The Ramgarh Literary Festival
Page 1
To my Author and Publisher friends.
I hope you’ll forgive me if you recognize yourself in the book!
Contents
Prologue
1 How they Trap Struggling Writers
2 Reaching Ramgarh
3 A Business Meeting at a Publisher’s Office
4 The Ride to the Venue
5 The Inauguration
6 Trends in Modern Poetry
7 The Lonely Reading and the Deserted Panel Discussion
8 The Loan Mela and Publishers Worship Ceremony
9 The Reading by the Polish Writer
10 A Panel Discussion on Erotica
11 The Conspiracy
12 The Book Release
13 The Publishers Panel Discussion on the Future of the Publishing Industry
14 The Workshop for Aspiring Authors
About the Book
About the Author
Copyright
Prologue
I write this with trembling fingers.
This is a tale of greed, incomprehensible romance, ambidextrous manipulation, unnecessary sex, complex cross-over business cartels, psychological bullying, phosphorescent underwear and so much more. In sum, pure evil.
I have just returned from the Ramgarh Literary Festival.
You say you have never heard of it?
I am surprised, but perhaps I should not be. Indeed, when I think about it, this is precisely what the Master Manipulators behind the ‘Festival’ think it should be: Some know about it, some do not. Everything is very comfortable. All of us have already been analyzed and marked. We will be told when ‘They’ think we need to know.
The Ramgarh Literary Festival. Yes. My eyes finally opened there. And this story is about what I discovered at the ‘Festival’.
So, you thought this would be a nice little tale, about the doings of gentle decent people going about their business. There are well-meaning publishers, you felt, who encourage struggling writers, polish their art, and present them to the world where they shall receive recognition and money. Then, you find that there were millions of adoring readers who thirst for good books since they wish to wander off into a make-believe world and feel enriched. You believed – and of this you were sure – that literary festivals are in vogue and popular because they bring writers, publishers, and readers together in a celebration of love, adulation, and deep thoughts.
To which I say the following: Ha, ha.
As you may have inferred, it is an expression of amusement.
Regrettably, there is nothing amusing about the matter.
I know the inner workings of this little universe. In this space, soul-destroying evil licks gently at our hearts and minds, hiding behind civil facades and frames of earnest human endeavour. Who could imagine that the washed and scrubbed faces of highly educated and often pretty editors, gleaming with zest and passion, are mere masks for an international commerce machine that crushes and casts aside those who do not ‘Make the Grade’, all the while pushing vulgar sums of money into the bank balances of a few.
And who knew that in all this, there are companies which are not even in the business of publishing, who work closely, behind closed doors in fact, with captive publishers to push their own agenda. And that is, quite specifically, to enhance the sales of their products. There is no innocence here, none. You, the reader, are just a pawn, a little row in a column in an Excel spreadsheet, your behavior thoroughly analyzed by professionals and data-mining software, manipulated to make you buy Things you don’t need. And you buy those Things indirectly by buying books which you think will improve your life. You do not know that you are being manipulated – you believe you have Free Will.
I am forced to again say: Ha, ha. This time with a touch of hysteria as I know exactly what is going on and I realize there is no hope whatsoever.
I see I now have your attention. Good. My exposé will shock and shake the comfortable world of publishers and ‘Others Who Cannot Be Named’. I myself am writing this anonymously, under the cover of darkness, wearing a purple wig and phosphorescent blue underwear. Some say my name is ‘Vasudev Murthy’. Others don’t. My life is in danger, but you must know. For knowledge makes all the difference. I appeal to you, gentle reader, to not aspire to be a writer. The suffering you will experience, the exploitation at the hands of big businesses – even though I am very old now and have seen almost everything, I still shudder. A good, decent person like you deserves to be happy. Become a gardener, a pathologist, a cocaine-addict, even – just not a writer.
But before I proceed further, I must tell you how this book is organized. I have been so hysterical that I have written as one possessed. There are many appalling vignettes which, if you piece together, will reveal the grim nature of a sordid conspiracy. There is no linear story. And why should there be? We are dealing with crooked people.
1
How they Trap Struggling Writers
In which I, the struggling author, begin my travels.
Perhaps you have heard of Ramgarh. There are quite a few Ramgarhs in India, but this particular one is some 800 kilometers from the city of New Delhi. Its exact location is a mystery. One goes south some 620 kms and then west for another 50, and then south again for the remainder. But if you look on a map, you will not find it. It is a highly secret village and for good reason – it is the epicenter of the evil I described earlier. Influential people can ensure that certain locations simply disappear from maps. Poof. But I must set the context a little better before I describe this village.
I am, as you are possibly aware, a rather mediocre writer. I am not pretty; I am very old. My books have been received with a stunned silence from the public. The publishers who published my books now wish they had not. In short, I am a failed writer, who failed to excite the masses and who failed to be recognized by anyone except his dogs. And who also failed to make money. This is a fact. Harsh, but true. But I have not given up.
I write and I write. I am driven by one ambition – the hunger to constantly be published. I need to see my name somewhere. I need to feel read and acclaimed and recognized. It is a primal need that cannot be explained very well.
