How to Write a ‘Bestseller’ in India

The makings of a bestseller and a realistic look at the publishing industry in India with Arcopol Chaudhuri of HarperCollins Publishers India.

Firstly – what’s a bestseller?

You want to write a bestseller. Fantastic. But do you know what that is? Yeah well, neither did I.

“There’s no predefined number of copies that a book needs to sell for it to be considered a bestseller,” says Chaudhuri. “In India you could approximate that number at 10,000 but even that depends on a variety of factors – like the genre, the language of publication, the number of print runs, the advance given to the author etc.”

The smallness of that number left me astounded. In a country of 895 million literate people (Census 2011), how can 10,000 be enough?  I did a little research and it turns out - it's true! While no publishing industry in the world has a fixed number when it comes to this, the numbers don’t seem to be skyrocketing anywhere. This article from ‘07 says the number in Canada is 5,000... but there's nothing written in stone.

So, what IS magic number? Nobody knows. (In fact, the New York Times maintains that its definition of a bestseller is a ‘trade secret’.) Arcopol’s number is as real as it gets.

Okay, so the first step is to write my book, right?

The Two Ends of the 'Bestseller' Spectrum

Wrong. If the aim is to be a bestseller then the first step is to know what the audience buys. There are two distinct sets of audiences in India, and while they do merge to a certain extent, they have completely different definitions of a ‘good’ book.

“A lot of books that you (Vanessa) would qualify as crap actually sell very well,” Chaudhuri explains. “They’re mass market books that can be read in a few hours, require minimum effort to read, refer to ‘familiar’ scenarios and are affordable. On the other hand, the books that you would consider good also sell well. Amish Tripathi’s Shiva Trilogy sold over 4-5lakh copies. Sheryl Sandberg’s ‘Lean in’ is flying off the shelves. So it’s not like people are only buying mass market books. Each has its own audience.”

“For every 100 books published only 8-10 actually sell,” says Chaudhuri. You need to figure who’s reading those 10 books and why.

Alright. Understand audience. Got it. Now?

Now would be a good time to write. “Write something that hasn’t been written, in a manner that your audience will understand and appreciate,” says Chaudhuri.

Once you’ve understood your audience it will become much easier to write for them. If the audience you’re catering to wants simple words, familiar scenarios and colloquial language – that’s what you give ‘em. Alternatively, if you’re catering to a fancy-pants audience that wants take a leap of the imagination and indulge in fantastic plotlines with unforgettable characters – so be it. The same story can be written to suit different types of readers. Just make the decision upfront and write till you can never read your own book again.

(And for the love of all things sacred, please don’t write crap!)

I wrote it! Woot! Everybody publish my book now!

Yeah… sure.  Getting your book published is easier than it used to be, but if you’re aiming for a renowned publishing house, get ready to do some serious waiting.

“If you send your book directly to a publisher, you can expect them to take at least 3 – 6 months to get back to you. IF they like it you can expect it to take up to a year for the book to actually be out in print,” says Chaudhuri.

“Having a good agent does speed up the process,” he admits. “The truth is that the supply is beginning to outweigh the demand. Everyone blogger and their cousin wants to have their book published these days, making the filtering process extremely difficult for publishing houses. A good agent is simply a much more credible source of manuscripts for a publishing house.”

They published it. But nobody is buying it. Sad face.

Aren’t you just the optimistic lil bunny, expecting people to just buy your book because you wrote it.

“The audience in India has a wide array of choices, it’s difficult for them to filter out what they want to read from what they don’t want,” Chaudhuri explains. It’s as simple as this – if they don’t know your book exists, how are they to even consider buying it? Here’s a fun fact - The internet reaches 12.6% of the Indian population. So, apart from traditional book reviewers, it’s a good idea to have your book reach bloggers, writers and twitterati who are known in this sphere. If you can get a celebrity to endorse it, even better!

Of course, being cute always helps. “Durjoy Datta, for example, has a large following – and a lot of it is comprised of teenage girls who think he’s cute,” says Chaudhuri. (Yes, irrespective of what I think of Datta’s work – it sells.)

If you have any understanding of marketing or decent networking skills, you might want to discuss the marketing of your book with your publishers. If you don’t know anything, try not to annoy them.

