The Ramgarh Literary Festival

by Vasudev Murthy

  ‘Son, will my manuscript be published before I die?’

  Abhishek had a nice way with old people. ‘Let us pray to God, Grandma. He alone knows best.’

  The crowd settled down in their wheelchairs and we saw a lady from Pupa Publishers walk up and take the microphone. It was exactly like an election rally by some political party.

  ‘Thank you for coming to this event.’

  The crowd roared, which was not advisable as they were not young. A spate of coughing was heard and a couple of ambulances had to be mobilized immediately. Two aspiring authors were taken away, dead or dying. But there were many more.

  The lady continued, speaking in a cultured voice.

  ‘As you know, your manuscripts are very important to us. We want to give them the attention they deserve.’

  An angry old man from Calcutta jumped up. ‘Bhut bhy you are taking phifty years to read manuscript? I submit in 1963 and still no reply!’

  He was shouted down by his older more senior friends.

  ‘Fifty! Hahahaha!’ yelled Sinha of Patna. ‘I have been waiting for seventy-five years for Hot Air Publishers to reply! My funeral is scheduled for next Monday. I came to get a Yes or No!’

  A large woman rose up majestically from her seat. The muttering in the audience came to a halt. Global Warming had arrived – the air became bitingly cold in seconds.

  ‘I am Kadambari, a Commissioning Editor from Hot Air Publishers. Here is my list of pending manuscripts.’

  She unrolled a very large roll of paper from an old portable refrigerator and glanced down.

  ‘Hmm. Well Mr Sinha, as per our list, we are still looking at manuscripts from the year 1919. I request your patience. We have been very busy.’

  ‘Should I go ahead and attend my own funeral?’ asked Sinha, with tears in his eyes.

  ‘Perhaps you should. We will certainly get back to you with an email once we decide on what to do with your work.’

  ‘Will I be able to access emails in Heaven?’ inquired Sinha.

  ‘Of course! Even Facebook, Twitter and WhatsApp! Please don’t worry. You will definitely hear from us in Heaven.’

  Sinha sighed with relief. ‘I wonder what my book will look like if they accept it and publish it. I shall ask my great grandkids to tell me once they join me in Heaven!’ He was delighted.

  ‘But why do you take so much time?’ burst out a seventy-five-year-old ‘young’ man, with hip and knee replacements and false teeth, six stents in his heart and a wig.

  ‘We have an elaborate evaluation process,’ said Joyeeta of Thousand Banyan Trees Publishers. ‘And then we have a publishing schedule. Even if we accept your manuscript, we would need about ten years to actually publish the book. Then it would take six years to reach book stores. Of course, if your book is about Rabindranath Tagore, your book will be out six days after receipt of the manuscript, which I’m sure you agree is only fair.’

  The entire group started wailing in one voice. But the publishers, all bright ladies with hearts of stone, were unmoved.

  ‘We should be grateful,’ said a logical Mrs Iyengar from Chennai, who had written a book on Bharatanatyam in the year 1949 and was hopeful that it would get published one day. ‘After all, they are so busy.’

  ‘Doing what?’ burst out an angry Mrs Rao from Bangalore, who was still peddling an old manuscript on the contribution of the Vijaynagar Empire to Dentistry. ‘I know your slimy ways, Mrs Iyengar. You’re hoping that by being nice and mature about the matter, your publisher will agree to publish your book in ten years instead of the promised thirty so that your kids can get you your author copy in Heaven instead of your grandkids. You are a scheming old lady!’

  ‘Go back to Bangalore and eat idlis!’ hissed the lady from Chennai.

  ‘I certainly shall but should I invite you to go dance?’ mocked Mrs Rao cruelly.

  ‘Ladies, ladies!’ said a tolerant publisher. ‘Let me assure you we are doing our very best to evaluate your manuscripts. With computers, we are now able to look at a manuscript and come to a conclusion in ten years instead of fifteen. Technology is wonderful!’

  ‘We shall now have the Manuscript Acceptance ceremony,’ announced the announcer.

  A great wave of emotion rolled through the crowd. Through a peculiar mixture of self-control and incompetence, the thousands of old people formed a long line that snaked for almost three kilometers.

