Stories are the lifeblood of human civilisation. They shape perceptions, influence opinions, and construct identities. When it comes to nations, the stories told about them, whether in literature, media, or cinema, become the lens through which the world views them. Narratives wield immense influence in an era dominated by soft power and digital information wars. They can uplift or undermine, inspire or distort. A short example to begin with comes from my personal experience. An author from India South expressed his surprise to know I operate from Bihar, a state associated with crime, illiteracy, and everything bad.

Nevertheless, what followed was even more shocking for me. “Will the Bihari audience be able to read an English novel?” The question solidified the premise of my worry. Narratives and stories have the power to influence generations, not only the present audience! Thanks to a particular political family, the state of Bihar has many problems to grapple with. However, it has leapt and thrived in the recent decade, and much has improved. Along with a myriad of issues that we Bihari face, the narrative and the perception battles should also be fought with an equal resilience so that people from other states of India begin seeing us as competent people, serious partners, ably skilled professionals and a receptive lot.

Coming back to an even greater problem, we have to unite in battling India’s narrative war with the world’s prejudice and biases. With its vast cultural heritage and complex socio-political landscape, India has often been a subject of intense storytelling. While some authors present a nuanced, multifaceted picture, others lean toward relentless critique, sometimes bordering on cynicism. Writers like Aravind Adiga, Kiran Desai, Arundhati Roy, and Anita Nair have been celebrated and criticised for their portrayals of India, praised for their literary brilliance but occasionally accused of reinforcing negative stereotypes that align with external biases. Recently, Miss Germany shared her astonishment upon visiting India, expressing how different the real country was from the grim imagery she had absorbed through films like Slumdog Millionaire. This dissonance between perception and reality underscores a deeper problem: when a nation’s narrative is dominated by a single, often pessimistic, storyline, the world sees only a fragment of its truth.

Literature, one of the most potent soft power tools, is crucial in shaping global perceptions. Nobel laureates like Gabriel García Márquez painted Colombia with magical realism, while Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart redefined global perceptions of Africa. Similarly, Indian authors like R.K. Narayan, Rabindranath Tagore, Sri Aurobindo and Jhumpa Lahiri have offered the world glimpses of India’s soul—its warmth, philosophy, and resilience. However, when literature disproportionately highlights poverty, corruption, or social strife, it risks reducing an entire civilisation to its problems. For instance, Aravind Adiga’s The White Tiger won the Booker Prize for its sharp critique of India’s class struggles. While it was a legitimate exploration of inequality, its international success also fed into a Western appetite for “poverty porn,” a voyeuristic fascination with the suffering of the Global South. Similarly, Arundhati Roy’s The God of Small Things, though hailed as a literary masterpiece by some, paints a picture of India that is fractured and oppressive. Readers who absorb such narratives may imagine India as a place of perpetual despair, unaware of its people’s thriving cultural vibrancy, technological advancements, or everyday resilience.

The media’s role in shaping perceptions is equally critical. International coverage of India often oscillates between two extremes: romanticising its spiritual mystique or amplifying its dysfunctions. A 2020 study by the Reuters Institute found that Western media disproportionately focuses on India’s political controversies and communal tensions while underreporting its economic growth and technological advancements. This selective storytelling creates a feedback loop. Readers conditioned to expect negative narratives about India may dismiss positive developments, reinforcing a skewed image. For instance, while global headlines frequently highlight India’s challenges with pollution and overcrowding, they rarely capture stories like the country’s rapid expansion of renewable energy infrastructure or its leadership in digital payment systems.

Cinema, too, plays a significant role in crafting national stereotypes. Films like Slumdog Millionaire, though directed by a British filmmaker, became global hits by showcasing Mumbai’s underbelly. While such stories are valid, their dominance in global media can overshadow India’s thriving middle class, innovation hubs, and cultural renaissance. Miss Germany’s recent experience is a case in point; her surprise at encountering a modern, dynamic India reveals how deeply entrenched these reductive portrayals are in the global imagination.

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s famous TED Talk, The Danger of a Single Story, warns against reducing complex societies to monolithic narratives. She argues that when only one perspective dominates, it flattens diversity and breeds misunderstanding. India, home to 1.4 billion people, cannot be encapsulated by a single narrative—one of unrelenting gloom or uncritical glorification. Yet, dystopian portrayals in the global literary market often gain more traction than balanced ones. Market forces and exoticism play a significant role here. Publishers and awards committees sometimes favour stories that align with pre-existing stereotypes. Kiran Desai’s The Inheritance of Loss, which explores displacement and post-colonial angst, resonates with Western literary tastes but may not reflect the broader Indian experience. This is not to dismiss these works as inauthentic, but to highlight how market dynamics can incentivise certain narratives over others.

