The Ramgarh Literary Festival

by Vasudev Murthy

  Abhishek had already jumped off his cart and sprinted ahead towards the festival. We saw a small cloud of dust in his wake. Sujata and Monica were lying face down on their carts, trembling, very afraid. Yashodhara was taking photos in a frenzy. Jagjit was taking voice-notes for the story he hoped to write.

  ‘Perhaps five years,’ I said.

  ‘Good. It’s all about timing. If the book reaches the market late, everyone loses,’ she said, as bullets whizzed over our heads. More poets screamed, disturbing the tranquil beauty of the Ramgarh forests.

  I was impressed by her business acumen. My confidence in my own abilities was increasing. I was slightly irritated, however, by the noise of the bullets and the noisy screaming of the poets. They didn’t seem to understand that there were business dealings underway in our bullock cart. People are so inconsiderate, I thought to myself.

  ‘Okay. I shall submit my synopsis shortly and perhaps we can proceed.’

  She nodded, ‘Sounds good.’

  She broke off. ‘Oh look, a lovely deer, followed by a scared poet, dashing across the road! Chased by hunters, I imagine.’

  ‘Oh, this is so lovely and so much like the Serengeti,’ gushed Yashodhara, clicking away. ‘The Hunters, the Hunted. Nature’s balance! How Darwinian.’

  ‘Don’t write a poem!’ I said wittily, and we all laughed uproariously, to the accompaniment of additional screams and shots.

  The bullock carts meandered on and the sounds of conflict finally ceased behind us.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ announced Jagjit.

  ‘Let’s stop for breakfast,’ giggled Meeta.

  ‘In case you haven’t noticed, O bestselling author, we are in the middle of a jungle,’ said Sujata, somewhat cattily. ‘You can find poets here, but no restaurants.’

  ‘Then how do you explain that?’ asked Monica. She pointed ahead. There was Abhishek waving at us from outside a building. We saw a hoarding saying ‘Udupi Restaurant – 30 feet ahead’.

  ‘Amazing! Idlis and vadas in the middle of Ramgarh jungle!’ gushed Yashodara. ‘How—’

  ‘Fantastic,’ completed Tavleen.

  ‘Now how did you know I was going to say that?’ asked Yashodhara, looking puzzled. ‘You must be a mindreader or something!’

  We looked at each other and offered no comment.

  The bullock-carts had reached the mid-jungle restaurant. There was a nice board that said, ‘Sri Krishna Udupi Hotel – Boarding and Lodging. Meals Ready.’

  We were delighted.

  ‘Good coffee,’ remarked Abhishek, sipping from a steel cup.

  The owner came out and introduced himself.

  ‘Hello, I’m Shenoy from Udupi. Welcome to Sri Krishna Udupi Hotel. Our idlis and vadas are fresh. But, I have only a few. I just opened my restaurant this morning. Each idli and vada is a product of traditional craftsmanship.’

  ‘What are you doing here in the middle of the Ramgarh forest?’ asked Jagjit, scribbling notes.

  ‘What do you think I’m doing here?’ asked Shenoy, somewhat hurt. ‘Idlis and vadas are popular everywhere,’ he continued. ‘I knew that the Ramgarh Literary Festival was coming up. I didn’t win the exclusive contract to supply samosas to the festival so I decided to offer idlis and vadas instead.’

  ‘What contract?’ I asked, intrigued.

  ‘Oh, don’t you know? The RLF has an exclusive partnership with Gupta’s Samosas. Nothing else can be sold during the festival. You won’t be able to eat anything else at RLF except Gupta’s Samosas’ samosas.’

  It sounded so absurd that we dismissed his words as the ranting of a mad man. In any case, he was from Udupi and had moved to Ramgarh to sell food in the middle of a jungle – that was a fairly clear indication of his mental condition.

  ‘Nonsense!’ I said scornfully. ‘That is preposterous.’

  ‘I don’t know how to spell that, Sir, but I’m warning you now. It is up to you.’

  We ignored him and attacked the food. Shenoy provided us with three plates of idlis and vadas and three cups of hot, steaming coffee. This was barely enough for eight adult writers and poets, but we managed somehow, though our animal instincts were being seriously provoked.

  I noticed a twitch at the corner of Tavleen’s lips. Her face was otherwise expressionless.