  One by one, with the accompaniment of mournful music, they came forward, submitted their last and final manuscript at the feet of the Chief Commissioning Editors, who took down their details and asked about their addresses in Heaven where they could be contacted, blessed and dismissed them. It was sad and grim but ultimately practical. Editors are extremely busy and simply don’t have time. Abhishek, Meeta and I appreciated the thoughtfulness of the publishers for getting into details and ensuring that their final decision would be conveyed somehow. Someday. All writers do need a response. That’s what professionalism is all about.

  We walked away, wishing this lost generation all the best. At least we had been published and acclaimed with great difficulty. But what about them? I thought about the wonderful stories of Menon, Atanasoff, Iyengar, Sinha and so many more. I was grateful that publishers were committed to taking their stories to the world. So what if they would never see their book in print in this lifetime? At least their great grandkids would.

  I shed a tear.

  9

  The Reading by the Polish Writer

  In which a potential Nobel Prize-winner reads from his book to a hysterical crowd.

  Meeta looked at the schedule.

  ‘Hmm, choices, choices. Hall A has the little-known Oriya poet Mohapatra speaking about his little-known poems.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ I said, and I meant it to be very sarcastic.

  ‘Hall B has a panel discussion on “The Importance of Panel Discussions at Literary Festivals.”

  ‘Profound,’ said Abhishek, also in a cruel mood.

  ‘Hall C has a Meditation Camp by the famous meditators Singh and Singh. Complete silence is expected. They expect standing room only, though everyone is expected to sit down. I heard there is elaborate security.’

  ‘Let’s skip that.’

  ‘Hall D has a reading by the famous Polish writer Wladyslaw Czartoryski. Sheelaaa Dey is going to speak with him about his magnificent work.’

  ‘I don’t know how you pronounce his name.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘He’s famous.’

  ‘This sounds intriguing. Let’s go.’

  And the three of us ran six kilometers to Hall D, hoping to get good seats.

  There were many smarter than us who got there earlier; we found Hall D already packed. I wondered how it was that none of them showed up at our session but were always available for other sessions. We somehow managed to sit on the laps of some guys in Row 2 and waited expectantly.

  Sheelaaa Dey was on stage, wearing a sheer dress that did not do much. Everything about her was absolutely crystal clear. She smiled gorgeously at the audience and said hi to several she knew.

  Wladyslaw Czartoryski was announced and he came on stage, waving at the audience, which greeted him with thunderous applause.

  He was a small slight man with a beard, rimless glasses, a grey shirt and grey trousers. It was obvious that he wore grey underwear too. He had a stoop. He looked very sad. It was clear he was from Poland.

  Mics were adjusted and Sheelaaa Dey smiled at the audience and batted her eyelids. Wladyslaw Czartoryski sat quietly and expectantly.

  Sheelaaa picked up his book – it was a good 950 pages thick and required some effort to handle. She showed it to the audience, her muscles rippling.

  ‘Folks, this is the book – Grief – that has made waves in the world of literature. They say Wladyslaw Czartoryski will almost definitely win the Nobel Prize this year. We are really extremely honoured that we have you here, Mr Czartoryski.’

  Wladyslaw Czart
oryski looked blankly at Sheelaaa.

  The audience was at the edge of their seats.

  Sheelaaa spoke. ‘Let me begin by saying, Sir, that your book is quite remarkable. It must have taken years to write it.’

  Wladyslaw Czartoryski looked blankly at Sheelaaa.

  ‘Critics have said that the book weighs on their shoulders and conscience. Remarkable words of praise. What is this book about?’

  Wladyslaw Czartoryski still looked blankly at Sheelaaa.

  The audience moved further to the edge.

  Sheelaaa smiled and smiled but we could see that she was getting nervous.

  I suddenly realized that Wladyslaw Czartoryski couldn’t speak a word of English. No wonder he was a bestselling and famous writer.

  So I yelled out from the audience in Polish, which I speak fluently.

  ‘Wladyslaw, co jest wasza ksiazka o?’

  Wladyslaw Czartoryski’s face brightened. I had guessed correctly.

  Sheelaaa looked at me gratefully. The crowd went wild.

  Wladyslaw Czartoryski spoke. ‘Moja ksiazka jest historia o pisaniu w zupelnym. Co zdarza sie kiedy wy nie mozecie widziec co wy piszecie? Robi slowa przyjmuja rózne znaczenie? Robi one przybyl do zycia. Badam, depresja, lza, wydac, szary nadforma dla odlewania niebiosa, pieknosc samobójstwa, rozpaczliwy , tortury, wina, napiecie, rozdzielenie i tak dalej napisze ksiazke w skonczonym.’

