The Ramgarh Literary Festival

by Vasudev Murthy

  Session 6 How Tagore was responsible for practically everything

  Session 7:The dilemma of Tagore – to write a poem today or not? – panel discussion

  Session 8:Hot-headed fans of Tagore – sponsored by KC Das – protests, bandhs and stolen Nobel medals

  Session 9:More about Tagore – dealing with the ignorance seen in the rest of India

  Session 10:A study of the studies on Tagore – a call for even more papers

  ‘Good Lord!’ I squawked. ‘What a guy!’

  We peeped inside. Thousands of Bengali delegates, previously unseen, had already entered Hall B-2. Demonstrations, hunger strikes, dharnas, arguments – all were in full swing. Smoke filled the air while Tagore scholars of every age were caught in a vicious cycle of debating endless perspectives on Tagore’s poetry and writing paper after paper for the benefit of countless scholars brought up on an exclusive diet of Tagore, Tagore, and more Tagore.

  Yashodhara squealed with joy and ran inside.

  We didn’t see her again during the rest of the festival.

  It was a grim moment.

  We went to Hall B-1. Somehow, we felt strangely rejuvenated. Surely nothing could be as bad as what we had just seen.

  We slunk in and sat down. As usual, the hall was overflowing with people, munching on overpriced samosas. We sat as a group in a corner, waiting proudly for our friend’s moment of fame.

  A voice boomed.

  ‘And now, we have the session you’ve all been waiting for! Poetry By Poets! The Festival is on! Give these wonderful poets a hand, folks!’

  Sujata was the first to walk on to the stage, waving furiously at the crowd, which responded with equal affection.

  ‘Thanks to everyone for coming to this session on poetry,’ began Sujata.

  Sujata called our attention to a distinguished guest, a Dr Jurgen Schmidt from Germany, who she said was a psychiatrist who specialized in the treatment of poets. I liked the formal and dignified start to the proceedings.

  Sujata turned to Dr Schmidt, who peered at her from behind gold-rimmed glasses.

  ‘Welcome, Dr Schmidt.’

  ‘Ja, it is good to be here’ said Dr Schmidt.

  ‘What is your view on poetry and mental health?’

  ‘It is not good. But what to do? All poets are mad.’

  ‘In other words, you have to be crazy to write poetry?’

  ‘Ja. Very correct.’ Dr Schmidt was pleased. ‘All poets mad. So I am very rich!’

  Even his laugh that followed was immensely disciplined.

  ‘Do you have any thoughts on the future of poetry in India?’

  ‘The future for me is very good. Ja. I am moving to India. Here population very high and becoming higher. More people become mad and write poetry. Then it is good for me. Ja.’

  ‘What is the treatment? Is there a treatment?’ Sujata was shocked.

  ‘We give the electric shock, ja,’ Dr Schmidt nodded. ‘Many shocks. Then after three months, patient cured. No more poetry. Family and friends happy.’

  ‘Yes, we have a question from the audience,’ Sujata pointed at someone.

  A young guy stood up.

  ‘Looking at your patients, who do you feel has more problems? Writers of haikus, sonnets, tanka, odes, burlesque or ballads?’

  ‘Ja, ja, I understand. Unfortunately, answer is – all. Once someone starts writing poetry, they do not stop unless electric shock. They try all kinds of poetry and make life sad for everyone.’

  Here he lapsed into German, which was another sign that we were in an international literary festival.

  ‘Das Hauptproblem mit Dichtern ist nicht Dichtung selbst aber die Art, wie ihre Charaktere Leben einfach schwierig für andere machen. Wie Sie auch bewusst sind, starben die wirklich groޥn Dichter jung, weil sie am Elend so eingeschlossen wurden, dass sie Dichtung darüber schrieben. So sehen wir, dass Dichtung riskant zum Gesundheitswesen actualy ist. Als ein Arzt behandle ich die jämmerlichen Opfer dieses schrecklichen Virus, für das das einzige Heilmittel Stromschläge ist. Danke.’