  ‘I shall write about you,’ said Jagjit warmly, shaking hands with Shenoy.

  ‘Your coffee was fantastic,’ added Meeta, all smiles.

  ‘I was going to say that!’ exclaimed Yashodhara, dismayed.

  Our bullock-carts continued smartly forward and after an hour or so, with every bone in our bodies shaken and re-oriented, we finally reached a very large open area. Outside, a board announced that we had finally reached our destination.

  ‘The Ramgarh Literary Festival’, it read big and bold. With it was its odd, creatively designed logo, a peculiar mixture of a white circle, a blue triangle, the Amazon forest in sepia, a phosphate mine, the flag of Togo, and the face of Idi Amin. It was a distinctive logo and I felt a sense of pride.

  Now go back to the beginning of this chapter. I’m too tired to explain again how the local school children greeted us with rose petals. Come back here after you’re done. I’ll be waiting.

  5

  The Inauguration

  In which the Ramgarh Literary Festival is finally inaugurated.

  We reached the main grounds and there were plenty of signs pointing us in this direction and the other. The ground was milling with people and volunteers rushing about. It was very festive, as you would expect given that it was a festival, if you get what I mean. People were laughing, dancing, beating drums, playing the saxophone, throwing bouquets in the air – it was all very thrilling.

  Our small band of invitees wandered about, led firmly by Tavleen. She seemed to know her way around.

  ‘The Inauguration is beginning in fifteen minutes. That way, you guys.’

  Abhishek did cartwheels while I tried to look dignified and slightly indifferent, as cerebral writers should. Meeta continued giggling nervously, while Jagjit took shaky notes and Yashodhara took black and white photos.

  Soon enough, we came up to a very large edifice. It had the usual banners about the festival. More and more volunteers were rushing about, running from one place to another. Gupta’s Samosas had put up a large and garish stall offering complimentary samosas to all. We picked up a couple each, seeing that there were no mice around.

  It appeared that the chief guest was soon to arrive.

  ‘Who might it be?’ I observed gravely to Abhishek. ‘Certainly a figure of renown in the literary world. We shall be rubbing shoulders with him.’

  Tavleen heard me and turned sharply. ‘Murthy, your ignorance is phenomenal, disconcerting, appalling, and plainly disgusting. The chief guest is Sheelaaa Dey, a woman, you oaf!’ she snapped.

  ‘There is no need to be annoyed,’ I said primly. ‘I have certainly read her book, Poultry Days and Peculiar Liaisons. I just didn’t know who the Chief Guest was to be. The Managing Committee never sent me any information about the matter.’

  ‘Don’t blame the Managing Committee for your ignorance! They are fine people, captains of industry. They can’t be expected to keep you updated every second!’

  I had clearly upset her.

  ‘I’ve never heard of anyone who had three A’s in a row in her name,’ said Jagjit, bemused.

  ‘People do use two A’s and that’s confusing enough,’ remarked Monica. ‘But three is unusual and a bit much, yes.’

  ‘But how can you guys make out if a name has one, two or three A’s?’ asked Meeta. ‘After all, no one spelt the name now! So, how do you know?’

  We looked at each other. This woman was something else. It was best to ignore her.

  We were escorted in by some of the earnest volunteers. I had never before in my life been treated with such fawning respect. I was pleased that my day had finally arrived.

  Thousands of visitors had filled the auditorium. As our contingent
was escorted to the front row, the audience broke into loud applause and ecstatic cheering. I recalled the wise words of my great uncle, who had warned me not to let adulation go to my head. And so I resolved not to let such adulation go to my head.

  And then, the moment finally arrived.

  The Chief Guest, Sheelaaa Dey walked in through the aisle like a whirlwind, flashing her lovely teeth at the audience and waving furiously. The cheers were deafening. Her silver-tinged, off-white silk sari, her off-white pearls, her off-white scarf, and her off-white shoes – her whole persona radiated glamour and utmost literary merit. With her were a couple of underlings, waving weakly at the crowd too, hoping to get some residual adoration. It may be helpful for you to know that she was perhaps five feet seven and a half inches and weighed approximately 56 kilograms, though this is mathematical conjecture from my side.

  She swept up to the dais, smiled again and waved at the crowd. I thought she glanced at me and that there was a flash of recognition and high regard in her eyes, but I did not react, being a modest and retiring person.