As I said, I am now rather old. But I remember when that bug hit me. On a whim, while in high school, I decided to write a poem, since I had noticed that young boys who wrote poems often had a better chance of being seen favourably by young girls. It turned out to be true. I wrote a poem about love. It was rather bad, but since I obtained Certain Results, and many claimed they thought my poem was wonderful, I was carried away. I decided I was very talented and made it my life’s mission to ‘be published.’
Many pleaded with me.
‘Fool,’ said my father, with considerable passion. ‘You will die hungry if you pursue this stupid dream! Writers are lazy, good-for-nothing idiots. Parasites. Leeches. Hated by all. Be an engineer or mortician or a corrupt politician. But please! Not a writer or poet! Think of our family honour, fool! Who will marry your younger sisters?’
I did not appreciate my father’s perspective. Others too dissuaded me. And, given that I was a typical foolish young boy, quite clear that I knew best and that others were jealous of me, I decided to become a writer.
I locked myself up in my room, and wrote and wrote. I admired my beautifully expressed sentiments. I spoke about love, death, roses, friendships, the United Nations, sordid lust, spiritualism, tales of a village in Kerala, and so much more. All of which I knew really nothing about. But that is what writers do – write about things they know nothing about – as you are aware.
My mother threw food in through the windows thrice a day. ‘Dear son, please stop writing. I will get you a beautiful bride,’ she p
leaded. I would have none of that. She often wept and brought in priests to conduct special poojas to ward off the evil spirits of dead poets who seemed bent on destroying a loving home. But to no avail. I had decided to be a famous writer and no one was going to stop me. They all resented my talent, I felt.
And so I submitted my gems to many newspapers, magazines, and publishing houses. For every hundred articles, I managed to get one published, usually in a newspaper that was desperate for an article on anything. That is the way it works. Unfortunately, this further convinced me that I was actually a Writer, and that fame was just around the corner. Some other ass told me that perseverance was very important and I should be humble and take rejection in my stride, and learn from the experience. This sounded very inspiring and I, inspired, continued grinding away with my pens and pencils.
Many years passed. My family fell apart, unable to handle the shame of their son being a writer. Some allege that I was actually married, but I have no specific recollection of that. I stayed in my room, emerging from time to time to send off my masterpieces, only to receive rejection after rejection. Every now and then, I would get a letter from the Bilaspur Chronicles or the Burdwan Times or the Dharwad News, accepting my bizarre claim that politicians in India were hand-in-glove with copper mine owners in Zambia or a short story on the love life of an English professor, both of them fictitious conspiracy theories, as we now know.
I have digressed somewhat, but bear with me. No detail is small.
I recall that morning when my world turned.
I woke up at 11 a.m., as all failed writers do. It is crucial for writers to take on bizarre affectations, and so I was up and about in my green pajamas, demanding six cups of coffee and a single jalebi (a notable sweet peculiar to North India), since it is important to be called eccentric and creative. Someone rudely slammed a lukewarm cup of tea and an old half-eaten samosa in front of me, and left without a further word.
A familiar knock. I leapt towards to the front door. I saw the retreating back of Ramakrishna, my faithful postman, who arrived every day with rejection letters. This time, he had left on the doorstep a standard envelope addressed to me in a rather elegant handwriting.
I examined the envelope. A rejection letter? Perhaps a cheque?
The return address said:
The Convener
Ramgarh Literary Festival
Ramgarh, Maharashtra, India
Baffled, I opened the envelope, took out the folded sheet and read.
Dear Mr Murthy,
Greetings from the Ramgarh Literary Festival!
Our festival has long been acknowledged as the ultimate watering hole for literature lovers, publishers, writers, and discerning readers. Our emphasis is simple – the highest quality of contemporary work must be showcased. The readers and the media expect that. Only the best visionary publishers are invited, and this is where they identify talent they wish to nurture and bring to the world.
This year, the Festival will be held between the 19th and 22nd of September at scenic Ramgarh, a place drenched in history, mystery, culture and intellect.
We have long been aware of your enormous talent and of your book, Music and Madness, which has received considerable acclaim amongst our staff. We are delighted to invite you to this festival and would be greatly honoured if you could participate.
We shall be scheduling a reading of your book. In addition, given the respect you command in the literary world, we would be grateful if you would moderate a couple of sessions; your wisdom will make all the difference. We can discuss the specifics once you confirm your attendance.
I do regret that we shall not be able to pay for your travel to Ramgarh, but we shall gladly take care of your accommodation and food.
Your participation will add considerable gravitas to the proceedings. We await your confirmation with excitement.
Yours Sincerely,
It was signed by Juliana Sharapovich, Convener
And there was a postscript:
PS: The sponsors have insisted that you bring along a manuscript which is perhaps at an advanced stage of completion and we would wish to have you complete the manuscript at the Festival. We hope this would be acceptable.
I was stunned.
I was stunned for many reasons.
First, I never knew that someone had actually read my book Music and Madness. My publisher, Pupa, had stopped responding to my emails and calls after a terse message that net sales had not crossed eight copies and they were disappointed. They blamed me.