I sold 10,000 copies. My life’s work is done. I am awesome. Now give me my prize!

Congratulations. *sticks a gold star on your forehead*

You’ve just accomplished something in a large and growing industry. Things are looking good for you. “The publishing industry is doing well in India. It’s growing at 14-15% annually as compared to 4-5% internationally,” says Chaudhuri. According to Business Today ‘the per capita consumption of books in India may be low, but the sheer size of its population makes this country one of the biggest markets for books in the world.’

Make the most of it in two easy steps. Rinse. Repeat. 

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Arcopol Chaudhuri works with the Corporate Sales & Marketing team at Harper Collins and did this interview simply because I asked nicely on Twitter. Thank you, Arcopol, for putting up with my incessant and often redundant questions. May you always be blessed with intelligent company and a large twitter following.

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*This article is based on the assumption that you can write well in the first place. (Even though several bestselling authors don't exhibit any such skill)

Pushing Buttons for a Living

Vanessa Rebello

I spend over 18 hours of my day between twelve floors. Going up. Going down. Taking people where they want to go. Not really going anywhere myself.

The Guptas live on the top two floors in what they call a duplex. It is the largest house I have ever seen. Six bedrooms, two kitchens, a living room, a room just to watch television, a gym and an indoor swimming pool. I’ve only been to the living room of their house - that they know of.

Mr. Gupta leaves at 7am and returns at 11pm – six days a week. He doesn’t leave home on Sundays. He’s a good man. He’s polite, hardworking and trusting… a little too trusting. He’s the kind of person who gives you a loan because you seem like you really need it. The kind of person who thinks you will honestly pay it back and not skip town with the money. The kind of person that people take advantage of.

Mrs. Gupta is not like her husband. She spends most of her time at home. So does her personal trainer. On Tuesday and Thursday evenings she goes to kitty parties and comes back with something that doesn’t belong to her. Sometimes it’s an umbrella, or a bag. Sometimes it’s silverware or earrings. She admires the glistening watch or caresses the silk scarf against her skin as she rides up the elevator. As the lift pings to indicate her floor, she stuffs it in her bag and I never see it again. She mentioned to a friend once that there’s a cupboard in the guest bedroom where she keeps these things. Such a shame that she won’t be able to file a police complaint when they’re gone.

The Gupta’s have two kids. The girl has a boyfriend. The boy has one too. The parents don’t know about either. It will stay that way as long as I work for the parents and earn from the kids.

Friday nights are my favourite. That’s when the girl goes out. Her tight dresses cling to her young body as her milky, voluptuous breasts struggle to break free. Her high heels accentuate the length of her legs and the curve of that round, firm butt. These are the kind of clothes that society says are ‘asking for it’. Surely, society knows best. Ah… Friday nights. Those are the best 15 seconds of my week. Well… maybe second best. Mrs. Gupta doesn’t always remember to close the curtains when her personal trainer comes over.

25 Tips on Turning 25

Vanessa Rebello

Last week I completed a quarter of a century on this planet, and decided to tweet a little gyaan that I had accumulated over the years.  Here are a few of the things that I can share with you today. 

1. Nothing is permanent. Nothing makes sense. Nothing is 100%. And that’s alright.
2. Don’t quit a job without another in hand, especially with financial obligations. The job scene is unpredictable for freshers. 
3. A broken heart and an empty bank will teach you a lot more than any educational institute ever will.
4. To be good at something you need to actually DO it. Persistently.
5. Don’t waste your time with crappy people. They suck the life out of you and move on. Learn the art of indifference instead.
6. As far as possible, never owe anyone any money. The vicious cycle of debt will kill you, one payment at a time.
7. What you love and what pays the bills might be two separate things. Either incorporate the two or find a way to do both.
8. People are going to talk. No. Matter. What. Let them.
9. A good friend is one who tells you when you’re full of shit.
10. You will be taken advantage of in some way or the other. Learn to recognize the people who do this and avoid them.
11. Learn to be happy for people. Jealousy gets your nowhere.
12. Your 20s are when you have the least to lose. Take risks in love, work and life.
13. Cut the bullshit out of your life. People or otherwise.
14. Don’t get attached to ideas. Put them out there. Push the good ones. Just remember: The best ideas are always bigger than you. 
15. Meet people. There are so many of them out there and they all have something to offer. Take what you get, give what you can.
16. Figure out who you are and accept it. You need to learn to enjoy your own company.
17. Family comes first. Always.
18. The way you look matters. People are superficial – accept it. If you can beat this with your intelligence/personality – good for you.
19. Learn to laugh. If you can’t laugh at yourself, don’t feel bad when people laugh at you.
20. Smile and wave. Sometimes you’re going to need to be courteous to people you don’t like. Suck it up and do it.
21. Ask. If you don’t know something, ask. Don’t pretend to know. Don’t Google it later. Just ask.
22. Your parents are growing old. The day you fully understand this is the day you’re an adult.
23. Keep secrets. Don’t gossip. It’s important to be nice.
24. Read. Douglas Adams. Richard Dawkins. Blogs. Websites. Something. But read.
25. Love.

