‘What should I write?’ he asked, his voice still unsteady.
‘How about “Suffering is art”?’
‘Sounds good,’ he said, and scrawled that on the page. We both felt better. We had lost a whole bunch of weight in just two days, and even though Abhishek was a fitness trainer, he had not realized that getting invited to a literary festival could be a great technique to lose weight.
‘My session is at 10,’ he said.
‘Nice. So is mine.’
‘I am at Hall B-1. And you?’
‘Strange! I’m at Hall B-1 too!’
‘But how can we have two sessions at the same place at the same time?’
‘My session is about juxtaposing the media and snack food manufacturers.’
‘Eh? What has that got to do with a literary festival?’
‘I don’t know, but I’ll find out. I’m the moderator. And what is your session?’
‘How to start a fitness regimen when you’re ninety-eight years old.’
‘Now that’s odd! You really expect hundreds of attendees to get excited about that and get tips, do you?’
‘I shall be reading from my book,’ he said, ignoring my jealous taunt.
‘Wait a second. How can I moderate a session at the very same time you’re reading from your book at the very same venue?’
‘Yes, I agree. Well, why don’t you cancel your session and listen to me? You look like you might be ninety-eight and could do with a few tips.’
‘Why don’t YOU cancel your reading and attend my session? You could do with some juxtaposing!’
Pyare Lal stepped in, noticing that there was some tension.
‘I have a suggestion. Abhishek can read his book on one corner and you can moderate your session from the other corner. That would be an optimum solution,’ he said, in fluent unaccented English, which was not really expected from a tea-stall owner in the tiny town of Ramgarh.
Abhishek and I looked at each other. ‘Makes sense,’ I grudgingly admitted.
‘Yes, we could share the audience. You juxtapose and I can give fitness tips, hahaha!’
‘Hahaha,’ said I.
‘Hahaha,’ said Pyare Lal
But the slinky Meeta had to come along and spoil everything.
‘Hey guys, great to see you! Care to have a samosa?’ she asked cheerfully.
Abhishek again dissolved into tears. I strode up to Meeta masterfully, grabbed the samosa she had in her hand, stuffed it in her mouth and kicked her backside. The message was clear.
‘Let’s go, it’s time,’ I said to Abhishek
I took the fitness writer, who seemed not too fit now and we went to the hall.
There was no mistake. Both our sessions had been scheduled for the same time at the same place. There were signs in Egyptian hieroglyphics outside and hapless volunteers who confirmed this strange situation.
We walked inside. There was not a soul in the hall.
As agreed, we walked to opposite ends of Hall B-1. I allowed the audio guy to attach the collar microphone to my collar and sat down on the moderator’s chair. Across the room, Abhishek did the same and opened his book expectantly.
There was a problem.
I had no panel to moderate.
And Abhishek had no one to read to.
Volunteers were swarming in and out, speaking into their walkie talkies. There was a sense of extreme urgency. But there was clearly a communication gap. Why were there no panelists and why were there no fans in the audience to listen to Abhishek?
I waved at Abhishek from across the Hall.
‘How’s the reading going?’ I taunted.
‘Far better than your ridiculous juxtaposing of the media and snack food panel discussion!’
‘Read from Page 294, the blank page. It’s the best part of your book,’ I jeered.
‘Look who’s talking – to himself!’
Our unseemly professional jealousy was likely to become a talking point if we didn’t control ourselves. But better sense prevailed.
‘OK, tell you what. I don’t have a panel to moderate and you don’t have anyone to read to. How can we convert this into an opportunity?’ I asked keenly.
Abhishek snapped his fingers. ‘Yes, that’s it! I’ll read to you and you can moderate me and ask me about the media and snack food industry!’
‘Lovely!’
‘Fabulous!’
And so he began, opening his book and speaking into the microphone.
