The Ramgarh Literary Festival

by Vasudev Murthy

  ‘Great idea!’

  ‘Oi!’

  Chaddha and Rao looked at each other sullenly across the table. ‘Sycophants’ was the word that had struck both of them.

  And now, Sen from Editorial had to add a twist. ‘Ma’am, we have another problem. We are simply not getting enough manuscripts, let alone good ones. If we don’t produce books, we can’t sell them or samosas. What to do, Ma’am?’

  ‘So the problem is not one but two! We need to publish more books and sell more samosas. Samosas are where our margins are! Profitability from our books is only 1 per cent. Samosas can help raise this to 600 per cent if we arm-twist the partner adequately.’

  ‘Guess where the profits are going,’ muttered Murthy darkly.

  Tavleen spun around. ‘Murthy, what did you say?’

  Murthy, the coward, responded cravenly, ‘I said that profits would go up, Madam. How clever you are, Madam!’

  She looked at him suspiciously. ‘Hmm, yes. OK, Singh, find a strategic partner who manufactures samosas. Iyer, get rid of Swaminathan. Speak to him in Tamil or something. We need to have a literary festival in some godforsaken place where only second-rate writers are invited. Only they would be desperate enough to attend a festival. There we shall collect manuscripts, sign completely one-sided contracts, and sell thousands of samosas! That’s it!’

  ‘You are a genius, Madam!’ bleated Neha.

  ‘I know. Now where shall we have this festival? Where are you from, fool? I mean, Gaurav?’

  ‘Ramgarh, ma’am.’

  ‘Never heard of it. That’s good. OK, the festival gets organized there a year from now, assuming our strategic samosa partnership is in place. The Ramgarh Literary Festival.’

  The sycophants roared with appreciation. Chaddha and Rao looked at each other sullenly across the table once again.

  ‘It will be, Madam,’ said Wadhwa confidently. ‘Gupta’s Samosas from Karol Bagh can deliver. Let me check it out. You are presently eating their samosas. That’s the sixth you’ve eaten. You obviously like them. I shall make it happen.’

  ‘Squeeze them completely, Wadhwa. No mercy whatsoever. You know what to do. I want you to use that new girl on this project … what’s her name? Yes, Jagdamba Shankarlal. OK, I have to leave now for a parlour appointment.’

  Chaddha and Rao looked at each other. No chance of a bonus this year with this lady going to the parlour every fourth day and billing the company for her manicures, which were ‘business expenses’.

  And that was the birth of the Ramgarh Literary Festival. A ruthless business venture with two objectives – manuscript harvesting and samosa sales. You may laugh. But that’s how the world of business is. They don’t teach you that at business school, do they?

  4

  The Ride to the Venue

  In which we, the struggling authors, travel from the guest house to the venue.

  We entered the Ramgarh Literary Festival’s lavish grounds after a long ride on bullock carts. We were all in bad shape, having eaten little and shared three cups of coffee between eight people.

  The lush grounds of the Festival were a pleasant surprise. We had to admit that Ramgarh was a nice enough place, despite the fact that it could not be found on any map, being so tiny and absolutely unheard of. It was a greater shock considering where we were staying, and the doubts we had about this Festival.

  We were greeted by a thousand volunteers, most of whom were children picked up from the local government school, forced to smile and throw flower petals on us. It was flattering in a way. The organizers were missing in action, however. In fact, when we discussed the matter amongst us, we discovered that none of us had actually interacted with any organizer. It was surreal. Tavleen was the only one who didn’t react when we expressed puzzlement. That should have given us a clue, in hindsight.

  But first, a flashback.

  After our extremely light dinner the previous night, we retired to our rooms and slept in absolute terror. The place was haunted, of that there was no doubt. Screams, shrieks, sudden bursts of poetry reading, the mumbling of lost and frightened writers – I had a very hard night. Bedbugs roamed my naked body. But I was finally at a literary festival and that thought helped me to brave the night. I was going to be the writer I was born to be.

  I woke at 6 a.m., surprised to be alive, though covered in bites from mosquitoes and bedbugs. I was very grateful. After a few minutes, I peeped out cautiously to see if all was well. Fog was swirling in the corridors, and all rooms were locked from the inside by the terrified poets and authors who had been invited.