  The crowd broke out in a frenzied applause. Already it was clear that this would be the event of the festival, perhaps its defining moment.

  Sheelaaa gestured at me, asking me to translate.

  ‘He says that his book is a story about writing in utter darkness. What happens when you cannot see what you’re writing? Do the words take on a different meaning? Do they come to life? He explores darkness, depression, misery, sadness, tears, pathos, utter hopelessness, grey overcast skies, the beauty of suicide, desperate miserable longing, grief, torture, meanness, guilt, grimness, tension, wrenching separation, and so on. He wrote the book in complete darkness.’

  Once again the audience broke out into furious clapping. Some louts even whistled loudly. Wladyslaw Czartoryski smiled wanly and nodded in acknowledgement, enjoying another moment of international recognition.

  Sheelaaa had to hog some of the limelight. ‘And really, that is what great literature is about. It is about exploring utter misery and sadness. My books are also very sad and I’m hoping to win the Nobel sooner or later. ‘So now, may I ask you to read out from your book? Perhaps page 750 onwards? I understand that the book is particularly sad at that point.’

  Wladyslaw Czartoryski looked at me, bewildered.

  ‘Tak teraz, moze pytam was oglaszac od waszego ksiazka? Prawdopodobnie Numeruje strony 750 do przodu? rozumiem co ksiazka jest szczególnie smutna przy takim punkcie.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Wladyslaw Czartoryski, his face brightening. He was planning to enjoy his own sad and miserable writing about, well, misery. He opened the huge book at page 750 and started reading with dramatic flair.

  ‘Ink-czarna noc wirowala o mnie, szarpiac moim piórem, moja dusze, moje spodnie, kamizelka, moich moich rzes. Nigdy nie bylo moim bardzo odczuwalne tak calkowicie zgnieciony. Ciemnosc docierane w samych komórkach mojej watrobie i zal nie znalezc zadnego sensownego wyrazu. Nawet smierc nie bylabyodpowiedz. Noc nadal mocno, skrecanie i obracanie, odparowanie cieklego istote jakiejkolwiek nadziei, ze moze byc jeszcze istnial. Tak, nie ma nadziei.Rzeczywiscie, smutek i beznadzieja zdefiniowane mnie i oznaczaloby mnie teraz na wiecznosc. I napisal w czarnym tuszem na bialym papierze, a ja nie wiedzialem, co demon smutku odbyla moje pióro i napisal wszystkie mozliwe synonimem smutku. Warszawa byla daleko i nigdy nie bedzie zadnego swiatla, które przypomina mi sie w tym kierunku. Zadnych pytan moze zostac poproszony. Ona odpowiedziala. Nie bylo sie bez kolacji kielbasy i kaszanki dzisiaj. Jutro. I dzien po. Spojrzalem po mojej lewej stronie. Bylo ciemno. Potem spojrzalem na prawo. Bylo ciemno ponownie. Bylem sam. Pisanie ciemne slowa w ciemnym pokoju. Wypelnilem mój zoladek z zalu.’

  There was a stunned silence. A few sensitive girls in the first row started crying. It had been deeply moving.

  But someone had to say it, ‘But what did he say?’

  Sheelaaa looked at me, and I, getting the hint, spoke:

  ‘The ink-black night swirled about me, tugging at my pen, my soul, my pants, my vest, my eyelashes. Never had my very being felt so completely crushed. Darkness lapped at the very cells of my liver and grief did not find any worthwhile expression. Even death would not have been an answer. The night continued forcefully, twisting and turning, vaporizing the liquid essence of any hope that might have still existed. Yes, there was no hope. Indeed, grief and hopelessness defined me and would mark me now for eternity. I wrote in black ink on black paper and I knew not what demon of sorrow held my pen and wrote every possible synonym of tragedy. Warsaw was far away and there would never be any light that would point me in that direction. No questions could be asked. She had answered. There was to be no dinner of sausage and blood pudding today. Tomorrow. And the day after. I looked to my left. It was dark. Then I looked to my right. It was dark again. I was alone. Writing dark words in a dark room. I filled my stomach with grief.’