Feature: Soul Swapping

by Sreemoyee Kundu 

Image Source

“So you’re writing a book about guys?”


This was usually the first question.


“What’s it about?”


The next.


“Love… you mean sex right? And umm what about cars… I mean at least one sporting addiction. Okay change that to soccer… more respectable…No? Okay how about Final Fantasy XIII-2. Cool huh?”


“What’s that? I mean the last bit… of course my book has a bit of fantasy, every coming of age story has,” I butted in as three unshaven, wide-eyed faces gawked at me at an up market lounge bar, overlooking a burgeoning Monday evening in the national Capital.


“Okay, this is gonna sound mean, but you have no idea about men dude. I mean a guy book must have chicks, bikes/cars, soccer/Xbox, and alcohol… and…” paused my thirty-something, semi-balding, slightly obese childhood buddy, also an IT pro these days, as his other two colleagues grinned condescendingly.


“What did you mean by coming of age?” my 21-year-old cousin asked over E-mail, adding, “You know I just dig my friend’s older sister. She’s freaking hot man. Should I tell her… umm you think I should get a tattoo? Or, how about writing a letter? The kind dad wrote to ma, you know the one’s he’s always bragging about! Sheesh… Anyway, coming back to your survey, ‘what a guy book should have?’ Umm…. tweet you if I come up with something. Ciao.”


I shut my laptop.


“You seem pissed? Wanna grab a beer later?” an ex colleague pried, patting my back.


“I hate men!” I muttered, walking away.


“Just coz you won’t get a simplistic answer… you know figuring us out isn’t child’s play. It’s not like stepping into Zara because you want that red skinny denims, you spotted in the latest issue of Elle… you have to give us time… and be prepared that most often we won’t have the wise cracks you’re expecting us to have,” he resumed, following me into Zara.


“I wasn’t talking about you okay, stop taking this personally,” I scoffed, picking up a pair of skinny jeans.


“God you women are so damn predictable!” he threw up his hands in the air.


“Hey listen if you asked me what a good chick lit should have, I’d have the answer, and I may even rattle off three top chick lits of all time, so…” I interrupted.


“So… women have all the answers… and we’re still searching. What’s so bad about that? Why can’t you just accept that we’ll always be differently wired? I mean isn’t it bloody exciting to be a man in a woman’s head… umm I’d say body, except you’ll then label me sexist!” he hollered as I swaggered into the trial room.


And that’s how it really all began… my second novel – You’ve Got The Wrong Girl.


With a lot of questions and no answers… well at least to begin with.


Yet, looking back, it was fun swapping parts.


Walking out of bed in a pair of faded Diesel’s, not having to wax and obsess about your upper lip, enjoy plenty of casual sex, get sozzled on countless gallons of beer, watch porn on weekends, look blank when a woman asked, ‘so do you love me?’ (not having a lofty reply is permissible and usually evokes no guilt trip), ride an Enfield Bullet on a gnawing, dusty highway chasing a half finished Sunset, no PMS-ing about heart break, watching Godfather for answers and riding a horse in the last chapter.


I think it’s the sheer thrill of inhabiting a man’s skin that makes the job of a woman lad lit writer so much more liberating… almost like getting that tattoo my cousin never got/having sex with that stranger you just met at the rafting holiday in Rishikesh (the one with the pale blue eyes)/ finally quitting a high paying IT career to be a gaming expert – something my childhood pal secretly aspires for.