  I tiptoed my way downstairs searching for tea.

  In the center of a large hall, the same tall and forbidding man who had stood silently behind the modest chapattis the previous night was now standing behind a table on which was placed a small flask.

  I folded my hands reverentially, in fear and respect.

  He did not respond.

  ‘Tea?’ I quavered.

  Still standing at attention, he moved his eyes just a bit to communicate that tea was indeed available in the flask. Who serves tea in a flask? It was odd, but I wasn’t all that surprised by their odd ways of doing things anymore.

  I went forward and took out some tea from the flask with shaking hands. I was in the presence of a Great Master, I knew.

  I had an uneasy feeling I was being watched. I glanced behind.

  And there were the other writers and the lone publisher watching me, their pupils dilated with fear. They were too scared to come forward and get tea from this man. I was obviously a hero in their eyes.

  I poured out several cups of tea with shaking hands and took them on a tray to the hungry and thirsty mob. They accepted their cups gratefully, and we all rushed out of the building to breathe some fresh air and come to our senses.

  We were finally there. A rag-tag bunch of writers finally recognized and invited to an international literary festival.

  We introduced ourselves.

  ‘Vasudev Murthy from Bangalore. I wrote Music and Madness. You might have heard of it,’ I said modestly.

  ‘You certainly look mad,’ giggled a slinky young lady. Everyone laughed nervously. I too did, but decided to keep an eye on this troublemaker.

  ‘I’m Meeta and I write about love on the internet,’ giggled the same young lady, looking for approval. There was none.

  ‘I’m Abhishek and I write about fitness. Running is very important,’ he said, jumping up and down.

  ‘Yes, we saw you running away from that tea guy rather fast!’ giggled Meeta. Abhishek was not amused, and he, like me, decided to keep an eye on Meeta as well.

  ‘I’m Monica and I write about romance,’ said another lady very sternly. We shrank back in horror.

  ‘I’m Sujata and I’m a poet,’ said Sujata, whom I already knew. People looked at each other nervously. You can never tell about poets; sudden violence is always a possibility.

  ‘I am Jagjit Singh. I am a very famous writer-journalist from Chandigarh. I wrote a book on how to write a book,’ said a striking Sardar.

  ‘Odd! And what did you use when you wrote that book?’ asked Monica.

  ‘I read another book that was about how to write a book.’

  ‘Strange! And what about the guy who wrote that book?’

  ‘He said that he too had read a book on how to write a book.’

  ‘When will this vicious cycle of writing books about writing books end?’

  ‘I don’t know. Did the chicken come first or the egg? Maybe after this international literary Festival is over.’

  ‘I’m Yashodhara Sen and I’m a fantasy writer,’ said a pretty lady with a fascinating smile.

  ‘Fantastic,’ mumbled Abhishek, stretching his toes.

  ‘Was it you who was screaming last night?’ I inquired.

  ‘Yes! Was it you playing the violin last night?’ she asked, her face suddenly hard.

  ‘Yes. I’m a violinist.’

  The tension suddenly broke.r />
  ‘Hahahahaha!’ Everyone laughed uproariously, clutching their stomachs and private parts.

  ‘If you’re a violinist, I’m Einstein,’ shouted Jagjit, laughing his guts out.

  ‘If you’re a violinist, I’m Marilyn Monroe!’ screamed Yashodhara, holding on to the wall for support.

  ‘If you’re a violinist, I’m a bestselling author!’ shrieked Meeta, and for some reason, everyone thought that was the funniest joke yet.

  ‘If you’re a violinist, I’m a poet,’ giggled Sujata and everyone went mad with laughter. Humour is all about dissonance.

  ‘If you’re a violinist, then Delhi is the capital of France!’ guffawed Monica, thrilled with her bizarre joke touching upon geography.

  ‘If you’re a violinist, I’m an editor who responds in twenty-four hours,’ said Tavleen, tears streaming from her eyes, as she clutched her belly, shaking with amusement.

  That was the funniest and cruelest joke we had heard in a long while, and even I joined in the madness.

  ‘I’m looking forward to meeting Juliana Sharapovich,’ I said eagerly, keen to make small talk.