  This time, the crowd went absolutely mad, having finally understood the genius. Never before had they heard a Polish writer speak with such feeling about his book – in fact, reading from his book. They understood the original and my translation had turned out to be quite good too.

  I beamed at Wladyslaw Czartoryski and Wladyslaw Czartoryski beamed at me. We were the heroes of the moment, happy that we had made more than a thousand people utterly miserable with his tale of woe.

  The reading had been a massive success and I was called on stage to share the happy moment. Sheelaaa actually kissed me and said she appreciated my help. Wladyslaw Czartoryski shook my hand and handed over some blood pudding and sausage that he had kept in his trouser pocket. He took me aside.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Murthy. That was nice of you,’ he said in English.

  I was taken aback.

  ‘Hey, how come you can speak English, Wladyslaw Czartoryski?’

  ‘Haha, one needs to have a flair for the dramatic, Mr Murthy! Who reads English novels anyway? This is a good marketing gimmick! I can make fools of hundreds of people pretending to be a depressed author. Now people will buy tons of my books in the original Polish. I’ll be rich and I’ll get the Nobel Prize! Hahaha!’

  ‘Hahahaha! Really clever, Wladyslaw Czartoryski!’

  ‘Call me Wlady!’ said the man, with a twinkle in his eyes, slapping my back.

  ‘Call me Vasu!’ I said, coughing and choking and slapping him with love.

  ‘I wish you absolute misery and many awards, hahaha!’ said Wlady, having a good chuckle.

  ‘I hope you get the Nobel Prize posthumously, hahaha! That would be really miserable!’

  ‘Hahaha!’

  ‘Hahaha!’

  ‘What are you guys laughing about?’ said Sheelaaa coming up to us and trying to reclaim Wladyslaw Czartoryski.

  ‘Just remembering my wild time in Warsaw and Bydgoszcz.’

  ‘I never knew you had been to Bydgoszcz,’ said Wladyslaw, in Polish.

  ‘I haven’t but I wanted to confuse her!’ I replied in Polish

  ‘Hahaha!’

  ‘Hahaha!’

  Sheelaaa tried to join in the laughter but somehow her laughter in English just didn’t make sense, and she knew it.

  I left Wladyslaw Czartoryski busy signing the hundreds of copies of his 950-page Polish book to his adoring fans in India who would never be able to read even a single page but would still adore him anyway.

  We were in a gay mood as we went to the Authors Lounge for our customary tea and samosas.

  10

  A Panel Discussion on Erotica

  In which writers of erotica show that they don’t really have a clue.

  I was weak with hunger. Samosas were no longer a viable option. Acidity, decaying
potatoes, red hot spices, the lethal combination of tea and that ever-present ‘Compliments of the Managing Committee’ – all this had destroyed me. My limbs, gall bladder, appendix, even my eyelashes – everything hurt.

  But I had to attend to duty. A thousand volunteers swarmed about me, reminding me that that the time had come – I was to moderate a panel discussion. I had no idea what the panel was about, but my position as a moderator was much esteemed. Moderators were in short supply and to have one in their hands was a great achievement.

  They had very considerately brought along a nice bullock-cart to transport me to Hall D, which was a good eight kilometers away from the main venue. They lifted me up and sat me down on the hard wooden board and then Ramu, the bull, was off, as though by remote control. Yes, there was no one to direct him. I was alone in the cart but Ramu knew precisely what was expected of him and where to go. Soon enough, Ramu brought me to Hall D where more than seven thousand cheering volunteers were waiting for me. ‘Mr Murthy has come to moderate! God is Great!’ they screamed. I was touched by their love.

  Someone showered rose petals on me as I alighted from the bullock cart. Many rushed to fall at my feet to get my blessings. It appeared that no one had actually met a live panel moderator before. It was a moving experience for all.

  Several young women danced a traditional welcome dance, young men played traditional bugles and there was quite a festive atmosphere. I walked onto the dais to thunderous applause.

  On stage were four sullen-looking authors, waiting for me. I could sense mild tension in the air. I recognized Meeta on the extreme left, but she pretended to not want to recognize me.

  I sat at the moderator’s bar-stool and smiled at everyone. I checked the sound system several times.

  ‘Hello everyone!’ I said beaming like Sheelaaa Dey had done just a little while ago. I got the expected applause and wild cheering. My panel still looked sullen.

  I was unaware of what I was to moderate, but then a young man rushed up and thrust a little chit in my hand.