‘It’s that time of the year. The leaves have changed colour and an occasional gentle breeze blows through your hair. As I walk through the path in the woods, memories flood me. Childhoods, the passions of youth, the things I did and those that I didn’t. I remember reading in Alexander Richkoffsky’s book, The Angels of Vodka, that time is like sand. And I thought a lot about that. For all you know, sand is nothing but time. Did you know that sand is nothing but silicon dioxide? I wish I had been a better student of chemistry. That guy frightened me, my chemistry teacher, Mr Jose Varghese. He said he would pour potassium permanganate on my head if I didn’t shut up in class. I really had a lot of fun in Moscow with Svetlana and Boris when I wanted to be a KGB agent. But then I went to America and joined the CIA as a music teacher, collecting intelligence about music teachers around the world. Looking back, I think it was my posting in the Galapagos that was the most enriching, since I’ve always been fond of Darwin—’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ I screamed.
Abhishek was annoyed. ‘This is the chapter on how to be fit at the age of ninety-eight. Shut up and don’t interrupt!’
‘Then why the hell are you babbling about chemistry teachers and music teachers and the CIA and Boris and Darwin?’
‘It’s a pity that we have idiots like you who don’t understand good literature!’
‘It’s a pity you conned a publisher into publishing your pathetic book!’
‘Your jealousy is shining through more than your absurd imported phosphorescent underwear!’
All this was being recorded by the media crew and the volunteers.
‘OK, I’m done with my reading. Thanks for acclaiming. Let’s hear you moderate. Pretend I’m a panelist.’
‘Oh, thanks!’ I said, gratified.
I began.
‘Thanks everyone for attending what promises to be a high-energy panel discussion on the juxtaposing of the media and the snack food industry.
‘Let me start by bringing some startling facts to your notice. The snack food industry reported a 600 per cent increase in their top line this past year. The entire range of products is now in excess of 2,500, meaning that the consumer has more choices than ever before. But the media has been ignoring this phenomenon. Only three stories were reported over the past six months and most had to do with poisoning cases such as the discovery of rats and lizards in potato chip bags.
‘Abhishek, as a noted expert on potato chips, would you like to say something?’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘Yes. No.’
‘You do not wish to comment about my point? Why not?’
‘I just don’t. I fail to see why this panel discussion is needed in a literary festival.’
‘Well, it is and I insist that you comment!’
‘My comment then is that I like masala potato chips.’
‘Now that is an astute observation! Perhaps the media feels that masala potato chips are the key to industrial progress and GDP growth.’
‘How did you infer that, you incredible idiot?’
‘The same way you inferred that potassium permanganate might be relevant to being fit at ninety-eight!’
‘Don’t bring my bestseller into this! Be professional! This is no way to run a panel discussion!’
‘A bestseller? You crack me up! Yes, kabadiwallah.com, the second-hand book portal did report massive sales of your book. Whoever bought it dumped it immediately!’
‘At least someone bought my book. O
nly eight copies of your book were ever sold and you bought six of them yourself!’
‘A filthy, derogatory lie! I shall sue!
‘File a case at the Ramgarh Court, fool! You’re already ninety-eight. If you’re alive for another ninety-eight years, you may win!’
At this point, Meeta, the slinky bestselling author walked in again.
‘Hiiiiiiiii guys, how are your sessions going? Where are the people? Oh, audience sharing! That’s becoming popular, you know. The same story in Hall A, C and D. I’m making money going from hall to hall offering to be in the audience or on a panel.’
Abhishek and I looked at each other. Without a word, we took off our collar mics and grabbed her.
‘What are you guys doing?’ she asked, clearly alarmed.
‘Read my book from cover to cover! Now!’ snarled Abhishek, a very different person.
‘While eating six bags of potato chips!’ I snarled. ‘And this samosa!’
‘Compliments of the Managing Committee?’ asked Abhishek.
‘Compliments of the Managing Committee.’
8
The Loan Mela and Publishers Worship Ceremony
In which the bizarre (but absolutely true) Literary Loan Scheme and the formal worship of Publishers and Editors is revealed.
Abhishek, Meeta and I walked around the sprawling festival ground. There were thousands of volunteers, volunteering. They were full of enthusiasm and earnestness. Since we were the only second-rate authors around, there was quite a lot of respect that came our way.