  ‘So am I,’ said Jagjit, his eyes brightening, smelling a story, for he was a journalist.

  ‘Me too,’ said Monica, smiling beautifully, for she was a romance writer.

  ‘Same here,’ said Abhishek, still jumping up and down, keeping fit.

  ‘Can’t wait,’ said Sujata, thinking of poetry. ‘It was so flattering hearing from her.’

  ‘She seems so interesting,’ said Yashodhara. ‘Is she from Russia, Belarus or Bulgaria?’

  ‘Why does she have such a complicated name?’ asked Meeta. ‘Can’t we ask her to change her name?’ She proceeded to giggle.

  All of us looked at Meeta, observing her silently for an uncomfortable moment. There was an unspoken agreement that we collectively had a problem with her.

  ‘Now who are you guys referring to?’ asked Tavleen, innocently. I thought I detected the edges of her lips twitching.

  ‘Oh, she’s the one who signed the invitation letters,’ I said. ‘Juliana Sharapovich’.

  ‘Hahahaha!’ said Tavleen, very amused. ‘Hahahahahahahahahaha!’

  We hadn’t expected such a response, and we were bemused, unlike Tavleen.

  ‘There is no “Juliana Sharapovich” you losers, hahaha!’

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Monica.

  ‘What?’ shrieked Yashodhara.

  ‘What do you mean there’s no Juliana Sharapovich?’ I exclaimed, my heart sinking.

  ‘We have this lady, Jagdamba Shankarlal, who is an executive in our marketing division. She has really poor handwriting, and her signature looks exactly like Juliana Sharapovich, hahaha!’

  ‘What?’ gurgled Sujata.

  ‘What?’ whispered Jagjit, shattered.

  ‘Yes, you bet there isn’t, hahaha!’

  ‘Do you mean that Juliana Sharapovich is actually Jagdamba Shankarlal?’ asked Abhishek, seeking clarity, while stopping the elbow exercises he was working on.

  ‘Let me understand this. The letter was signed by Jagdamba Shankarlal and she signs in such a way that we all, separately, thought it was Juliana Sharapovich. Yes?’ asked Jagjit, trying his best to understand this outrage.

  ‘Haha, yes!’

  ‘So this is not an international literary festival?’ I said, traumatized

  ‘It is whatever you think it is!’ laughed Tavleen extremely amused.

  Rage enveloped all of us.

  At this point, however, the strong, silent man who had frightened us so much announced the arrival of transport to take us to the venue. His manner was very British, much as of a butler announcing that dinner was served.

  ‘Your bullock-carts have come, ladies and gentlemen. You will be departing in thirty minutes for the main venue of the Ramgarh Literary Festival. I would advise you to freshen up and depart or you will miss the inaugural ceremony. At this point, I would like you to offer you some samosas from Gupta’s Samosas, the strategic partner for the Festival. Please have one, with the compliments of the Managing Committee.’

  We took one each from the tray, with shaking hands, and rushed to our rooms to change. I put on my favourite light mauve phosphorescent underwear, which I felt always brought me good luck.

  Outside the Guest House, our bullock carts were all ready to go. The bulls stood sleek, proud, healthy and elegant, staring in front, almost conscious that they were to ferry several prominent authors to an international literary festival. It was possibly the proudest moment in their careers.

  The carts, while clean and dust-free, did appear to be in need of desperate attention. The wheels groaned and creaked. The wooden planks on which we were to sit were rotten and cracked and had protruding rusting nails, guaranteed to hurt us. A test, for sure, because from pain and suffering is born deep and moving literature, I remarked to myself. Suffering, after all, is art. We were extremely impressed by the intelligence of the Managing Committee and their attention to detail.

  We clambered onto the bullock carts, watched by the strong and silent man and the lady who had worn a white sari the previous night, but had since worn a black sari. I observed that the man was also wearing a black shirt, black trousers, and black shoes. A remarkable metamorphosis, I thought to myself. Certainly worth a story.

  Jagjit and Yashodhara sat in the first cart, Meeta and Abhishek in the second, Sujata and Monica in the third, and Tavleen and I in the last. We hugged our manuscripts close (except Tavleen), put on our seat belts so thoughtfully provided with compliments of the Managing Committee and we were off, watched silently by the People in Black. I was surprised to see them suddenly look up at the sky, close their eyes, and put their palms together; they were mouthing prayers to the Gods above. I felt the gesture was unwarranted and in poor taste, almost worrying, but kept my opinion to myself.

