It’s a rum thing, being a writer. You never know why strangers smile at you. Especially immediately after they discover that you write fiction.

‘See!’ Your vanity digs an elbow into your ribs. ‘He’s smiling! He appreciates you.’

‘Nah!’ rumbles the realist in you, peering over its half-moon reading glasses. ‘He’s just indulging you. See how patronizing his smile is.’

‘Wrong,’ moans the cynic in you, rolling over as it slumbers in a corner. ‘That’s not a smile … it’s a sneer! Can’t you see the scorn in it, for heaven’s sake? He’s laughing at you!’

What with the world and his uncle starting to write, and with no dearth of “publishers” willing to print your stuff, all hues of writing – the good, the bad and the ugly – have flooded bookstores in copious quantities. There are no quality filters. And so, there are writers and writers and writers. No wonder some folks scoff at you.

The result? You never know how people will react when they learn that you too write fiction. Will you be appreciated, patronized or ridiculed?

It has become an occupational hazard of sorts. Unless you are a best-selling name, of course. In which case, they know that you write poorly or write well. For the rest of us, the mystery comes alive each time you meet a stranger and your brother-in-law proudly introduces you as a writer.

‘You write?’ titters a new acquaintance at a wedding for want of anything better to say. ‘Mythology or romance?’ The two genres seem to account for her entire world of books.

‘Neither,’ I say sheepishly. ‘I write crime fiction.’

‘Oh!’ She loses interest and starts looking around with an expression that suggests that she doesn’t want to hang around someone who is involved with crime.

‘Crime!’ says her husband, stepping forward. ‘My nephew writes that too. He’s good at English, you know. He got almost 75% in English in his Class X exam last year. He’s written a story about gangsters and vamps. Gory but titillating stuff!’

I make the right noises. I know where this is heading.

‘Can you edit his story and help him get it published?’ the man goes on. ‘But no stealing his story, okay?’ He punches me playfully in the shoulder. ‘Ha, ha! No offense – that’s just a joke.’

His wife has drifted away. I try to do likewise, but I am pinned between a wall and the man’s ample tummy. I try to tell him that I am a writer, not an editor. That I don’t steal stories. That I don’t write titillating stuff. But he is insistent. A shrewd look comes into his eye as he tries to strike a deal.

‘We can come to an arrangement,’ he whispers. ‘My nephew will share the spoils with you. What say you, eh?’

I somehow wriggle my way out of it. I mumble that gangsters and vamps are not my line. Nor is gore or titillation. I write cleaner stuff, I say with a touch of righteousness – white-collar crime.

‘Financial fraud and that sort of thing?’ he asks.

I nod, eyeing the gap that is opening up between the man and the wall. I might just be able to escape through it.

‘I have an idea for a white-collar crime novel,’ he enthuses. ‘A brilliant idea! You must give me credit in your novel.’

I smile noncommittedly. My attention is on the widening gap. It’s almost large enough for me to slip through.

‘You know these emails you get from Nigeria?’ he asks conspiratorially. ‘The ones that offer to pay you ten million dollars? It’s a fraud! It’s just a ploy to steal your money –’

I bolt through the gap. Escape at last!

I walk around the wedding hall to get away from him, and eventually find a lone chair for a bit of peace and quiet. But that’s not to be. A stranger pulls up a chair and plonks down beside me.

‘I wanted to talk to you about a brilliant idea for a novel,’ he says. ‘You know these emails you get from Nigeria …’

Clearly, being a writer is no unmixed blessing.

For those who take up fiction-writing after toiling for decades in the corporate sector, the peril takes yet another form. Some former colleagues – senior blokes who run companies and stuff – start looking down upon you.

‘Et tu, Brute?’ their silent glances seem to ask as they gaze down their Roman hawk-noses. The look they favour you with isn’t unlike what Caesar might have given Brutus in his final hour. I sense what’s going through their minds.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ they are thinking. ‘Why did he have to go and start writing – fiction of all things? He should have done a start-up or something.’

Having said this, I must admit that it’s not all peril. There is an occasional perk too; especially since I have begun writing about white-collar crime in corporate India.

My ‘corporate thrillers’ (as they are now known) lend me a measure of respectability in corporate circles. And they provide a neutral topic to break the ice with – ‘they are so prescient!’ some say. Even in boardrooms, folks make the time to utter a word or two of appreciation. That’s so welcome after having to flee from lectures on emails from Nigeria!

You also get an occasional call or a message from a CEO or an MD, who has become your friend. The latest one was after the recent sting on media houses by Cobrapost. My latest novel, Conspirator, is about paid media and fake news. It tells the story of how a media house monetizes its influence over readers and viewers.

‘Scary!’ says the friend’s text message. ‘This is exactly like in Conspirator – headlines are indeed for hire! What if the rest of your novel is true too?’

Well, I guess there are some perks too! But I must learn to take the perils with the perks. And to take it on the chin from time to time.

Speaking for myself, I seldom say that I write, and I discourage my relatives from introducing me as a writer. If people discover it by themselves and want to talk, I’m happy to reciprocate.

Otherwise, why open the Pandora’s Box?