A Gupta’s Samosas van almost ran us over and I turned and cursed the driver as he zoomed away ‘I hope you never get published, you drunk,’ I yelled.
That’s when I saw the huge shamiana about two hundred feet away.
‘Hey, look!’ I said, pointing.
The others looked.
‘Financing available for authors from the State Bank of Ramgarh,’ blared a loud and ugly sign in red, orange, green, purple, grey, black, white and burgundy.
We were stunned.
‘What the heck?’ croaked Abhishek.
‘Perhaps they mean a tricycle loan? That’s about all we can afford!’ said the clever Meeta and had a good laugh in which we did not join. Meeta was getting on our nerves.
We walked across. Interestingly, there was a huge crowd asking questions, and we too stood in line. And soon enough we got our chance and came face to face with a large corpulent man, Ghanshyam Das, who introduced himself as the Branch Manager.
‘We can finance your dreams,’ he mumbled chewing a paan, the red dribble sneaking out from the sides of his busy mouth.
‘Please explain,’ I said.
‘Sir, authors need money for so many things. We provide writing loans, editing loans, publishing loans, review loans, award loans, subsisting loans, phosphorescent underwear acquisition loans…’
‘Incredible!’ exclaimed Abhishek, his eyes on fire. ‘Tell us more.’
‘Sir,’ said Ghanshyam Das, chewing. ‘Let me start with the basics. Let’s say you want to be acknowledged as a writer. But you don’t know how to write. We can give you a loan, which we call the National Rajiv Gandhi Ghostwriters Loan, to have a novel written by someone else. And you get the novel in your name.’
‘Innovative and practical!’
‘Going further, you can get a loan from us to have your manuscript edited, in case you wrote it yourself. That is the National Rajiv Gandhi Editing Loan.’
‘Niiiice,’ yelped Meeta, excited.
‘Then we can give you a loan to have your book published. You can publish it yourself or you can use the money to pay the editors of major brands. It is up to you. It is called the National Rajiv Gandhi Publishing Loan.’
‘Does that happen? Do you need to bribe publishers to get your book published?’ gasped Meeta.
Abhishek, Ghanshyam Das, and I exchanged glances. It was a bit embarrassing. We were older and wiser and we knew.
‘The next step is to get a review published somewhere because that would guarantee sales. We provide loans to get reviews written and planted in newspapers, websites and billboards on streets.’
‘What is the name of that loan?’ I asked
‘The National Rajiv Gandhi Review Loan.’
‘I’d never have guessed.’
‘Do you mean you can get reviews written and have them planted?’ gasped Meeta. ‘That would mean the reading public is being manipulated with fake reviews!’
Abhishek, Ghanshyam Das, and I exchanged weary glances once again.
‘Then our National Rajiv Gandhi Award Loan can be disbursed for those who want awards. This does require extra credit checks. But if you want the State Award or the National Award or the Booker Prize or something else, then we can work out a financing scheme. We don’t yet finance getting the Nobel Prize, but we are working on it.’
‘Do you mean you can buy awards?’ gasped Meeta.
Abhishek, Ghanshyam Das and I exchanged glances full of an odd mix of frustration, tolerance and wonder.
‘Then we do have a high-interest loan for failed writers for basic subsistence. 50 per cent interest. We help you live, but just barely, in your underwear.’
‘Hahahaha’ said Abhsishek, clearly amused.
‘Hahahaha,’ observed Ghanshyam Das, equally amused.
‘Hohohoho,’ I chuckled, extremely amused.
‘I can’t believe you have such loans. And what about the phosphorescent underwear loan?’ asked Meeta eagerly.
‘These are usually for second and third-rate writers who want to think of innovative ways to attract attention. I suppose all of you will qualify. We import them from Poland for you, though I must warn you that customs duties are high.’
‘We must petition the government to reduce the duties on phosphorescent underwear,’ moaned Abhishek.
‘Yes’, I said. ‘The government must encourage the literary arts.’
