Well, whoever said life was simple! I’m now confronted with the tag of ‘woman’ writer, for no greater sin than that I’m a female. When male writers embed sappy love stories into their Alpha thrillers, nobody calls them ‘male’ writers. But the minute I do it, I’m asked why women can only think of writing about relationships? Don’t they have anything else to talk about? The journo wants to know, essentially, if all ‘women’ writers in India are only capable of writing about thirty something, hormonally charged independent women in search of perfect sex combined with perfect romance, a hard combo at any time. Why can’t they come up with something different? Why is there so much ‘chicklit’ flooding the market?

My answer: First, all books about urban, successful women are not ‘chicklit’. Second, what’s wrong with chicklit? I can’t think of a funnier book that I’ve read in a long time than Bridget Jones Diary. Third, why would anyone want to rain on the parade of Indian writers, even ‘women’ writers? Why this desperate quest for ‘meaningful’ solemnity in a time of bubbling optimism? Meaningful solemnity at a time of hopeless irrationality and pessimism, at the time of our ‘woman’ Prime Minister, Smt. Indira Gandhi, was fine. But today’s woman, thank God, has forgotten that time, left it behind her, hopefully for good, and can actually drink Absolut vodka with Schweppes tonic without being sent to jail for it. And hurrah for it!

Of course, when there are a million ‘women’ writers, and they’re all writing the same thing, the discriminating eye of that ultimate auditor, the customer, will decide what stays and what goes. Till then, allow all us ‘women’ to crawl out of our monasteries of silence and do what we love to do, that is, write what we love, love.