I walked up to him and introduced myself.
‘Can you tell me how to get to Ramgarh?’
‘For the literary festival?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I said, delighted that someone knew about the festival – I was getting kind of tired of having to explain myself and the exclusivity of the festival. Although, I have to admit, I detected a touch of weariness in his voice.
‘We’ve had a half dozen people before you on the previous trains. I only hope they reach Ramgarh alive. See that dark road outside? Turn right and keep walking. Ten kilometres. It is very dangerous. It is dark. There are wolves, cheetahs, mad poets, and deranged organizers. Please be careful. Goodbye.’
The statement seemed rather odd, but I thought he was just being funny, and so I trudged out after thanking him. I looked back once to wave. The man had disappeared.
Midnight trekking after a long and tough journey was not what I had hoped for, but it is what it is.
It was really rather dark, as the man had said. There was no moon and no stars. By the road were bushes and trees and the sound of the wind through the leaves and branches was harsh and mocking. Occasionally, I thought I heard the sound of heavy breathing, odd moans, shrill yodels, the call of cheetahs, annoyed crickets, and toads. Everything was rather unpleasant. Something whizzed by around me. I thought I saw a couple of corpses by the wayside, both clutching books. I did not stop to examine the books, nor the corpses for that matter. Despite being an internationally respected author, I was afraid and displeased.
I forged on. I had had the foresight to bring along a small torch and I used that occasionally. After several hours of trekking, with the violin seemingly heavier and heavier and a deep sense of foreboding growing, I finally saw a tiny board: ‘Ramgarh Literary Festival Welcomes You. Guest House 100 Feet Ahead.’
I practically sprinted. I was hungry and thirsty. I was sure there would be a huge group of adoring fans waiting for me with garlands, tea, cold drinks and copies of my book which they hoped I would not mind autographing.
I turned a corner and there, etched in the darkness was the building, the Guest House. There was not a soul in sight.
The Guest House was a huge, forbidding structure and somehow did not inspire confidence. It was set in the middle of a large clearing, and there was no other building around as far as I could see. There were a couple of low wattage lamps somewhere in the building and it made matters worse. At one window, I thought I saw a menacing silhouette, and a moment later, when I looked again, it was gone. I thought I heard a deranged scream, but felt I was tired and imagining things.
A tall woman in a white sari stood motionless at the entrance as I walked up.
‘Good morning,’ I said. ‘Is this the Guest House for the Ramgarh Literary Festival?’
There was no response. I felt a strange chill.
‘I’m a famous author and moderator,’ I added, a bit nervous.
‘Room 108. Dinner is set in the lobby. Be careful,’ said the lady, abruptly throwing a key at me. She turned and vanished.
This was all rather odd, I thought.
I walked in. The building was circular inside, very strangely. Room 108 was not on the first floor as I had assumed, but on the sixth as I soon discovered. I trudged upwards. The staircase was lit by a dim bulb, and a peculiar musty smell, and dark stains on the walls and stairs did not help matters.
‘Help me, someone help me,’ I heard a whimper.
I had no idea where it came from, and being an internationally acclaimed author, felt that the problems of the common man were below my stature and not worth my while. I could write about them one day, perhaps, but I was not obliged to do anything since I would be busy hopping from country to country collecting awards.
I found Room 108, applied key to lock and went in.
I turned on the light.
Room 108 was very small. There was a very small bed and a microscopic napkin doubling as a bed sheet. A few gentle cockroaches peeped out, inquiring if my journey had been satisfactory. A large hospitable mouse waved a cheerful hello and went about his business, munching on a samosa.
On the table was a handwritten note, which said, ‘Welcome to the Ramgarh Literary Festival. Please have this samosa with our compliments.’ It was signed by the Managing Committee.
I visited the bathroom which resembled a battlefield. I did not know what to make of it. ‘Suffering is art.’ I muttered to myself as I assessed my surroundings.
I went downstairs for the promised dinner.
A lone individual stood behind a table. He was a strong silent man and did not feel the need for social intercourse.
‘Dinner?’ I inquired.