‘Hey, you classy writers! How will phosphorescent underwear help you?’ inquired the innocent child, Meeta.
The men looked at each other, our patience wearing thin.
‘Meeta, writers feel inspired when they wear phosphorescent underwear, as scientific studies at the Rajiv Gandhi Center for Literary Research have shown,’ I said, with great patience, being the senior-most second-rate writer in the group.
Meeta was satisfied by my response and nodded.
We filled out the forms that Ghanshyam Das handed over.
‘May I offer you some tea and samosas?’ he asked genially, his customer service side shining.
‘What kind of samosas?’ I asked suspiciously.
‘Agarwal’s Samosas. They are far better than Gupta’s Samosas, I assure you.’
‘Do you have a National Rajiv Gandhi Samosa Loan scheme too?’ I asked with a straight face.
‘I shall check, Sir,’ Ghanshyam Das started to say and then he caught on. ‘Ha ha ha! You are very clever, Sir!’ he chuckled loudly, spraying the paan all over us.
‘These samosas are great!’ said Meeta, chomping busily. ‘So much better than Gupta’s Samosas.’
‘Yes, we must speak to the Managing Committee and make this recommendation.’
Ghanshyam Das reviewed our filled applications. ‘Excellent, I think chances are good. Though it’s surprising that all of you have asked for the NRGGW the Ghost Writers loan.’
‘Well, I’ve been writing for more than ninety years and have not been successful. Why not get a loan and have someone else write my novels for me?’ I said.
‘I’m too busy exercising to actually write,’ said Abhishek.
‘I don’t have time to write as I am always on the radio,’ said Meeta.
‘Makes absolute sense,’ Ghanshyam Das nodded, as he stamped ‘APPROVED’ on our applications. ‘I shall throw in some peach-coloured phosphorescent underwear too, as part of our new customer service initiative.’
‘Don’t throw the underwear at us!’ said a witty Abhishek.
‘We sh
all look strange with phosphorescent underwear on our heads!’ I said, terribly amused.
‘You’ll be easy to spot in a crowd!’ giggled Meeta.
We had the last laugh and drifted away from the State Bank of Ramgarh’s temporary office.
‘It’s time for the Publishers Worship event,’ I said, glancing at my watch.
‘What’s that?’ asked Abhishek.
‘I don’t exactly know. It says: Publishers Worship and Blessings. Some kind of religious ceremony perhaps?’
‘But why at a literary festival?’
‘An international literary festival,’ I corrected him. ‘Why are you trying to be logical? I don’t know Abhishek. Let’s find out.’
‘My! What a large number of senior citizens!’ cried Meeta.
And she was right. As we turned into the meadow, we saw a very large group of very old people, gravitating slowly towards a central raised platform. It was a sea of white hair. Wheelchairs, people hobbling. Many with the canes that blind people use. Many were lugging their hearing aids and false teeth along. Several ambulances were also snaking their way to this place.
‘How completely odd!’ Abhishek said, looking bewildered. ‘This looks worth it.’
We caught up with an old straggler, Mr Menon, who had come all the way from Kochi and his friend Mr Atanasoff, from Bulgaria. They were leaning on each other for support and inching their way ahead. Both must have been in their early nineties.
‘Sirs, may I know why you are here?’
‘We are here for the Publishers Worship Ceremony, child. This is our only chance.’
‘What do you mean?’
Atanasoff replied, tears streaming down his wrinkled cheeks. ‘I submitovich my manuscript off to publishers in 1924 on 12 December, maybe. I still waiting for a replykoff.’ He broke into a genuine cough. ‘I come to meet publisher and ask if I have any hopeovich.’
By now we had caught up with the sea of stragglers, urged on by some internal spring of energy. Mrs Khanna had travelled from Hoshiarpur to meet the publisher to whom she had submitted her manuscript to in 1948, shortly after the Partition of India. She told us that the publishers had responded to her twice – once in 1959 and then more recently in 2002 saying that her manuscript was being evaluated. She was full of hope that she would finally get a response.
The Ramgarh Literary Festival Page 6