  She sat regally on the large throne-like seat brought out for her, smiling continuously, and waving without break. Abhishek commented tersely that waving was the perfect exercise for biceps. Prophetic words, it turns out, as you will know soon.

  A person I did not recognize went to the microphone and began. He was obese, bald, sweaty, and nervous. He wore a batik shirt with a red and green motif, blue pants and tennis shoes. He wore a thick gold chain on his bulbous neck and an assortment of rings, crafted to protect him from horrendous evil. One could sense the contours of a wallet in his front trouser pocket but it was not possible to determine how much money might have been in it. I am mentioning this because, as a leading writer, I believe that no detail is too small; the reader has the right to know. But I digress.

  The man moaned:

  ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls, and Writers and Poets. It is great honour for us to host the Ramgarh Literary Festival, here in our small town. And it very great honour for me to welcome our Chief Guest, Missus Sheelaaa Dey, famous writer! Please give her a round of applause!’

  He turned towards her and began clapping furiously. The crowd clapped furiously and in fact, Sheelaaa Dey herself clapped furiously too.

  Then he rushed forward and fell at Sheelaaa’s feet. Several girls came rushing forward to garland her. Sheelaaa kept waving at the crowd and beaming. ‘Excellent exercise for cheek muscles,’ observed Abhishek.

  She stood up regally and stepped forward to the dias. Unfortunately, she tripped as her heels were high, (perhaps 2.5 inches or so, though I did not measure it myself). She lurched forward, and would have hurt herself very badly had her head not hit the Anonymous Person’s large girth. He staggered a little but held his own. Sheelaaa flashed a brilliant smile at the audience, regained her balance, and continued, unfazed. The crowd was initially alarmed but then quite relieved and gave the Anonymous Person a big round of applause for ‘saving’ their hero. He waved – it was his moment of fame, albeit a little painful.

  Sheelaaa came up to the microphone and, once again, smiled gorgeously at the crowd. She began.

  ‘Namaskaar.’

  The crowd went wild with joy. Sheelaaa smiled again, very pleased. She was so close to the cultural ethos of the country; I was moved.

  ‘I’m deeply honoured to be here at the Ramgarh Literary Festival, which is an international literary festival.’

  She paused.

  ‘In…!’

  She paused. The tension was palpable.

  ‘In Ramgarh!’ she yelled, and the crowd roared with delight. People were hysterical and many were observed crying. Abhishek and I glanced at each other. Monica and Yashodhara were tearful too, while Meeta, as expected, was gaping. Jagjit took notes furiously. Tavleen had disappeared.

  ‘We celebrate the confluence of literature here. I’m so, so honoured to be part of this event. Once I met a man from Ramgarh and I wrote about him in the Times of India a national newspaper. Then I met a woman in London from Ramgarh. We had lunch together though I can’t recall what we ate.’

  The crowd chuckled, taken by her sense of humour. People whispered and conjectured that perhaps they (the people who met in London) had fried rice and daal, while another school of opinion reflected on the possibility of naan and chole. I liked her ability to involve the audience in her talk.

  ‘I could never have imagined that I would, one day, be here …’ she paused, and raised her hands towards the ceiling.

  ‘In Ramgarh!’ she yelled, and the crowd went crazy again, screaming and applauding.

  ‘Poets! Writers! Biographers! Botanists! Musicians! Publishers and Editors! They are all here! I’m so thrilled! I’m so, so, so thrilled! Right here in…!’ and here she gestured to the crowd, arching her eyebrows and prompting them.

  The crowd responded and the room was rent asunder with the screaming of the slogan:

  ‘Ramgarh! Ramgarh! RAMGARH! RAMGARH!’

  ‘I can see why she’s a bestselling author,’ observed Abhishek, bemused.

  ‘I observed the same,’ said Jagjit, laconically.

  ‘As I did,’ I said, fascinated.

  ‘I love you all!’ cried Sheelaaa and blew kisses to the audience. Grown men wept and young readers and writers screamed with joy.

  And then she went off the stage, waving madly at the hysterical audience.

  The Ramgarh Literary Festival had been officially inaugurated.

  The audience was in tears, never having been so emotionally shaken before.