In his heart… somewhere.


The only place we all hide – irrespective of our chromosomal bar code.


“So, what’s your book about again?” my childhood friend quizzes, as I patiently wait for his verdict on my finished manuscript.


“A man called Dushyant Singh Kanoria… in search of a girl he once loved and lost… you know the usual boy meets girl story… but with a spin this time… told from a man’s viewpoint,” I reply, trying to retain my newfound male Zen.


“I like Dushyant,” he lazily retorts, flipping through the pages.

“He’s, he’s got soul man… he’s got a lotta that shit happening… but in a hard, I mean in a man kinda way,” he surmises, with a wink.


“So you’re finally admitting that guys too dig soul?” I ask with a half smile.


“Of course… besides there’s something sexy about a woman doing us… I mean you know what I mean right. Hey, do you still have that short, black dress? Wear it at your book reading… you know how we are with legs and shit,” he rambles on.


I laugh out loud, whispering the words, “I do!”

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Sreemoyee Piu Kundu is a Lifestyle Journalist with publications such as Times of India, India Times, Mid-day, Metro Now and The Asian Age. 'You've Got The Wrong Girl' is her secondnovel that breaks new ground as a woman ladlit writer. She lives in New Delhi and is currently working on her third book - Seance, a hand book of love verse.

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Traveling Light

by Athul DeMarco

Image Source

It was the summer of 1978. The movers and shakers of the world were flying to exotic locales like Disney land and Timbuktu to meet Mickey Mouse and the many starving princes. But Mr. and Mrs. Azad were off to get their 5 year old son acquainted with their respective in-laws. Traveling in the late 70's by the Indian railways was the basis with which futuristic theorists envisioned humans prepare themselves for the inevitable apocalypse. Mrs. Azad had packed little Tarun's milk bottle, enabling his fixation and obsession with his mother's breasts, food and snacks neatly packed in steel vessels, tea and milk to last for the whole 72 hour journey, along with mattresses, bed sheets, pillows, pillow covers and toilet supplies to last them for an indefinite period of time, just in case the broke down and the last man and woman alive had trouble fornicating in a valiant effort to save human race.

The concept of traveling light was yet to be discovered.

After boarding the delayed train, and making the customary baggage count, Mrs. Azad found to her utter disappointment that she had indeed forgotten few essential items to pack like fresh vegetables, fruits and hangars to hang their dirty laundry. The train had started to move and gather momentum in congruence to the then known laws of physics. As Mrs. Azad turned around to convey the news of her incompetence in the department of packing and household management to Mr. Azad, she found him on the platform waving them goodbye, with a wry smile on his face.

Mr. Azad was a man from the future. And he had done what any man from his time would have done, find a way to shed the excess weight and refrain from paying the excess baggage fee and accompanying tax at the check-in counter of life. He was truly a man of the future. He believed in traveling light.

It was the winter of 2010. Mrs. Azad on her flight to Machu Picchu received a text on her smart phone from Tarun. Her husband had finally been found. The message read, "Dead. No Balls, as instructed. Have a safe flight". Mrs. Azad boarded her flight with her Louis Vuitton bag in hand and wry smile on her face.

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Somebody once said, I am not sure if it was me, but anyway, "If you like traveling, meeting people, always trying to figure out what people are thinking, you can either become a researcher or you can create them...". So now I create them when I am not meeting them. 

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Awesome Website: The Moth

As much as I love a good book, I honestly believe that some stories are not meant to be limited to the confines of text. Some stories are best narrated out loud. The art of verbally telling a story is a difficult one to master. How do you keep the audience interested while remaining true to the story? Let’s see it done by some of the best…

The Moth is an organization that presents stories, told live to audiences around the world. In their own words, “The Moth is an acclaimed not-for-profit organization dedicated to the art and craft of storytelling. It is a celebration of both the raconteur, who breathes fire into true tales of ordinary life, and the storytelling novice, who has lived through something extraordinary and yearns to share it.”

Check out one of my favourite stories:

Click here to check out their website. Special thanks to Aditi Mittal for introducing me to The Moth!

