They’ve been called bodice-rippers, trashy, misogynistic, impractical, formulaic, and literature’s low point. Their covers routinely feature a man and a woman in close quarters, sometimes leaning in towards each other, sometimes in a passionate embrace and, at other times, looking away hopefully into a distant future. Romance novels have been ripped apart, criticised till the end of the night and yet found comfort in the hands of a certain few. Even as the Indian publishing industry is expected to grow from Rs. 261 billion to Rs. 739 billion in 2020 (according to Nielsen India Book Market Report 2015), an e-commerce trend list puts romance fiction by authors including Chetan Bhagat, Ravinder Singh, Durjoy Datta and Preeti Shenoy in the popular list.
But these authors are recent entrants to the genre that, for the most part, caters to women, is written by women and centres around them — their steamy love affairs or lack thereof, their past-present-future goings-on, and their general relationship with the world. Funnily enough, Mills & Boon, a name now synonymous with romance novels, first started out publishing educational books and pamphlets on socialism, and it was only in the 1930s that they experimented with the genre they are now known for. Mind you, the genre wasn’t new to the reading world — there have been numerous books that have driven home the importance of love, physical and emotional, such as Pride and Prejudice , Gone With the Wind and The Flame and the Flower ; the last is usually credited with being a groundbreaking work in romantic fiction. Another publisher, the Toronto-based Harlequin, acquired the distribution rights to Mills & Boon in the late 1950s, and in 1971 purchased the latter.
As someone who is a regular recipient of these books, I’m surprisingly not an authority on the subject. I don’t have a particular hankering to read these, even when I’m looking for something light — the only time I devoted my attention to titles such as Dark Obsession or Two-Week Wife , for example, was as an angsty teenager who had run out of books to read. When you’re 15 and toying with ideas of existentialism, nihilism and the extent of free will, any fiction is troublesome to interpret, more so romance. Fairy tales seem unbelievable and foolish, especially when fourth wave feminism is being speculated about. It’s even heralding in the renaissance of Disney, thanks to films like Frozen .
The main bone of contention is that this genre promotes sadomasochistic behaviour and traditional gender roles that takes consent for granted and reminds women that they are worthless unless they find an alpha male to tether themselves to. Granted, seemingly problematic tropes exist — see Fifty Shades of Grey , Asking for It — but it leads us to ask why some of us have disturbing fantasies. Why are we quite peckish at the prospect of an alpha male rescuing us? Are women asking for it?
A good rule of thumb to keep in mind is that these books depict and detail fantasy and not reality. We all read Sherlock Holmes, but we all don’t take up detective work. Neither do we set out to become a criminal mastermind like Moriarty. It’s prudent to keep a healthy bias when you read fiction. And what is so wrong in wanting a certain person to play saviour? It isn’t anti-feminist; it only means that the protagonist is sure of what she wants. And it is wholly feminist because it centres on a woman’s fantasy, and, perhaps, some men and women are uncomfortable with the fact that women are in control of their own sexualities, their fantasies and their lives. It’s healthy imagination, to be honest. At the end of the day, it’s her choice, even though it sounds like Deepika Padukone’s awkwardly-constructed My Choice video.
If women are reclaiming certain literary tropes, it’s due to progressive romantic fiction that’s out in the market. Take Eloisa James, Nora Roberts or even Anuja Chauhan, if you want to hit closer home. Her book, Those Pricey Thakur Girls , is about a couple in 80s Delhi, and their misunderstandings and romance. The book isn’t about all-encompassing love — it also touches upon scams and anti-Sikh riots, among other issues — but it’s still about love and longing.
So why are there two camps? Those who prefer to read their Tolstoy and Chekov, and those who go for Nora Roberts? For one, Tolstoy/Chekov is seen as a more serious choice; it’s literary versus commercial fiction. Two, literary fiction is considered intellectual. And three, reading romantic fiction is at some level ignominious — no one really talks about it because no one really admits to reading it. I didn’t for a good seven years of my life, and, ironically, it was feminism that made me realise it was all right to enjoy reading about smart, confident but self-critical women who took charge of their bodies, and about what they really want as opposed to thinking about what men want.