  As the proud bulls pulled their carts and started their confident march to the Temple of Literature, we heaved a collective sigh of relief to be away from the guest house. The previous night had been an astounding experience but could be forgotten as a gentle test. The fact that Tavleen Sabharwal, the most famous publisher-editor in India was with us had not escaped our attention. Was she there because she wanted to stress-test potential big-name writers? Yes, that made sense. If her writers could not handle physical and mental suffering, how could she rely on them to produce tomes of extraordinary depth and meet deadlines?

  I looked at Tavleen and Tavleen looked at me. The carts moved on, the sounds of shrieking metal and creaking wood puncturing the air. We were now entering the thick forests of Ramgarh. This would take at least two hours, the uniformed bullock-cart drivers told us.

  ‘Got your almost-finished manuscript, Murthy?’ Her manner was brusque and business-like.

  ‘Yes. 187, 267 words.’

  ‘Years?’

  ‘Eight.’

  ‘Status?’

  ‘Should finish while I’m here.’

  ‘Good. And what is it called?’

  ‘Tears and Whispers: A Sweeping Saga.’

  ‘Har Har! “A sweeping saga”, eh? Very nice. Very original. And what is it about?’

  ‘It’s about a woman in a small village in Kerala who meets a tourist from Manipur who came down to learn Ayurveda. They marry and migrate to Moldavia and settle there, but then events happen in Jabalpur in India that force them to shift to La Paz, Bolivia. The man starts playing the Andean flute while the woman looks out into the valley silently for hours together. She looks at her brother’s saxophone and cries; this happens often enough to be a cause for concern. Some Brazilian parrots sit on her window ledge and whisper and speak to her during her long days of loneliness, while her Manipuri husband plays the flute non-stop. Meanwhile, the government changes in Goa, causing them to rethink what they want to do with their lives. They open a restaurant in Vladivostok and there another chapter in their lives begins.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘That’s it.’

 
‘That’s the book? Tears and Whispers: A Sweeping Saga?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But what happens in Vladivostok?’

  ‘That would be in the sequel, Whispers and Tears: A Sweeping Saga. I am planning that now. The woman from Kerala and the man from Manipur decide to become activists in the Arctic. She meets an elderly Eskimo while he meets a wealthy cello player who specializes in playing in the nude in vast snowfields. The government changes suddenly in Delhi and this creates a new complication for the couple. They are forced to move to Paris, where she becomes a wealthy art critic and he becomes a diplomat and is sent away to Swaziland, and there he writes a poem in Icelandic, quite by mistake. I am working on the theme.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be working in National Geographic, Murthy? How realistic is such a tale?’ She sneered. A sneering publisher is a terrible thing to behold.

  ‘As realistic as the Ramgarh Literary Festival,’ I said wittily, charmed by my cheek.

  ‘Hahaha!’ she guffawed, taken by my acute sense of humour. ‘Keep watching, Murthy, keep watching!’

  Shots rang out unexpectedly from the verdant forest. We heard a scream, followed by a horrible moaning and then deafening silence.

  Sujata and Monica screamed too, while Meeta merely giggled. Jagjit was excited – he smelled another possible story. Abhishek looked smug – he was very fit and could run faster than a gazelle if danger threatened. As expected, Yashodhara exclaimed ‘How fantastic!’

  ‘What was that?’ I asked, bewildered.

  ‘This place is infested with poet-haters,’ said Tavleen, quite nonchalantly. ‘Perhaps they just shot a poet. Could be part of some kind of a tribal religious ritual. We shall never know.’

  ‘Perhaps I could write a book about that,’ I remarked thoughtfully and cerebrally, as more shots rang through the air and more shrill screams broke the ambience. The bullock carts moved on unperturbed; this seemed a fairly normal and prosaic occurrence for them.

  ‘How long would you take to write this?’ asked Tavleen, leaning forward, her eyes gleaming. She could sense a possible niche market for such a book and could smell profits.

  Another terrible scream broke through the trees to our left.