N Nagarajan
Four decades in publishing taught me that books are not merely products, but bridges between minds.
My association with the world of books began on 12 October 1976, when I joined the then Orient Longman at its head office in Delhi. I was a B. Com graduate from a college affiliated with the University of Delhi, with no special qualifications in publishing. A childhood friend suggested that I try for a job, and a walk-in visit led to an interview with the company secretary. He asked when I could join. My monthly salary was less than ₹250—hardly a fortune, but enough to begin a journey that would last nearly four decades.
My interest in books had begun much earlier. As a student, I was curious about the title page and the page behind it, which carried the publisher’s name, address and copyright information. I wondered why these details mattered and what copyright really meant. In those pre-digital days, I even wrote to UNESCO seeking information. I did not know then that these early questions would eventually become part of my working life.
Publishing soon revealed itself to be much more than printing words on paper. A manuscript had to pass through several stages before reaching a reader. Authors submitted handwritten manuscripts or typescripts; editors examined the text; production staff dealt with typesetting, corrections, layout and printing; and sales teams worked to place books in the hands of readers. Each stage required patience, coordination and attention to detail. Behind every finished book lay a considerable amount of unseen work.
The price of a book depended not only on its content but also on paper, printing, binding, production quantities, distribution and other costs. A good book could not fulfil its purpose unless it was produced economically and reached its intended audience. I gradually understood how closely editorial judgement, production, finance and sales were connected. Beyond the Backroom Publishing did not always enjoy the glamour associated with some other industries.
I remember colleagues in other fields smiling sarcastically when they heard where I worked. Consumer goods and other businesses seemed more attractive to them. I took little notice. I was interested in the work itself and was willing to learn whatever came my way. Our chairman was a former diplomat and Member of Parliament, a down-to-earth man who was nevertheless a demanding taskmaster. He was not particularly fond of holidays, but he had a genuine interest in books. I could speak openly with him about my thoughts and concerns. That freedom, and the responsibility that came with it, helped me grow professionally. On completing ten years in the organisation, I was asked whether I had a passport.
The question surprised me. I was subsequently sent to the United Kingdom, where I visited our office, attended the London Book Fair and explored bookshops. The experience opened a window into publishing beyond India. I could see how books were displayed, marketed and sold, and how the industry was changing.
The opportunity did not come because I had planned an overseas career. It arose through circumstances; the confidence placed in me and my willingness to take on work. In 1999, I was assigned to a project in the examination division, which delivered English-language examinations. I continued working in that area until I retired on 30 April 2016. Looking back, I see these changes as reminders that a career need not follow a straight line. Sometimes, curiosity and commitment take us into places we never imagined. I was reminded of this years later when I heard of a young woman who left a job in a software company to join a small travel business. The new position offered her opportunities to travel and do work she enjoyed. From the outside, the move might have looked like a step down.
For her, it was a choice that better suited her interests. Career decisions, I realised, cannot always be measured by salary, status or the size of an organisation. Authors: Their Books and Their Personalities One of the most rewarding aspects of publishing was meeting authors. Their temperaments could be as varied as the subjects they wrote about. Some were patient and considerate; others could be demanding, anxious or exacting. Working with them taught me that dealing with a manuscript was often also an exercise in understanding people.
I recall an Army general who wrote a controversial book about the 1948 Kashmir confrontation. An advance of ₹15,000 had been offered. Because of a communication gap between the head office and the regional office, two cheques were issued. By the time the mistake came to light, the author had already spent the money on his daughter’s wedding. It was an awkward situation, and one that could have been avoided with better communication.
Publishing, like any other business, depends on systems—but systems work only when people communicate clearly. Then there was a professor of English from a Delhi college, a formidable grammarian who could make even the company secretary nervous. He was a tough Punjabi and did not hesitate to use colourful language when dissatisfied. His command of English was impressive, but his manner could be intimidating.
Encounters like these taught me that professional expertise and personal temperament do not always travel together. In contrast, I remember a southern author who wrote beautifully organised letters setting out his royalty calculations and requests for advances. His correspondence was a lesson in clarity and courtesy. Another well-known specialist in English-language teaching and grammar, a gentle and gracious man, once visited our Hyderabad office carrying a box of Dood Peda.
He had come to enquire about his royalties, which at times ran into lakhs of rupees. The sweets were a thoughtful gesture, and the visit remains a warm memory. These experiences gave me a lasting appreciation of the human side of publishing. Contracts, royalty statements and schedules were necessary, but relationships mattered too.
A publisher had to balance the interests of authors, readers and the organisation while remaining fair and transparent. Books, Change and the Future The publishing world I entered in 1976 is very different from the one we know today. Digital tools have transformed typesetting, editing, communication and production.
Work that once required repeated physical exchanges can now be completed electronically. Yet technology cannot replace the judgement required to assess a manuscript, the care needed to edit it or the responsibility involved in presenting information accurately. Textbooks, too, have changed in their presentation and packaging.
New editions, redesigned covers and updated formats help books remain relevant, but their lasting value lies in the quality of their content. Rising production costs make the business more challenging, while the need for reliable and affordable books remains constant. Libraries have an equally important place in this story. They preserve knowledge beyond the commercial life of an individual title and make books accessible to people who may not be able to buy them. It is therefore painful to read reports about the future of the 135-year-old Central Secretariat Library, with its collection of more than 8.5 lakh books, amid the redevelopment of Central Government offices around what was once Rajpath and is now Kartavya Path.
Questions have been raised about whether adequate space will be provided for the collection and its facilities, and the Supreme Court has sought details from the Centre about the proposed accommodation. One hopes that the library’s needs will be fully addressed and its valuable collection preserved. I remember the Prime Minister urging visitors to bring books rather than bouquets. That sentiment should extend to protecting the institutions that preserve knowledge. A library is not merely a building filled with books; it is an abode of Maa Saraswati, where knowledge is preserved, shared and passed on to future generations.
A Lifetime of Learning When I look back on my years in publishing, I do not measure them only by designations, assignments or the number of books that passed through my hands. I remember the people I met, the authors whose work I handled, the colleagues who taught me things and the unexpected opportunities that came my way
I began as a young commerce graduate who was curious about the pages at the beginning of a book. I ended my career having worked across different functions and experienced a publishing world that had changed considerably from the one I first entered. My journey at Orient Longman began on 12 October 1976 and concluded on 30 April 2016.
Those dates mark the formal beginning and end of my employment, but my interest in books has never been confined to an office or a job. Publishing taught me that a book is not simply a product to be manufactured and sold. It is a bridge between an author’s thought and a reader’s mind. Many people work behind the scenes to build that bridge, often without recognition. I was fortunate to be among them. For me, a career in publishing was a lifelong education—in books, in work and, above all, in people.
