Open books and closed minds

“Where are the poor and oppressed people,” demanded Jane, the cigarette hanging more dangerously than ever from her lips. I instinctively looked down at the manuscript she was holding, one which had taken me two years to write, and heaved a sigh of relief that I had made copies.

“Try p-page 64,” I stammered, as a drop of sweat glared past me. “Where Baburao puts in his last penny to purchase the rat poison. It’s for his consumption..you know..”.

“Hmmm” she nodded appreciatively and went back to reading. I was surprised she had agreed to meet me after reading the draft manuscript.

“It’s a win-win situation” an enthusiastic literary agent had told me over the phone. “You want an international publisher and they want a title in their kitty on rural India that’s dark and shocking “.

I was thrilled that I had finally made it to a publisher’s office instead of being a deleted e-mail in their computer, but the reference to my ‘dark and shocking’ country made me a little uncomfortable.
You’re not the only one, I consoled myself. All writers, artists and filmmakers make a lucrative living by straddling on the impoverished Asian man’s back. Still, it did little to ease my conscience.

Like everyone else, I had started out wanting to change the world with my writing. Three years and sixteen rejections later, I was ready to feed rat poison to my protagonist Baburao, if someone agreed to touch my manuscript.

“Frankly, the story is unbelievable” said Jane, making rapid notes in her book. “And I don’t mean it as a compliment,” she added hastily. “Your basic premise, of comical situations taking place amongst bare conditions in rural India, is very unrealistic. People don’t joke when they are poor, they suffer”.

My eyes lit up. “That’s the misconception I want to clear” I said. “Rural India has always been associated with poverty and suffering. But that’s not how it is. The real India is very different. One of hope, confidence and optimism and…”

“Hmm hmm..yeah ok” interrupted Jane impatiently. “Then why is your protagonist about to consume rat poison?”

“Oh…” I said, a little taken aback. “He doesn’t actually…consume it”.

“What?” her voice reverberated across the cabin, confirming my suspicion that she had barely skimmed though the draft.

“That thought was just a momentary lapse in sanity,” I explained. “The bottom line is that he is happy with what life has offered him”.

Jane immediately put down the manuscript in a thud and looked at me. Her glare suggested that she would have been happier feeding me the rat poison instead of my principal character. Neither of us spoke for a few minutes and the undercurrents were starting to unsettle me.

“Look, I know my story may not win an award or be made into a movie that wins a dozen Oscars, but it’s about real people and real situations,” I said, finally breaking the silence. She still did not react.

“Maybe,” I declared boldly. “It’s time for people to look at India in a new light”.

If this was a movie, this would have been the final punch dialogue that transformed bad guys into good and a happy ending would have followed. In real life, however, my posterior was asking for a kick.

“Jane,” I tapped on her side of the desk when the silence became unbearable. “I just spoke my mind. I need to know what you think”.

She simply turned to her book.

“Rat poision,” she wrote in the notes column. “Too expensive for the character. Substitute with death by starvation”

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