But now it seemed that Someone Somewhere had shown considerable discernment and understood that my book was an absolute marvel, as I myself well knew.
Second, I had not heard of the Ramgarh Literary Festival. I felt embarrassed. The letter said it was an internationally known festival and that it had ‘long been acknowledged’ and so on. I blamed it on my ignorance. ‘I have been long lost in the world of words,’ I thought to myself. ‘Geniuses are like that,’ I said out loud, admiring myself furtively in a mirror.
Third, if ‘Juliana Sharapovich’ was the convener of the Festival, and she clearly wasn’t Indian, it must be an international literary festival. I had not heard of her, but with my new realization that my hermit-like genius existence had caused me to lose touch with reality, I excused myself, though with a mild, modest admonition.
Well, 19 September wasn’t that far away. I needed to do something.
I showed the letter to the shadowy members of my household. Somehow, there was no response and the shadows melted away. Jealousy once again.
I went to the market, sent a letter to Juliana Sharapovich conveying my acceptance, sold one of my last sets of antique phosphorescent undergarments at a considerable profit and then went to the Railway Station.
‘Ticket to Ramgarh,’ I said arrogantly to the man behind the ticket counter, handing over the reservation form duly filled. ‘I am a key speaker at the Ramgarh Literary Festival.’
‘You must be crazy, you old fool,’ said the rude person. ‘There is no direct train to Ramgarh. You will have to change six trains and then walk ten kilometers to Ramgarh Town.’
‘Kindly issue the ticket and avoid making such suggestions,’ I said. ‘It is none of your business. I am a renowned writer.’
‘As you please, renowned idiot,’ said the man as he issued the tickets. He snatched my money and shut the little window. I heard some raucous jealous laughter from within. As a famous writer, one must not respond to the barbs of the poorly read and ill-informed common public.
I examined the ticket.
The rude, jealous man had been right. The journey would be arduous. I had to travel from Bangalore to Delhi, then Delhi to Lucknow, then to Ajmer, then to Indore, then again to Raipur, and then finally take a Mumbai-bound passenger train. I was to get off at a place called Pipla, after which I was to trek to Ramgarh. ‘Interesting,’ I mused, as an author is supposed to do – muse, that is. ‘Seems complicated, but who said the world of literature would be easy?’
‘Suffering is art,’ I said to myself as I walked away.
‘Suffering is art.’ I was dazzled by my own words. Marvelous. Moving. Mystical. Perhaps, I would one day be quoted.
I closed my eyes and repeated it again and again like a mantra.
‘Suffering is art.’
‘Suffering is art.’
‘Suffering is art.’
At this point, I bumped into the backside of a stationery bull who was minding his own business. Before I could apologize, the bull lashed out with his right hind leg, kicking me straight in my stomach, causing me to fall back in the slush, which contained elements of his waste material.
Rather than commiserate, the crude locals laughed out loud at my plight.
‘Ha ha ha ha ha!’ they said, mocking and pointing at me sitting in the slush.
‘I am sure you are ignorant of the fact that I have been invited to the Ramgarh Literary Festival,’ I said, sitting in the muck in the middle of the road
, with the bull watching me in a calm, dignified and measured manner.
There was an exchange of harsh words, but I went away proudly.
I prepared for the event. I researched the festival, but was surprised to see that it did not show up on Google. Doubtless, because it is such a select event, I thought, pitying Google. Only geniuses will show up for this Festival and this should hardly be publicized. People who need to know have been informed and that is how it should be. Publicity is vulgar and embarrassing.
And so, I set out to Ramgarh with my violin, an almost-complete manuscript called Tears and Whispers: A Sweeping Saga and a carefully written speech on the future of Literature.
My Time Had Come.
2
Reaching Ramgarh
In which I, the struggling author, finally reach Ramgarh.
I boarded the train to Delhi and kept to myself. It is poor form for a writer to speak with the unwashed, unkempt masses. A dignified silence is best. I conversed little and mysteriously, mentioning only that I was off to the Ramgarh Literary Festival. A small male child asked, ‘But, what is it?’ His mother punished him severely – and quite rightly – and we carried on.
From time to time, people on the train peeped in to look at me. Word had spread on the train about my presence, in spite of my best efforts to stay humble and inconspicuous. This is the price of fame.
I reached Delhi and boarded the next train to Lucknow. I met some rather rough individuals who spoke to me in a disgraceful manner and laughed out loud and rolled on the floor when I said I was off to the Ramgarh Literary Festival. ‘OK, we won’t take your money. You entertained us with your stupidity, hahaha!’ said the rough man as he walked over to the next passenger, who quietly handed over his belongings on seeing the very sharp knife this man carried.
And in such manner, I travelled on to Ajmer, Indore, and Raipur and finally boarded the train to Mumbai, getting off at Pipla in the middle of the night.
As I got off – I was the only one – I saw that the platform was deserted except for the station master. He was a lonely figure shrouded in mist standing at the far end. It was quite a ghostly sight.