Growing pains in the book world

SPEAKING VOLUMES

Jostling past the popcorn-bearing crowds that throng Pragati Maidan on the first weekend of the Delhi Book Fair, my mind is on murder.

I'm speculating about the feasibility of setting a crime novel here, letting a deranged axe-wielding author loose on publishers, agents, more successful writers and other suitable victims.

My homicidal writer could dispose of the bodies of his victims by packing them in leftover cartons, or perhaps he might prefer to distribute assorted body parts around the various exhibitions in a sort of grisly treasure hunt.

There is something about literature in the proximity of large gatherings that brings out the homicidal side of my character.

It's just me, though. The rest of the throng has less violent preoccupations. Those with children in tow testify to the amazing, indestructible popularity of Ruskin Bond, who announced a few days before the fair that he intends to write his memoirs.

The Rusty books seem to have an eternal readership, and a number of children are hoping to catch a glimpse of the great man. They're luckier than those looking for Taslima Nasreen's autobiography, which has been banned from the fair for very specious reasons.

Authors stalk the pavilions, gloomily noting the position of their books on the bottom-most shelf, complaining that other authors have larger author posters, demanding author discounts from their publishers and generally acting up.

The smaller stalls, hawking strange and sublime books on impenetrable subjects look longingly at the crowds thronging the stalls put up by the mainstream publishing houses.

The mainstream guys view the hordes with resignation, assuming a ratio of one potential pilferer to every three regular buyers.

In its sixteenth year, the Delhi Book Fair still retains an adolescent awkwardness. It's not quite a people's fair; Naipaul's speech on the first day made a few ripples, but except for a scattering of launches and author signings, this is not really seen as a venue where authors can interact with their readers.

This is the first year in the fair's history that the organisers have instituted an author's lounge, hoping to encourage dialogue between writers from different regions and genres, but few authors have dropped in, at least on the first few days.

For every serious reader hoping to find rare books, bargains, hard-to-source imprints, there's a family out for nothing more than a picnic, with ice-cream and chaat rather than bestsellers dominating the shopping agenda.

Nor is the fair really on the global map as a trade publishing event, though there are signs that it might be heading in that direction. This year, some authors stalk the pavilions, unpublished manuscripts in hand, hoping to buttonhole a UK publisher or agent or two.

But most of the publishers I spoke to before the fair said that they were unlikely to encourage such informal approaches (and no, I didn't try selling them the homicidal author book!). They reiterated a common complaint that's been gaining ground over recent years: Indian writers need agents.

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Agents haven't been necessary "" or available, or affordable "" for the last two decades in the Indian context.

In the global marketplace, an agent does the slushpile sifting for editors, knows what kind of book is likely to appeal to what imprint, and does the negotiating for advances and book contracts on behalf of the author.

A good agent can be an excellent interface between author and publisher, and can point writers in the direction of other kinds of writing opportunities as well.

In the Indian context, the volume of writing in English is relatively low, so most publishing imprints can afford to get by with a slushpile editor.

The average book advance and the average sales of a book are unlikely to cross the five-figure mark, though Indian publishers have been known to offer the occasional advance for a really big name that can be measured in lakhs rather than thousands.

Since most agents abroad survive on their fee, which is calculated as a portion of the earnings of the authors they represent, there hasn't been much incentive for trained members of the publishing world to explore the possibilities of becoming agents.

The picture changes sharply when it comes to trying to sell a book abroad. Most Indian writers who don't have helpful godparents in the industry are at a loss.

The two agents everyone's heard of are David Godwin, who represents Arundhati Roy among other authors, and Gillon Aitken, who represents V S Naipaul and Aniruddha Bahal among others.

Many first-time authors rush to the few names they hear about in the media blindly, instead of taking a hard look at the agents' list of authors and trying to figure out whether they belong in that stable.

The Indian summer for writers has waxed and waned, with many western publishers increasingly wary of handing out gigantic advances for books that make only average progress in the global marketplace, but the country is still seen as a potential crucible for talent.

Over the last year, what I hear more and more frequently from visiting publishers is that their task would be much easier if they could find authors through an established agent rather than by word-of-mouth.

In the West, it's not uncommon for editors like Macmillan's Peter Straus to change job descriptions and turn agent instead; perhaps in another few years, we might see this happening in India.

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That depends on whether the talent is available. There are few outlets where aspiring writers can hone their skills at essays or short stories, and most writers tend to develop their skills on the job instead, with the first big novel or big book they try to write.

The annual Outlook-Picador Nonfiction competition, now in its third year, is one of the few contests to encourage amateurs to flex their writing muscles.

This year's winner is Anuradha Roy, co-founder of Permanent Black, who writes all too infrequently and all too well. Her essay, 'Cooking Women', explored the world of an aunt and the ways in which food shaped this Jethima's life.

In the spirit of full disclosure, I should confess that I was a runner-up. More than the award, what I really got out of the contest was the slightly uncomfortable awareness that my piece would never have been written at all without the impetus of the contest.

It made me wonder about all the writing that never gets done by all the writers who never get published, just because they aren't challenged enough in India.

nilroy@lycos.com