Won’t you take me to Funkytown?

by Nishi Shroff

Image Source: Sellerby.com

I don’t want to be a hypocrite, but it isn’t easy to live in a city where moving just half-an-inch, in any direction, means stepping on somebody’s toes, literally. I would also like to breathe fresh air, but when I sit at a promenade I can still inhale Marlboro fumes. I most definitely don’t want to be a hypocrite.

There are billboards all over the place and nobody cares what’s on them, you learn how to tune it all out when there’s so much clutter thrown at you. What worries me are the lakhs and crores in ad spends, especially when a child is crapping on the corner of a busy junction, right below a bank’s hoarding.

Being grown up requires Shit, Strength and Sass

by Rucha Shukla

Grown up. How often do our parents ask us to grow up? Be mature. Start behaving our age. We feel indignant. We are behaving our age, this is what I am supposed to be at 15 or 16 or 18. Let me live.

And you live. Till one day you find that life catches up with you and you realize that you have grown up. Actually. And oh man that is such a weird realization. Suddenly you want to go back. Reach 14, hit 16, and swing all the way into 18 and re enact your 21^st birthday…All over again.

But you’re grown up now. What to do? What’s been drilled into our heads since we were probably 5 has finally come to pass. You start behaving mature, you file your tax returns (and that to me is the ultimate in grown up world), you start worrying what you will put on your Facebook status will be read and judged by people, you worry about money (which you earn and hence is even more precious) and you worry about the super ultimate “Where is my life headed?”

But somebody has to be grown up. To my mind it’s like puberty, it’s going to hit you sooner or later. Too soon and you’ll feel weird; too late and you’ll feel like you’re irresponsible. Either ways, it’s going to hit you.

Doesn’t have to be doomsday, though it sounds like that the way I’ve written it. It’s just hit me and I’ve been at times fighting tooth and nail to resist it or embracing it like the Chipko movement.

The trick – None that I can think of, except that you make it up as you go along. Sort of like writing your own story, you edit your own parts, add your own drama, polish up the words and do a little bit of calligraphy. And you get to choose your very own paper. I would choose a purple colored one.

What does this post mean? I don’t know. It’s a cross between The Sunscreen Song and Finding Neverland. I 

think.

Hi my name is Rucha and I’m trying to write. All over again.

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Rucha Shukla is an Associate Producer for TV and has recently spent most of her time alternately dreaming about getting a house in Coorg so that she can write random poetry for the rest of her days and watching reruns of Supernatural.

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Feature: Memento Mori

by Arvind Menon

Congratulations on choosing Memento Mori, you are one step closer to a joyous and fulfilling life.

The Memento Mori program promises to free your mind from a dull dreary outlook, and lead you to greener, brighter pastures and help you find all the happiness you’ve ever wanted.

The program was founded in 1969 by renowned psychologist and philosopher, Dr. Ahmed Beirut. He postulated that with rapid advances in technology, medicine and science, mankind’s zest for living exponentially reduced. Man is being driven to a life with illusionary pleasures and manufactured emotions. Through years of study, Dr. Beirut found that if one wants to really feel true freedom, one must embrace death and face their inevitable mortality on a daily basis.

From this idea, the Memento Mori Program was born.

In 3-4 weeks you will receive your Starter Kit, which includes a jar containing one thousand (1000) blue capsules. Hidden within these capsules is one (1) capsule of slow acting cyanide. The rest of the pills are absolutely harmless placebos. 

You must keep this jar at your bedside and consume one capsule with a glass of water every night.

If you happen to consume the cyanide capsule, it will start working with three (3) hours, killing you peacefully while you sleep.

If you consume the placebo, you will wake up in the morning, fresh and thankful at having received the gift of a brand new day.

With the renewed vigour that comes with embracing one’s mortality, you will be able to pursue activities of your choice through the day with a noticeably upbeat and cheerful outlook to life.

You will be able to relish and savour each moment of the day, find fulfilling hobbies and pursuits and engage in more meaningful interpersonal relationships with near and dear ones.

You will receive a fresh supply of placebos every three (3) months which you must add to the jar and shake vigorously.

 Please note that at Memento Mori, we do not subscribe to cheap psychological tricks to motivate our patrons. There is a real cyanide pill in the jar, the consequences of consuming which are most definitely lethal. We encourage our patrons to get their affairs in order before starting the program.

