Prolific is a loaded word. I am wary of it. I never know how to react when someone comes up to me and announces chattily, ‘My goodness! You are so prolific!’ Is the person paying me a genuine compliment? Being sarcastic? Stating the obvious? Or subtly criticizing me? Writers are thin skinned creatures. They are always looking for hidden meanings in the most innocuous of comments. They forget that the rest of the world may not be as obsessed with words. Their own or anybody else’s. Words are powerful and lethal. They leave permanent footprints. Words have an impact on readers that writers cannot control or manipulate. That’s terrifying! Prolific sounds safe. Sounds good. It shows the other person’s interest in the written word. And perhaps in YOUR written word. And I realize I should stop being silly. Stop being touchy. And just say, ‘Thank you … yes, you could say I am prolific.’ Such a response would end the conversation right there. But do I say that? Nope. I look injured. And I foolishly ask, ‘But … but … what do you mean by that comment?’ Oops. Wrong move. Dangerous question. It’s too late by then. The person takes a deep breath and launches into a speech. I am asked exactly how many columns I write per week. Is it tough to keep those deadly deadlines? Have I ever missed one? Is it boring to hammer out so much stuff? Forty-five years of writing??? No wayyyyy! Cool. Don’t I write every single day, no matter what? Where does the inspiration comes from? Have I ever suffered from a writer’s block? Is it really true that I write 2500 words on a daily basis? When do I find the time to write? These questions annoy me. But only mildly. Are surgeons asked, ‘Do you operate every single day? How many surgeries? What if you aren’t in the mood to operate? Have you ever encountered surgeon’s block, thrown down your scalpel and walked out of the operation theatre?’ No. Right? Why not? Because a surgeon’s job is to save lives. Guess what? In a way, so is a writer’s.
The columns in this volume reflect several concerns … my own and society’s at large. Some of the writing is acerbic and sharp, but almost all of it is impassioned and deeply personal. When I started writing ‘The Sexes’ back in the early 1990s the idea was to talk about issues that defined the rapidly changing gender equations between men and women in India. For the first time since Independence, India was in the throes of dealing with fluid and baffling attitudes towards sex and sexual mores. The changes we were living through were so dramatic and radical they had to be squarely addressed sans moralistic judgments. I believed my job as a columnist was to reflect these changes and comment on the new contours of man-woman relationships. What started off as a jaunty fortnightly column in one of India’s best read weeklies (The Week), soon acquired a loyal following (thank you, readers, you are my oxygen, nutrition, daily work out and indulgent treat), and once that precious relationship gets established as strongly, it becomes an addiction. Today, I cannot do without my daily fix of words – I mainline on them. Take away all else from me if you must, Oh Lord! I pray … but leave those precious words!
Shobhaa Dé
Mumbai, 2013