  (‘The main problem with poets is not poetry itself but the way they make life difficult for others. As you are aware, most truly great poets died young because they were traumatized by the sad poetry they wrote. Thus, we see that poetry is actually risky for your health. As a physician, I treat the miserable victims of this terrible virus for which the only cure is an electric shock. Thank you.’)

  The audience absorbed Dr Schmidt’s dignified observation about how poets cruelly impact society, and applauded wildly. He bowed graciously and left.

  Then came on stage a strange little group of very pale, disembodied forms – actually stooping men and women – who we realized were actual poets. The dark patches below their eyes, the utter misery in their visages, the trembling as they kept thinking of the agonies of the souls – there was no doubt surrounding the fact that they were poets. Here was a group of poets who had actually survived the dangerous forests of Ramgarh and made it to the Hall. And why? Just to read a poem and possibly fall unconscious immediately thereafter.

  They slithered forward and draped themselves over the chair – like wet towels. Sujata, who was chairing the session, sat on a chair, as promised, and waved at me. I waved back.

  She lifted the microphone. There was pin-drop silence in the auditorium.

  ‘Poetry is the song of the soul,’ she said.

  There was silence. One of the towels stirred.

  ‘Poetry is the ether that connects people,’ continued Sujata, raising her pitch.

  The silence became pregnant. Two more seated towels stirred. The first started resembling a human being.

  ‘Poetry is the form that caresses the human experience,’ Sujata shrieked. ‘Poetry is…’

  A low moan of the utmost misery rang out from the stage. If I hadn’t known better I’d have said that wolves were howling on stage on a full moon night. It was actually the sound of the invited poets completely stimulated by Sujata’s verbal prodding. I was awed by her intelligence.

  The audience was stunned, as you might expect. One of the poets on stage started crying, completely torn apart by the suffering of the people in far-away Bolivia. Another appeared grim, working on getting his blood pressure up, thinking about love and its many dimensions.

  ‘Let’s start with you, Neha G., who, by the way, people, is working on her Masters in English Literature from Delhi University, where most Indian poets are born. You’ve just published a collection of poems – Avoid Pizza, My Love. Tell us about it.’

  The young girl, who seemed very lean, apparently buffeted by the tragic winds of life, spoke in a low trembling voice full of deep wretchedness.

  ‘When we order pizza, do we really know what we’re doing? We’re asking for salve for our wounded souls, we’re asking for answers for those questions that can’t even be asked. And along comes some insensitive pizza maker offering coupons and discounts. What is wrong with some people? Why don’t they understand?’

  The audience nodded as one. She had a point.

  ‘You make an excellent point. Do continue.’

  ‘And so I wrote this set of 600 poems in two days when I had these series of pizza experiences. Delayed orders, incorrectly filled orders, hard-hearted delivery men. I had to let my heart speak. And I wrote as one possessed. If love is important to you, and if you love someone, avoid pizza. It’s actually very simple.’

  ‘Could you read us one?’ asked Sujata.

  Neha held back a couple of sobs and spoke out in a voice throbbing with the deepest agony. ‘This Poem is called ‘Pizza with toppings of hatred’’.’

  This is absurd. I hope you will agree.

  Hatred makes more sense than love,

  as we often hissed, over polite conversations

  in deserted elegant restaurants.

  Where the waiters spoke only in French

  and the cook was profoundly bored

  and mixed the poems we wrote on napkins

&
nbsp; into the soup that was served.

  Chained by strands of acidic mist,

  and the abuse of the mute and the music of the deaf

  and the beatings of the paralyzed.

  We look at each other

  savouring the elegant hatred

  invading our beings

  For now it makes sense,

  just like snow in the summer,

  which I have always loved

  And so have you,

  when that was what we believed

  as the real truth.

  Though you have now thought about reading a book

  in the middle of a deserted field

  with the sun beating down in angry frustration

  and the boundaries marked

  by a fence made of the corpses of dreams

  stacked beautifully in a nice clean line,

  while I watched, sitting under the shade of that lone hungry tree

  Why, the book was empty after all

  The pages blank, the ink having fled

  in utter misery, for you refused to read the words

  the way they wished, but instead,

  Complained that the pizza delivery boy

  was late. But then he arrived

  at that remote meadow

  in a spotless white uniform and refused to accept cash,

  but instead, went away with a dead dream in his pocket

  which he said was what he always wanted.