You can call our 24 hour toll free helpline to avail of legal assistance at a subsidized rate to draw up a last will and testament.

Kindly consider signing up for our organ donor program, and help those in need, even in death.

Once again, best regards for your new life. Make every second count.

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Arvind Menon (who refused to contribute to his bio for this section, and hence I am doing it) is one of the most talented people I know. His ability to come up with unconventional ideas and structure them in an innovative manner has led to a career in advertising. It also leads to some very interesting conversations and (as you can see) some fantastic writing.

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Feature: The Day

by Chandni Tolani

She stepped out of the shower and her hands trembled as she scrubbed her perfect black curls, dry. She knew this was it; it was the day when he was going to pop the big question to her. Last evening, he had invited her to a lavish dinner at one of the most expensive rooftop restaurants in the city. 'Friday, 9 PM, Aer. It's a date!' She read the message every ten minutes. It made her smile nervously every time she read it.

She sat in front of the mirror, thinking to herself what would she wear? She had waited for this for seven long years, and it was finally happening. She wanted to look her best, on this day. "Should I wear the yellow dress that he loves the most? Or maybe something that he's never seen me in before?" She wasn’t too fond of the colour, but he loved it, so it didn’t matter. So many thoughts crawling in and out of her mind, it had to be a flawless night.

She walked to her wardrobe and tried eleven outfits before she chose one. It wasn't the same dress, but it was his favourite colour, yellow. She let her hair loose, just the way he liked it, with the curls falling on her back and just some, on her face. She wore diamond earrings, stilettoes and carried a clutch bag. She checked her watch; it was ten minutes to nine. It would take her twenty minutes to cover the distance from her house to the restaurant. He was never late, which was one of the traits about him, she adored the most. He would make certain he reached before time; he hated to make her wait. She took one last look at herself, before stepping out of home and took a deep breath knowing that she won’t be single again. It was 'the day'.

On her journey to Aer, she recalled all the special moments she had cherished with him. How she’d wake him up every morning with a phone call, ‘There’s no better way of starting my day, than hearing your voice’, he always said. How she would innocently act silly when he was low, just to make him smile. How they would cuddle on the couch and watch movies every weekend. Their little fights over Chinese food or Italian, he loved the latter. Meaningless conversations in the middle of the night, unexpected surprises on no special occasions, everything came back to her in a flash. She was beaming, impatiently!

If you want to be happy, be.

by Suchita Ranglani

It’s funny how everyday we end up getting into a silly argument with either our best friend or our worst enemy. How we crib about the most irrelevant things. How we let the fact that our favorite donut at MOD isn’t available affect us so much.  Or the fact that someone doesn’t agree with us.  How we cry over spilling ketchup over our white t-shirt or complain about a coming up test or an assignment. It’s just so silly.

Below the surface, we end up forcing ourselves to live in pain, long for the past, crib about what we do and do not have. We sympathize with ourselves, with our “pain”. With the apparent ‘shattered’ state we are in. Blame others for the mess in our lives. Try to change ‘their’ view and in the bargain lose our minds. Get angry with ‘them’ because apparently “they’re wrong”. Regret what we’ve already done. And unknowingly, get accustomed to the depression. It’s just SO strange.

What we don’t realize that the ‘shattered’ state claim to be in is our own choice. We have put ourselves there, by focusing on everything that is supposedly ‘wrong’.

5 Movies to Watch before You Die: #5 - 12 Angry Men

by Dharmesh Gandhi

Before I watched ‘12 Angry Men’, I had watched ‘Dog Day Afternoon’ and ‘Serpico’ by Sidney Lumet, which happen to be in my list of all time favorite films. I loved ‘Dog Day Afternoon’; so I was expecting something similar when I sat down to watch 12 Angry Men. At first, I was not too keen to watch the film as I had not watched any actors (apart from Fonda) in any films. 

Apart from a brief setup and a briefer epilogue, the entire film takes place within a small New York City jury room, on "the hottest day of the year," as 12 men debate the fate of a young defendant charged with murdering his father. Incredible. Aside from the great performances (by each of these great actors) the standout in ‘12 Angry Men’ is Lumet's subtle pacing and tension-building. Lumet gently leads us in to the crucial characteristics of the jurors.