He took off the lid off a large dish and I peeped in. Within was a small infant chapatti. I asked about anything that might be sampled with the chapatti. He pointed at a very small cup of daal. I took it gracefully; it would not do to get a reputation as being a ‘high-maintenance’ author at exactly the time when the world was preparing to welcome me to the ranks of the all-time greats.
I noticed a pretty woman at a table nearby.
‘May I sit with you?’ I asked politely.
She looked up with glazed eyes and did not respond. Finally she said, ‘Who are you?’
‘I am Vasudev and I am a speaker at the Festival, as you must be too.’
The lady started laughing hysterically. ‘Hahahahahahahahahaha!’
She went on in this manner for some time. She was obviously hysterical (as noted previously too).
‘I’m sorry, that must have seemed rude,’ she said, gathering herself after a full five minutes, wiping the tears from her eyes, her face red.
‘I’m Sujata and I’m an acclaimed writer and poet, too,’ she said.
‘That makes two of us,’ I quipped.
Somehow that sounded incredibly funny and we both laughed and laughed.
‘I was given one chapatti and two spoonfuls of daal,’ she said, catching her breath. ‘And you?’
‘The same,’ I replied.
‘Who are these people? What do they want?’ she whispered, suddenly serious, almost nervous.
‘What do you mean?’
‘There are another six people in this building. There’s you and me, then we have Tavleen Sabharwal, an acclaimed publisher, then an acclaimed sardar journalist, then an acclaimed romance writer, an acclaimed fantasy writer, and an acclaimed writer on physical fitness. All are hiding in their rooms and refuse to come out. Why are we here?’
‘To be acclaimed?’ I asked keenly, with my sharp wit.
Sujata and I broke out in maniacal laughter. ‘Hahahahahaha!’
‘This is all very sinister. There is no one here, except the caretaker who comes and goes. A woman in a white sari who says nothing and goes about doing nothing. There is no transport. All we have are half-eaten samosas in our rooms with the compliments of the Managing Committee.’
‘Did you eat them?’
‘No – a mouse did, but he gave me some. It wasn’t bad.’
‘I am very fond of samosas, you know.’
‘Oh, the best samosas are to be found in Karol Bagh in Delhi.’
‘Very informative. But who invented samosas?’
‘They say that Emperor Akbar had a vision and was told that he ought to make samosas and keep people happy.’
‘What a lovely tale! I never knew!’
‘Well, now you do. Hahahaha!’
We again laughed and laughed.
The lights went out at this point.
‘Let me escort you to your room,’ I said. ‘Do not be afraid, dear lady.’
A shrill scream was heard.
‘Now what?’
‘That was that fantasy writer trying out some new stunt, probably.’
‘Let’s silence her with a couple of samosas,’ I said, always the wit.
Sujata collapsed laughing. ‘This is too much, you crazy acclaimed writer! Do you know I haven’t eaten for a whole day? I walked with the o
ther guys from Pipla to Ramgarh and we reached about an hour before you. There were two more but they died en route, exhausted.’
‘Oh, so those were the corpses I saw. They were clutching books.’
‘Their bestsellers. One, Chang’s on political issues in Zimbabwe and the other, Mirchandani’s, on the genre of one-word poems.’
‘How can a Chinese book on political issues in Zimbabwe be a bestseller? And I never knew there was a genre for one-word poems!’
‘You do now! Hahahaha!.’
‘Do you remember that stampede that was reported on TV at a book store? Well, that was because everyone wanted a copy of Mirchandani’s 700-page book of one word poems. He is highly acclaimed. Rather, he was. He is now dead, trekking to this Festival.’
‘Who goes around acclaiming?’
‘The very same who acclaimed you and then acclaimed me!’
‘Hahahahaha!’ We broke out into maniacal laughter again in the dark and ominous Ramgarh Guest House.
‘Let me now play the violin,’ I said, pompously.
‘But it’s dark!’
‘So? Do you need the light to listen to music?’
‘Hahahahahaha!’ We both laughed again, hysterical with fear.
I took out the violin and started playing. I chose a very sad and fearful Raag to play. Because it was dark, I was unable to tune the instrument and the sound was particularly fearsome.
