The making of Rupa
Rajen Mehra’s memoir offers a ringside view of how a veteran publishing house finetuned the business of art
Booksellers and publishers function at the intersection of art and commerce, a place rich with possibilities. Like any other business, you have to keep your eye on the bottomline. But the most successful and enduring publishers are those who never lose sight of the bigger picture — that the product is a work of art and cannot, therefore, be understood (and marketed) in terms of economic concepts widely applicable elsewhere. The art of business takes a backseat to the ‘business of art’.
Rajen Mehra’s memoir, Never Out of Print, offers readers a ringside view of the making of one of the country’s longestrunning publishing houses. And for the most part, it does so with a light touch and, especially in the second half, with the help of charming personal anecdotes.
The story begins with Mehra’s granduncle Daudayal Mehra impressing K. Jackson Marshall, a Scottish book sales representative, with his aggressive but scrupulously polite way of selling hosiery in Calcutta’s New Market area. Marshall asked the young man if he would be interested in selling Englishlanguage books.
“But D. Mehra knew his limitations. He had dropped out of school because the family had been unable to pay for his education. He was a dhotikurtaclad hosiery seller who didn’t speak English. Despite his restless energy and determination to experiment, Marshall’s offer seemed like something that would be too much for him to pull off. His market — the bhadralok (gentlefolk) and babus of Calcutta, newly Westernised and
Englishspeaking — tended to look down on other Indians, especially those who weren’t fluent in English.”
The paradoxes
This passage, intended as a way of communicating some of the paradoxes involved in selling Englishlanguage books in India, tells us how in India, reading and selling English literature is inextricably linked with class, caste and privilegerelated issues. The acts of reading and writing are aspirational, yes, but that aspiration isn’t in a single, easytodigest mode — the UPSC aspirant in Delhi is motivated to read and write in English for very different reasons than, say, a young TV journalist in Noida. Both individuals, however, are keenly aware of how speaking/writing good English is perceived in the country, and that perception is everything.
D. Mehra’s journey, meanwhile, takes the
Rajen Mehra Rupa company to its first big success and soon, the family consolidates the business by signing on a slew of big names — and securing the rights to publish/translate some internationally renowned authors as well. What’s interesting in this section is the way we see oldschool publishers going the extra mile to establish a personal relationship with authors. A far cry, indeed, from contemporary marketing gobbledygook and “outreach programs” built solely around transitory, sandcastlelike social media strategies.
Ray and other anecdotes
The company’s entrepreneurial trajectory is covered in the first half of the book; the second half (200odd pages) is filled with celebrity anecdotes, the kind of thing you’d be happy to read on the last page of a Sunday features publication. It’s entertaining stuff, mostly, like the story of Satyajit Ray casually drawing a whole book cover over a cup of coffee and a few puffs of his signature cheroot. Or the story of how smuggled copies of The Satanic Verses found their way into a car boot. Some of the more impactful and consequential anecdotes, however, take place in the chapter about the author’s own trip to Pakistan. It’s a business trip and the Rupa team meets famous writers and some of their biggest clients (booksellers) in Pakistan. Interesting encounters abound, but the one I found most noteworthy was with Iqbal Hussain of Paramount Books, one of Rupa’s booksellerclients. Very kindly, Hussain asks his guests what they wanted to eat and upon hearing, “daalroti” invites them to his house for lunch. There, Iqbal’s wife has prepared a sumptuous vegetarian meal for them — but she refuses to come out of her room and greet them. As the author realises soon, this has something to do with the fact that this is early 1993, and just a few weeks ago, something horrible had happened to India’s Muslims.
“His daughter had just served lunch, and mustering great courage, I asked Iqbal bhai why his wife hadn’t joined us for lunch. ‘Babri Masjid’, whispered Iqbal bhai in my ears. The controversial mosque had just been demolished in Ayodhya, much to the hurt and anger of Muslims, Iqbal bhai’s wife being one of them. She welcomed us with her warm, homecooked food but her heart had gone cold.”
Personally, I would have shaved about a hundred pages off this book at the editing table. After a while, all celebrity encounters begin to read alike — like a cocktail of performative humility and practised selfdeprecation. But Never Out of Print is a fast and engaging read nevertheless, plus a valuable record of publishing history in India. If you’re associated with the industry in any way, you should definitely read this. And even if you aren’t you’ll find plenty to keep you happy here.
Read an excerpt online.
The writer and journalist is working on his first book of nonfiction.