Atmosphere is as important as character. Watch the jurors sweat in stifling heat and then delight in the rainstorm. All the while, Fonda remains cool and calm in his white suit. A ticking clock, a wall-mounted fan and a dozen heated debaters are perfectly exploited to portray this study in prejudice, justice and humanity. The interlaced moments of comedy are very welcome too and always appropriate to the progress of plot and character.

The brilliance of ‘12 Angry Men’ can be explained in three parts. Sidney Lumet does everything right in this film. The setting is simple; most of the action takes place in the jury room, with the exception of some establishing shots telling the viewer where they are, and the plot is pretty straightforward But there are some wonderful elements that he introduces into the scene to further the claustrophobia and tension: He makes it the hottest day of the summer, and for most of the film, the fan doesn't work, so you can literally see the sweat pouring off of these men and soaking through their shirts. He also uses some tight close-ups of the actors at times, particularly when they are giving dissenting opinions or are in a state of emotional discomfort.

Secondly, the film's script is absolutely first-rate. Not only does the story come together like a thousand puzzle pieces, but also the clever way it does this never fails to astonish me. One would think that sitting and watching 12 guys talk about a court case while getting in each other's faces for an hour and a half wouldn't be compelling, but the intricacies of each juror, the way each of their backgrounds and prejudices are revealed is fantastic.

Let’s come to the cinematography. To make the room seem smaller as the story continued, lenses of longer focal lengths have been used, so that the backgrounds seemed to close in on the characters. The first part of the film is shot above eye level. The second, at eye level. And the last is shot below eye level. In that way, towards the end the ceiling began to appear. Not only were the walls closing in, the ceiling was as well. The sense of increasing claustrophobia did a lot to raise the tension of the last part of the movie. In the film's last shot, a wide angle was used to let the viewer finally breathe.

‘12 Angry Men’ is one of those rare B/W favourites for me. It's almost disarmingly simple and straightforward. Its drama frighteningly is intense. I understand why some may view the film as dated, or have a problem with the era from which it was made. I take into account all the cultural differences between then and now (the all-white male jury, the American slang, the one-dimensional setting) but none of it matters because the story, direction, and acting are so good. The morality of the story is the focus, not the backdrop. 

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Dharmesh Gandhi thrives on cinema and pop culture. When he is not busy doing that, he's a TVshow evangelist. If he's doing neither of those, he's probably asleep. If you want to talk to him about movies or bitch about the shows he airs on Star World you can catch him on Twitter.


This is the first of his series of 5 movie reviews for LaptopLit.

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Feature: Mumbai Local Trains - A Class Apart

by Mihir Suvanam

Image by Blaine Rodrigues

Just to fuck with your head, the Western Railways Corporation classified different coaches on their train system as First Class and Second Class. It’s all the same class really and we are all equally fucked no matter what class we travel. Nobody here gets out smelling like jasmine. But what this class distinction does do is induce in the working class a false sense of status.

I pay about 800 odd Rupees for a 3 month ‘First Class’ pass to travel from Santacruz to Elphinstone Road. Why do I buy this in spite of knowing that there are an equal number of bodies stacked in to my compartment as compared to the other un-striped compartment? Because I’m a classist whore and the first class stacks me up against pin-striped, educated, white collar, bespectacled, novel readers. I deserve no less. If I am going to be showered with warm sweat it’d better be from these gentlemen.

But these men are probably somebody else’s bitches too, which is why they waste no time in exerting their superiority once inside the ‘First Class’ black hole. If an un-stripped, laborer-type bhaiya is spotted in our little slice of luxury, then God have mercy on him. It’s not like he’s single handedly causing the compartment to overflow with human bodies. The average reaction before someone notices him is about 6 seconds; somebody will smugly say “Yeh first class hai!” That’s it. No solution will be offered or no moral will be taught. A fact will be stated in its entirety. And then the gent will wait for the words to take effect. This will melt thebhaiya’s ego, the last dying cell of his self-respect will commit suicide and his head will hang low. At the next stop he will get down and merge with the non-perfumed sweat of his un-stripped brethren.

