Nothing is personal, everything is personal

"The author-publisher relationship is more like a patient-doctor relationship—for one it means everything while the other is just trying to do his job", i found myself blurting out to a very nice, wise-with-age lady, who apparently had a terrible experience with her first publisher (and frankly not so great experience with us either till now, but i am determined to change that.) Just like a school-kid, my tongue was in the process of sneaking out from between the teeth, realising i may have crossed the line, when i saw her nodding and gently acknowledging, "yes, you are so right." With great relief, i let the tongue roll back into its place.

Now, my family doctor is a great guy and we get along like good friends. Come to think of it, we actually do consider each other a friend. It doesn't mean though that I don't have to be a part of the queue to see him or he doesn't charge me money, or i take tele-prescriptions from him at the drop of a hat, but it does mean that i almost always get the right advice and when i do call him at an unearthly hour, he is there for me. Most importantly, when i go to consult him, i get his undivided attention, which all his patients get too. The catch-word here is mutual respect, i don't cross my limit of expectations and he continuously tries to empathise with my situation.

I must confess it is easier to be a good patient than to be a good publisher. Expectations on the other side, more often than not, are high. You are constantly being judged and a fine line divides a friend-for-life and an enemy-for-life. Okay, okay, i exaggerated for effect but you get what i mean, don't you? My solution— remain true to yourself and empathise—usually everything falls in place when the intention is sincere and the thought process clear. And if you feel there is a difference between what you can deliver and the other side expects, recommend him to a super-specialist. At least my family doctor does that, and it works !

Lucky by Choice

It's usually between 6 and 8 in the evening that i reign supreme in the office. That's because i am the only one around that time. What stops me during the day, you could ask. Now, i would like to believe that i am quite a democrat and we all know the state of Indian prime ministers, don't we?

It was one such evening, around 7:30 when the calming silence of Ansari Road — an interesting place caught in the middle of old and new Delhi and infested with people who are ready to give their lives to get space for parking their severely dented cars, (my car and driver included) was broken by the loud ring of the phone. Unwillingly, i took the call. A heavy but warm voice with a strong South Indian accent beamed, "Is this Wisdom Tree? What is the price of Zen and the art of Happiness ?" 'Okay', i thought to myself, 'here we go.' The gentleman did know how to get me out of my shell though. He ended the fifteen minute conversation with these words, "My dear young man, i must really compliment you, the kind of books you publish, it's really commendable and you should feel lucky that you are earning your money by doing what i think is actually social work. God bless you." I muttered something like "You are being very kind, thank you." and hung up.

It was only after a few seconds that what he really said registered in my mind. How many people in this world receive a call from a 70-year old complete stranger, sitting several hundred miles away, blessing them for what they have been chosen to do?

I surely feel really lucky to be a publisher.