The fantasy writer screamed again in the pitch-dark Guest House.
‘Stop! Stop! Have mercy, dear Lord! Stop!’
‘You play so well! I acclaim you!’ exclaimed Sujata
‘Oh, thanks,’ I said, modestly.
The Sardar journalist bellowed from the second floor. ‘Oi! Stop that nonsense, man! Tussi pagal ho kya? Are you crazy?’ He sounded furious.
‘Why have you been invited to this Festival?’ I asked.
‘I am chairing a session on poetry,’ said Sujata, coyly.
‘What does that mean?’ I asked, intrigued.
‘You have to sit on a chair,’ she said.
Somehow, even that sounded incredibly funny and we again broke out laughing. I continued playing the violin.
‘I have been invited to read from my book Music and Madness,’ I said, while bowing furiously.
‘What will you read?’
‘The acknowledgements, hahahaha!’
As we broke out laughing again, another voice joined in, that of Tavleen Sabharwal, who had arrived to find out what was going on.
I turned, awestruck. So this was the person. An acclaimed publisher who was to be the cynosure of all eyes at the festival. She was barely two feet away. I had to pinch myself; this was incredible. I had indeed arrived.
3
A Business Meeting at a Publisher’s Office
In which we get a whiff of the ruthless scheming nature of publishers.
How deceptive are mornings. The sun eases out, spreading light. It is symbolic and literal. You know what I mean?
Birds set out for work, as do vulgarly rich and affluent publishers and cocaine smugglers. There is money to be made and grabbed. But one must plan.
And so, a year before the events at the Ramgarh Literary Festival, Tavleen Sabharwal eased herself into her gleaming BMW 725i sedan and settled into the back seat. She opened her iPad, iPhone, gleaming state-of-the-art laptop with a 6G datacard and connected to her secret world. By her side was her handbag. If you were to peep inside, you would not find the usual. You would find gold biscuits and crisp American dollars.
Perhaps I failed to introduce her to you properly. I assumed you may have already heard of Tavleen Sabharwal. She is the Chief Editor of a very large publishing company called P____ (I cannot spell out the name due to legal reasons. In fact, ‘Tavleen Sabharwal’ is also a fictitious name. But, she exists.)
And now you fault me for not describing her. Well, she is very feminine. Tall, lissome, with a figure that might cause concern. She wears her imported clothes with considerable grace.
Her chauffeur, Ram Kishan, knew exactly where to go. Words were not necessary. He knew the habits and routine of this ruthless woman.
The BMW moved silently and swiftly onto the road, the red beacon on top making it clear that the person inside was a Very Important Person.
Tavleen was troubled. She was in a pensive mood, if I may say so, and I just did. Profits were down by two per cent and a certain target group had not bought her books with the same zest as before. Her business partners in other parts of the world had started asking questions. Swaminathan, CEO of Dosas Pvt Ltd., a key cartel member, had sent her a terse, cryptic message.
We make dosas. Not idlis.
The meaning was clear. It was the first expression of a lack of faith. And in business, it’s all about trust. It’s the kind of thing where your partners trust you to cheat someone else but be transparent and honest with them.
But this was not the first time that Tavleen had been faced with such a situation. There was a very good reason why she was where she was. She was smart and could think on her feet. You could always count on her to come up with creative solutions to every conceivable problem or situation.
She looked outside at the little people watching sullenly from the side as she swished past. She thought to herself, ‘This guy is unhappy. I need new ideas. Maybe I should speak to some of those MBA interns.
‘MBAs! What a bunch of clowns! Planning to change the world and write papers on strategy! But maybe there’s something to it – what’s the harm in trying? Let me convene a meeting to figure out innovative ways to expand sales.’
And so, with a few quick taps on the gold-plated iPad, she sent a message to her underlings to meet her in the afternoon.
Chatterjee, Bannerjee, Mukherjee, and Sen walked in at 3 p.m. They were her editorial staff. As per the rules, all editors had to be Bengalis. It was often annoying but there was no escape.