Friday Feature: Ditched

Yes, I know that it's Saturday, not Friday. However, with the server down all day yesterday I have been left at the mercy of the internet. So, just a day late, here's this week's Friday Feature.

by Himanshu Saxena

He was a perfect hunk – big height, iron biceps, boulder chest, long hair, not to mention a national guitar contest winner, topper of his class in engineering, and finally a job holder in the most glamorous consulting firm in the world. Meet Raj Bhaskar, a name that stands for everything that a guy always wanted to become, increases heartbeats and stops everything around. Raj Bhaskar had seen victory in every sphere possible, and there is perhaps nothing else he could have wanted.

But not the same for his parents. Being the parents of Raj Bhaskar has an added challenge – how to get him married. Boys like him simply don’t marry – and unless he marries he cannot be responsible for his life and his family’s. 

So came the inevitable. 

Dinner table fight ending in near fisticuff, and the final verdict – Raj Bhaskar should get a girl by the end of the year of his parents would get one for him. And if neither happens, then all the property including hundreds of acres of land, a condo near Marine Drive, a chain of 13 hotels and a horse stable will go to a variety of charities that Raj Bhaskar couldn’t even count.

A Witches Wag by Zahanya Talati

Keeping with the workshops we're having, we have a special Children's feature this week as 8-year-old Zahanya Talati gives us a rhyme about a witch.

Once in a spooky land

There lived a witch very grand

She had white, curly hair

Like a giant Polar bear!

She put a skull on her flag

And went sailing off to a land

Where the trees could talk and walk

And the vultures scream and squawk

Every day she ate a lot

Till she grew as fat as a pot!

There she married FooFoo Fumo

A wizard as big as a Sumo!

They went off to their honeymoon

To the round, shiny, white Moon

Where the days were light and white

And the nights were very bright

So, if you look up the sky

Wave and say a big HI

To Mrs Witch and her husband

Who now live in Moonland!

So the next 22nd July

When you look up at the sky

Do remember to wave

And shout out a big ‘hi!’

To check out our Creative Writing Summer programme click here.

Friday Feature: The Unborn

by Prateek Singh

She was happy and excited when she visited the doctor. A medley of emotions ran through her mind and drove her towards craziness. She wanted to tell him that soon she was going to be a mother and he, the father. He couldn't accompany her to the doctor but suddenly that didn't seem to matter to her. She wanted to  share with the world how blessed she felt. After all, this was going to be her first child. On her way home, she began making plans for his or her first birthday, his or her name and also for the future. Today, she didn't call him. Instead, he gave her a call and came home early where he was given the surprise. He, too, was overjoyed and that night they went out for dinner.

Weeks passed by, his sister came home so that she could have some rest. She did all she could so that her child could remain healthy. She ate nutritious  food, she looked after herself, she cherished every moment. She didn't feel the pain. She even enjoyed it when the baby kicked. It felt that it was a medium of communication between them. She keenly observed the growth of the baby from an embryo to a human child. Every night before going to bed, she would say a silent prayer for the well-being of the unborn. She blushed when anyone talked about the child. Her smile made her eyes sparkled with happiness. She even wrote a diary of all the events that were taking place during her pregnancy. Her life was perfect.

Friday Features: What’s in a cliché?

by Pankti Mehta

The clock is ticking to the eleventh hour, and you’re at your wit’s end. You’re still at square one with your piece, typing and erasing, typing and erasing. The sun stopped shining hours ago, but your hay remains unmade. All you want to do is forget how procrastination reached its peak today and call it a day now that it’s late – so you end up writing a paragraph that looks a bit like this.

I’ve always been confused with the cliché. How much is too much? I remember going through a phase when I would avoid them except in titles or endings. At about the same time Holden Caulfield spoke about how his English teacher didn't like cliches. "But I like them," he said. "They're accurate, and in some situations, they hit the nail right on the head."

That made sense. They’re recognizable, those clichés, give your reader something to relate with. They work superbly for headlines, let you use puns, ‘catch-phrases’, but they don’t come without the danger of over-use. I’ve fallen into the snare myself, not that long ago, using the headline ‘Go green’ for a story about how to use the colour in your home interiors. It made me cringe then, too, knowing fully well it’s terribleness, but it fit the space exactly and it was late…oh well.