The greatest capital of a writer is his words and his freedom, not the pictures of his proximity to power. Presenting books to influential people on stage and publicising their pictures on social media may bring momentary recognition, but this diminishes the dignity of literature. A truly valuable book finds a place in the hearts of readers, not gathers dust on the shelves of leaders. The real honour of a writer lies not in the certificate of power, but in the acceptance of readers. Therefore, a writer should trust his words, not the smile of power.
In this age of social media, photographs are not just memories, but also messages. Every day, hundreds of photographs appear on Facebook, Instagram, WhatsApp, and Twitter (now X) in which a writer is presenting his or her book to a chief minister, minister, leader of the ruling party, a high-ranking official or some other influential person. These photographs often show a pattern—a formal, slightly businesslike smile on the face of the leader or official, sometimes even boredom or irritation, and a mixture of excitement, humility, and gratitude on the face of the author. As simple as this scene seems, it is as complex as it is. The question is not whether it is right or wrong to present a book to someone—it is the author’s right. The question is, when this gift is given in the form of a stage, media, and publicity, then what is the real purpose behind it? Is it expected that the influential person will read the book? Or is this ritual only a strategy to increase proximity, recognition, and potential benefits?
The relationship between literature and power is not new. History is witness to the fact that poets, writers and artists have been close to kings, nawabs, feudal lords, and powerful centres of empire for centuries. The poets of the Mughal court, the Navratnas of Akbar, the poets dependent on Vikramaditya—all these are examples of power and literature having a symbiotic relationship. The only difference is that back then, this relationship was open and clear. The king or ruler would patronise the poet; in return, the poet would write compositions in praise of the court. Today, in democracy, the form of patronage has changed—now, government awards, committees of the Sanskriti Parishad, literary tours, and editorial boards are the new courts.
When a writer presents a book to an influential person and posts a picture of that moment on social media, it is not just a memorable moment. It is a symbol—a message that the writer is close to power. For the public, it is a signal that he is known to big people. For the power, it is a signal that he is in their circle, and for the literary society, it is a declaration that he has such contacts, which others do not have. This politics of photo not only changes the image of the writer, but also raises questions about his intentions.
The psychology of both parties in this process is also interesting. The author wants his work to be seen, appreciated, and, where possible, recognised in the form of awards or honours. Being close to power makes this path seem shorter. On the other hand, for a leader or official, such opportunities are useful for public relations. The picture sends the message that he is a lover of literature and culture, even if the first page of the book has not been read. The sad thing is that both parties know that the book will not be read, yet this drama continues—a formal smile, a bowed gratitude, and the click of the camera.
If a writer presents his book to someone in a personal meeting, without any publicity, it is a natural, simple, and respectful act. There is no scope for doubt or criticism in this. The problem starts when the stage of the gift is decorated, the ceremony is organized through a source who is close to power, photographs are taken from every angle, and the next hour a post of “book gift” is put on social media. From this moment, it becomes a public relations event, not a literary event.
The reality is that proximity to power sometimes brings tangible benefits—nominations and selections for literary awards, special invitations to cultural events, government publications or grants, positions on committees and boards. That is why some writers take this route—they feel that it is difficult to get there through the power of writing alone, while a presence in the courts of power may make the path easier.
But here a serious moral question arises—what will happen to the freedom of the writer? The biggest asset of literature is its freedom. When the writer prefers to get close to the power, this freedom weakens. The desire to get the grace of the power often blunts the edge of criticism. The writer who used to question the system earlier now starts choosing his words carefully, so that the court does not get angry. This situation weakens not only the writer but also literature. Because the real work of literature is to become a mirror of society, to tell the truth, and to question the power.
History repeatedly teaches us that literature has a longer life than power. Tulsidas did not write his works by going to the courts of Mughals and kings, but by living in society. Premchand took the risk of confronting the power, so his words are still alive today. On the other hand, some poets wrote poetry only in praise of the king – both their name and work got buried in the dust of time. The real strength of a writer lies in the honesty of his words, not in his contacts.
The first and last duty of every writer is towards the readers. After the book is published, its life is in the hands of the readers, not in the shelves of the leaders. If the book is valuable, then it does not need publicity; the readers themselves will take it forward. If the book is only meant to be presented in the court of power, then it will gather dust there, and the identity of the writer will also remain equally superficial. The writer should maintain the respect of his writing, present the book on a personal level, without cameras and publicity. Relations with power should be based on literary discussions, not on public relations. His image should be built among the readers, not close to power.
A photo can go viral in a day, but a good book is read for centuries. Proximity to power may give momentary benefits, but the power of literature is long-lasting. If a writer believes in his words, he should measure his worth in the eyes of readers, not in the smiles of leaders. Today, there is a need for writers who write independently of power—even if for this they have to give up the glamour of photos presenting books on stage.