Singh, Chaddha, Wadhwa, and Punj came in from Sales. As per policy, all loud and aggressive sales and marketing honchos had to be Punjabis. Those guys can push, push, push. Again, there was no escaping her rules.
Iyer, Rao, and Murthy drifted in from Finance, Administration, and IT. As per policy, those with no value-add and no spine had to be South Indians. They had to be good at numbers, and that was that. They were necessary to have a proper balance in the team and to ensure there was diversity.
A couple of miserable MBA interns were also asked to come in, so that they could be insulted if the meeting became boring.
‘Right, you clowns,’ snapped Tavleen. ‘I need ideas to double sales. Swaminathan from Dosas Pvt. Ltd. says that he is unhappy with sales. He says that you guys are not selling enough dosas with our books.’
‘Excuse me, Ma’am,’ bleated an MBA intern named Neha (again, as per policy, all female interns had to be named Neha). ‘I never understood that. Why would you sign a business agreement with someone guaranteeing that dosas would be automatically sold with books? Please help me understand, Ma’am. I want to learn and grow, Ma’am.’
The group of senior guys had a hearty chuckle. How often theory fell short of practice. It was so sad. Neha’s lack of experience was almost touching.
‘Neha,’ said Tavleen, menacingly calmly, controlling herself. She had to be a mentor to a young female MBA with possible potential. She spoke gently. ‘Our studies show that when a person buys a book, he knows he needs to eat something when he actually reads it. Conversely, when someone buys a dosa, he’d like to read a book. That is why we sell dosas with our books. Reciprocally, Dosas Pvt. Ltd. sells our books when they sell dosas. It’s quite simple. Complementary products, basic economics.’
‘But won’t the books get oily and stained?’ asked the other foolish MBA intern, Gaurav (as usual, selected as per policy).
Chaddha and Rao looked at each other across the table. This meeting was going nowhere.
‘Let us discuss this offline, Gaurav,’ snapped Tavleen. ‘OK guys, ideas! Ideas!’
; ‘We want a scalable solution. We can’t rely on individual sales,’ said Wadhwa, solemnly.
‘Bhery good point!’ exclaimed Chatterjee, excited.
Bannerjee was upset and started arguing with Chatterjee in Bengali. They were ignored by everyone. This too was routine. Soon they would start discussing the politics of West Bengal and descend into a zone of madness from which they would emerge only after Durga Puja.
‘If we sell six books an hour, we may sell, at most, six dosas,’ said Iyer. ‘Moreover, no one likes cold, day-old dosas. The model may be flawed.’
‘So, what we need is a guaranteed way to sell a hundred dosas at a go,’ said Punj.
‘Since that is impossible, why must we sell dosas? Why not something else?’ said Murthy, from IT.
At this point the office attendant, Daulat Ram, came in and started serving tea, pastries, and samosas.
The timing was extraordinary.
Everyone looked at each other. And all said, ‘Samosas!’ A true Eureka moment!
A thrill of vicarious pleasure went through the room. No one liked Swaminathan and his oily ways. It was time to dump him and find a substitute.
‘We must sell samosas with our books,’ declared Tavleen. ‘They can be eaten cold and if we get the recipe right, the books won’t get stained either!’
‘You are a genius, Ma’am!’ bleated Neha, the pathetic intern.
But Wadhwa the trouble maker raised an objection. ‘Even if we find a strategic partner who manufactures samosas, we are still at six samosas for six books. It’s not scalable yet.’
Tavleen glanced at her Rolex. ‘These guys…’ she muttered.
Meanwhile, Punj jumped up and, as expected, made an irrelevant observation. ‘Nobody reads books during the Diwali festival, madam!’
Everyone expected Tavleen to blow. They knew that Punj got on her nerves every single time with his pointless digressions.
But surprise! She suddenly sat up. ‘Festivals! Festivals! Yes, that’s it! We need a book festival! We get hundreds of guys to come in wanting to buy books and we can then sell hundreds of samosas!’
‘Incredible!’
‘What strategic thinking, Ma’am!’
The Ramgarh Literary Festival Page 2