Geopolitical narratives further complicate this landscape. In today’s digital age, stories are strategic tools. China carefully curates its global image through Confucius Institutes and state-backed media. The West promotes its values through Hollywood and bestselling books. In this context, if India’s primary storytellers focus only on its failures, they may inadvertently aid external actors who benefit from portraying India as a failing state. For instance, India’s rise as an economic and technological power is often downplayed in global discourse, while its internal challenges are magnified. This asymmetry affects foreign investment, tourism, and diplomatic relations.

The need for balanced storytelling has never been more urgent. Great literature thrives on nuance. Vikram Seth’s A Suitable Boy captures India’s post-independence struggles without reducing the nation to mere dysfunction. Amitav Ghosh’s The Ibis Trilogy weaves together colonialism, migration, and cultural exchange in a critical yet deeply empathetic way. These works prove one can acknowledge a nation’s flaws while honouring its resilience. Similarly, Jayanta Mahapatra’s poetry captures India’s spiritual and cultural continuity, as seen in traditions like the Puri Rath Yatra, which draws millions in a collective celebration of faith. Such narratives remind us that India is not just a land of problems but also profound unity and continuity.

Writers are not propagandists; their job is not to whitewash reality. However, when storytelling becomes an echo chamber of negativity, it ceases to be art and veers into activism—or worse, propaganda. India has made remarkable strides in poverty reduction, digital innovation, and space exploration. Its soft power through yoga, cinema, and literature is undeniable. Ignoring these aspects while amplifying only the negative creates an incomplete picture. Authors have to realise that marketable stories are not everything. They may bag some awards or persuade the literary opinions of the ‘easily guilable, highly biased and incessantly prejudiced jury,’ the borderline critical narrative will face a pushback from the very population they subject to lampoon. Moreover, in the dwindling sway between subjectivity and objectivity, writers must search for something called conscience and look themselves in the mirror. Is a grip on the international market everything? If wealth is what they chase, Chetan Bhagat has amassed a galaxy by targeting the youths of India, selling them romance and semi-porn. However, to Chetan’s credit, he always sees hope and confidence in the aspiring Indian population while highlighting problems such as political corruption and institutionalised skullduggery. Chetan Bhagat’s India is not beyond redemption. According to his narrative, Adiga’s India does not have the right to its rightful ascend! Why?

A close observation may reveal that these authors who paint their ‘Indian’ pages with the Western wax paints are not only after wealth. They seek validation. They seek a place on the high table where the narratives in contemporary literature are attributed and roles are ascribed. They seek credibility for their opinions. They wish to become ‘experts’ and discerning voices on certain issues. Arundhati Roy’s costly Western pen’s ink dried, and her fictional craft went on a sabbatical after winning the prestigious Booker Prize in 1997. However, her occasional (too frequent to be so) non-fiction pieces and critical essays continuously criticised India on many fronts. She detests India’s ‘oppressive regime ‘controlling Kashmir. Imagine some random educated person sitting in Sweden reading a headline, “Booker Prize Winning Author Arundhati Roy Vehemently Criticises the Indian State for Illegally Occupying Kashmir, and Torturing Its Citizens”? Does he know what we know? Will he casually believe a New York Times article or come to X to verify (by reading posts by Mr Sinha on X, who may jeopardise Maldives tourism on any casual day)? That’s the narrative war we are witnessing, India!

The above instance points to a problem that has a simple solution. Audiences, too, must diversify their consumption. If international readers only consume critical narratives about India, their perception will remain skewed. Exploring writers like Sudha Murty, who highlight India’s grassroots heroes, or Chetan Bhagat, who captures its aspirational youth, can provide balance. Likewise, witnessing moments like the entire nation rallying behind a T20 World Cup or the Kumbh Mela’s staggering scale of organisation can shatter preconceived notions of chaos and dysfunction.

Stories matter—not just as art, but as diplomacy. In an age where perception shapes reality, nations cannot afford to let their narratives be dictated by internal or external bias. Like any country, India is a tapestry of contradictions: immense wealth, heartbreaking poverty, ancient wisdom and modern ambition, profound tolerance, and sporadic strife. To capture only one thread is to miss the whole fabric. Authors who write about India must heed this call: Be fearless in critique, but fair in representation. The world deserves to see India as it truly is—complex, evolving, and undeniably extraordinary. Ultimately, the stories we tell today will shape the India the world sees tomorrow.

Alok Mishra for Indian Book Critics

(Alok Mishra is the founder of English Literature Education.)