  I wonder if we might examine this pizza

  and see what parts belong to you and to you and to you

  Neha stopped and wept uncontrollably into a handkerchief. The other poets rushed to her side and patted her heaving frame, while the rest of us stared. Sujata was smiling and looking about.

  Though I didn’t understand the poem one bit, I had to accept that it was very interesting – even nice. As Neha was taken away in an ambulance, we gave her a standing ovation.

  ‘Let’s have – what’s her name – Amita M. from Pune.’ This time Sujata rolled her eyes. There was poetic tension.

  ‘So, Amita, why do you write poetry?’

  ‘Well, frankly, it’s because I have nothing else to do.’

  The entire audience was stunned. We were expecting something really cerebral and intense but this crude response was jarring.

  Sujata realized she had to recover fast.

  ‘What exactly happened? How do you actually write poetry everyday if you don’t want to?’

  ‘The fact is that I eat plenty of gulab-jamoons every day. After each one, I write a poem. I let my right hand take over. My hand shakes with that sugar overdose and sometimes poems emerge. So I cry and behave like a poet. It works well. A publisher just churned out my book of poems, Incomprehensible Thoughts. It’s doing very well with the software crowd. May I read one?’

  ‘Yes, please. But keep it short.’

  ‘Okay.’

  How ridiculous you are, my dear friend

  To imagine that our souls are separate

  Bolts of lightning made with papaya leaves

  I see them and I know you had nothing to do

  With them. But yes, the quixotic thoughts of

  A time gone by, of uneaten gulab-jamoons

  And rancid incomplete thoughts

  Battling the ennui, struggling to get a driver’s license

  Load core Java code on the Virtual Machine of

  Your Dell laptop, while customers yawn in Baltimore.

  I think you should, yes, I think you should

  Just

  Shut

  Up!

  Amita stopped and looked up triumphantly.

  No one had any idea what to say. The whole thing was a mess.

  ‘And what does this poem mean?’ asked Sujata.

  ‘It’s a commentary on the sadness of existence.’

  ‘Could you explain?’

  ‘No,’ said Amita firmly.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘If I explain it, it will lose its charm. You either get it or you don’t.’

  The only ones who had got it were the poets on stage who were already weeping and kissing each other.

  ‘The trauma of rejection!’

  ‘The misery of loneliness!’

  ‘The horror of love turned sour!’

  ‘What a wonderful, wonderful poem, Amita! So gorgeous, so heart-wrenching!’

  Abhishek, Jagjit and I looked at each other. We were clueless. We were bemused.

  Sujata continued with enthusiasm. ‘Let me ask Meenakshi S., Professor of English from Nagaland University to give us her view on trends in modern poetry.’

  A matronly looking woman with a stern face sat down on a chair and glared at the audience.

  ‘For those of you who don’t know, Prof S. is one of India’s top poets. She has been writing poetry non-stop since she was two years old. Prof S., thank you for gracing this occasion.’

  ‘Harumph.’

  ‘What do you see as the new trends emerging in poetry today?’

  ‘Love is dead,’ declared Prof. Meenakshi S. with fury.

  ‘Oh?’ said Sujata, her face suddenly pale.

  ‘These young poets have no clue about love. Their poetry is absurd, juvenile and does not rhyme! Utter rubbish!’

  ‘You mean the trend in non-rhyming poetry is what you abhor?’

  ‘Yes. Exactly. The other day, some young foolish chap from Bangalore sent me a 500-page collection of haikus, which did not have the 5-7-5 syllable rule. Instead, all 2000 so-called haikus were 5-6-6. How dare he take such liberties?’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘I threw it into the dustbin and filed a police complaint. If I find him, he’s had it!’

  Sujata waved at me. ‘Murthy, do you know any vagrant poet in Bangalore who might have committed this shocking crime?’

  A thousand pair of eyes turned towards me.