  We looked at each other, overwhelmed with jealousy. I resolved to try out this astonishing technique of crowd management and manipulation.

  We stepped out of the auditorium. The sun beat down on us. We looked about, taking in the atmosphere. Thousands of volunteers milled about, eager to transfer us to various events.

  Jagjit read out from the schedule that someone had put in his hands.

  ‘Hall A has some Lord McIntosh speaking about his recent book on economic currents in the Mediterranean.’

  ‘Profoundly boring, though I do wonder how he managed to come so far from London.’

  ‘Hall B has a panel discussion on Trends in Modern Poetry. Sujata, that’s yours.’

  Sujata had already vanished, rushing off to her hall, which was a good six kilometers away, as the bullock trundles.

  ‘Let’s go, guys, and support her!’

  ‘But I can’t stand poetry!’ shuddered Abhishek.

  ‘Think of it this way. The poetry will help you run faster,’ I said.

  ‘Good point. OK, I shall manage,’ said Abhishek, feeling better.

  Yashodhara was thrilled. ‘Poetry! I love it! I hear there’s a special Rabindranath Tagore retrospective.’

  Monica stopped in her tracks.

  So did Jagjit.

  As did Tavleen.

  I understood.

  ‘Guys, can’t we do this much for Sujata? I know we’ve had an overdose of Rabindranath Tagore’s poetry but can’t you just use earplugs or knock each other unconscious for a while? We must support Sujata!’

  Yashodhara looked puzzled. ‘What seems to be the problem? How can anyone overdose on Tagore’s poetry? It’s so …’

  ‘Fantastic, yes, we know,’ completed Meeta, feeling catty. ‘Except that we don’t feel the same.’

  ‘Will they be playing the harmonium and singing? I can’t, I just can’t handle it!’ Abhishek wept like a little boy.

  I recited some Sanskrit shlokas to keep my blood pressure under control. And then I moved forward. The rest followed, their sense of loyalty overcoming prudence and mental health.

  We reached Hall B after many hours. Though the clock claimed it was only noon, it felt like twilight. We were tired, exhausted, and miserable; on top of all this, now we had to listen to poetry.

  6

  Trends in Modern Poetry

  Where the disturbing trends in modern poetry are revealed.

&n
bsp; With great fear, we entered Hall B to learn about Trends in Modern Poetry, though none of us had the slightest interest in the matter. Jagjit, for obvious reasons, had no idea. I am a South Indian and we are not allowed to be emotional and write verse. Meeta was too young. Monica was too stern. Abhishek was a jock and didn’t have a clue about poetry. Yashodhara, well, you understand why she must have had a thing for poetry.

  ‘Why did Sujata take to poetry?’ asked Jagjit, struggling with emotion. ‘Why do bad things happen to good people?’

  ‘Must have been some tragic disturbance in Lithuania, who can say,’ I mused.

  Jagjit dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief. ‘Couldn’t she have gone for counselling? There’s a toll-free number for people threatening to write poetry. How do we battle ignorance?’

  I shook my head. ‘What can I say, Jagjit Pappe? Being a poet in Delhi is very dangerous. I heard some bunch of writers attacked a secret poetry get-together and bashed up the attendees. Is it worth taking such risks?’

  ‘She seems like such a nice woman. Maybe we should speak to her privately. What are friends for?’ said Jagjit, and I nodded in assent.

  Hall B was actually two halls. Hall B-1 and Hall B-2. Sujata’s programme was in Hall B-1, we learnt. We looked at the programme pasted on the door of Hall B-2 and recoiled as fear struck our naked hearts.

  But Yashodhara exclaimed with joy. ‘This is the Tagore retrospective I was talking about guys! Let me read it out to you! This is amazing stuff! They have ten sessions, can you believe that? Lovely!’

  Abhishek’s knees turned to jelly and he fell forwards onto Meeta, who was herself not feeling too happy. This event sparked a romance that I cannot say much about, except to say that they did not get married.

  Yashodhara began:

  Session 1:Perspectives of Rabindranath on global warming

  Session 2:The Mongolian recipes of Rabindranath

  Session 3:Rabindranath’s views on rice cultivation techniques in the Upper Andes

  Session 4:Rabindranath and his views on ice-cream – which flavour is best?

  Session 5:Tagore’s music: sponsored by Kleenex tissues