspeakers tied to back of rickshaws and auto-rickshaws that followed buses and cars around making sure they heard about the latest chimney that sucks all oil out of the kitchen or the water filter that can eliminate all bacteria from ordinary tap-water.

Someone tugged at the end of my skirt from behind and I jumped back in surprise. A short man in a dhoti and kurta looked at me sympathetically. “Such beautiful eyes Madam and may I say what a nose! You are one in one lakh people. You look like Noor Jahan, wife of late Shah Jahan.”

The middle aged man took a step back as if to study my face more thoroughly.

“You should be married to a Zaminder. No, no not Zaminder. A lady like you deserves nothing less that a prince,” he said, his eyes full of praise.

Then suddenly he sighed. “It is only your complexion that is stopping you madam that I can see. Skin like yours should be fair and lovely as if bathed in milk and honey.”

I was half amused, half irritated at this audacious diatribe.

“What do you really want?” I snapped back at him.

“Madam, I have this crème for you, only twenty rupees. You rub it on your face at night and next day you will have fair skin like a true memsahib (white woman).”

I felt an angry lump forming at the bottom of my throat. Years of Western grooming have taught me not to entertain politically incorrect speech and here I was the target of it from a man I have never met before. Before I could reach out and give the man a good hard shake, the bus I was waiting for raced down the road and came to a screeching halt. I gave the man one last nasty look and headed for the bus.

The bus was packed with people. Numerous dark head squeezed into the narrow doorways and a series of faces glued to dusty window panes. As I reached out to grab the door-rail, the men in the doorway pulled me in and pushed me towards the back of the bus. The bone crushing pressure on my body made me gasp for air. I felt hands brushing against my breasts and squeezing my buttocks. Unable to determine whether these actions were deliberate or mere accidents, I fell back on my western impulses and apologized profusely to each of these individuals. This seemed to confuse the Indian men and they quickly moved away from me.

I clutched onto my manuscript and edged towards the back of the bus. Perhaps my over-protective posture alerted a pickpocket and he moved in quickly and stood very close to me. Sensing his proximity and feeling his warm fowl smelling breath on my shoulders, I moved away from him. But it was hard to lose him in that overcrowded bus.

The sudden lightness of my shoulder bag made me panic and I turned around to see my bag empty and the man behind me gone.

“Thief,” I screamed out, “He stole my package.”

The bus came to loud halt and immediately a few muscular men along with the bus conductor sprang out of the bus and raced down the street after the lout. I was told to stay behind through I continued my screaming and crying. A few minutes later the men came back looking defeated. “The bastard escaped,” they said, “There are thousands of narrow alleys here. Who knows where he went.”

……………..

When I reached my publisher’s office in College Street that day, I walked up the stairs slowly. My feet felt like they were tied down with chains and my heart was heavy with despair. I won’t be able to hand over the manuscript. This delays everything. Another day, another journey to Garia and then to College Street. My publisher will be very upset with me. He won’t be able to meet any of the deadlines we had discussed. Why was I not more careful?

“Here is your manuscript,” said my publisher, pushing the heavy bundle towards me, “Some pickpocket brought it to me. My address was on the cover. He demanded some money in return.”

“Why?” I asked astounded clutching on to the manuscript.

“He felt cheated of course. In all the years that he has been in this business, he has never seen anyone take so much care of some useless bundle of paper. He was sure you were hiding a fortune. Instead he got this manuscript which means nothing to him. He cried when he opened your package.”

I burst out laughing and my publisher went to get me a glass of water.

Saborna Roychowdhury

Saborna Roychowdhury was born and raised in Calcutta, India, and moved to the U.S. for her undergraduate work in chemistry. She lives in Massachusetts, and teaches at the Swampscott High School. Her short fiction has appeared in New York Stories and Quality Women’s Magazine U.K. and been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her novel “The Distance Between Us” has been accepted for publication by Monfakira Publishers.

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