  ‘No, I’m afraid there are no poets in Bangalore. They were rounded up by the municipality last month and neutered. They have no trends anymore. Seems like a hoax. But if I find one, I shall certainly kill him at the very least or do something more, Prof S.’

  Prof Meenakshi S. nodded in gratitude. ‘Thank you. I would be grateful. Now, as I was saying, the modern trends in poetry seems to be to say absolutely anything and claim it’s poetry. I demand a Ministry of Poetry to certify poetry. This is unbearable! Love poetry is simply too tiring and boring. It has run its course. So now I see a modern trend towards “hate poems’’.’

  ‘You do?’ Sujata gasped.

  ‘Yes. I don’t see a problem with them. Let me read this lovely poem written by a promising poet from Chennai, Soundararajan.’

  She stood up and walked about menacingly on the dais. All traces of love were eliminated in seconds. Her voice boomed.

  HATE

  Blood red sunsets, ipso facto

  I watch from afar

  Your eyes, like burning phosphorus

  Ergo and to wit

  A Thrill thru my nerves

  As your oily thin black hair

  Casts a shadow on your rotund hinds.

  Dislike congeals like errata

  Your walk, creating little depressions on the concrete walkway

  Municipal anger

  Taxes drained.

  Why must you?

  Your voice, like a blade on a blackboard

  Destroying eardrums

  Fleeing dogs cats and caterpillars

  No modicum of consideration

  Hark!

  The future is dark!

  The stench of your nauseating memory

  My Soul begs for eternal release

  Your figure a rotund zero

  Most unfortunate to one with vision

  Per se, I cannot see

  What I ever saw

  The rasp of your breathing

  The horror in my heart

  Away! Away!

  I pray!

  The entire audience burst out in applause and cheered. Even I could not
restrain myself, though I knew nothing of poetry. I really liked it. The collective hatred for love poetry had finally found a release. The poem was so different, so sincere. It was a stern and determined poem, unconventional to the extreme, and had made Soundararajan, whoever he was, a huge success and he would probably be hailed as a torch bearer of new poetry in the years to come.

  The towel-humans on stage were not too happy though. They had been looking forward to being wracked by the pangs of unrequited love and indeed hoped to die unloved. And now along came this amazing new genre, which had tapped a vein of tremendous discontent. What were they to do?

  Prof Meenakshi S. came up on to the dais, herded all the whimpering poets in the background and took them away. I heard later that they vanished from public view and later appeared in an anthology of Hate poems.

  Sujata came down from the dais in a somber mood and walked to us. She had not expected that the session she moderated would take such an unexpected turn. I could read her thoughts. Was there a future for her in poetry? Might it not be better if she simply wrote sweeping sagas?

  I gave her a samosa to comfort her and we walked to the next venue.

  7

  The Lonely Reading and the Deserted Panel Discussion

  In which I managed my first panel discussion while listening to a reading.

  The second day of the festival dawned. No one knew what was to happen. The schedule was unclear, almost by design. There was fear in the air. The festival grounds were dotted with volunteers. Small vans carrying samosas whizzed by at breakneck speed, addressing the needs of the invisible attendees. I was in a somber mood.

  I ran into Abhishek at a seedy tea-shop that also had a board hanging outside: ‘Authors Lounge’. Pyare Lal, the tea-shop owner, had just given him a hot cup of tea in a tiny glass. He seemed down and miserable.

  ‘Where are the authors?’ I inquired. ‘Shouldn’t they be lounging here?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘I’ll go crazy if I see another tray of Gupta’s Samosas lying about with that note “Compliments of the Managing Committee!”’ he suddenly shrieked. ‘There’s nothing to eat here, nothing! Only samosas! Samosas for breakfast, samosas for lunch, samosas for dinner, samosas for snacks!’

  He wept like a child. I felt sorry for him.

  ‘Here, here, come on. Please autograph my book, you’ll feel better,’ I consoled him.

  Through his tears Abhishek still managed a weak smile. It had been long, so long, since he had autographed a copy of his book. He had practically forgotten how to do it.