The Ramgarh Literary Festival

by Vasudev Murthy

  Gurdial was shaken again by this display of brutal business logic from his rivals. ‘Hmm. I will revisit our business model. In comparison, our readers spend only a brief period in the bathroom. So they probably read just a bit. Nevertheless, I make up for it by sheer volume,’ he chortled.

  Watching these criminals discuss the way they made money with no shame at all was an incredible experience.

  ‘Where does the writer figure in all this?’ I asked, unable to restrain myself.

  ‘Hahahahahaha!’ laughed Tavleen, quivering with amusement.

  ‘Hahahahahahaha!’ laughed Gurdial, beside himself with glee.

  ‘Hahahahahahahaha!’ laughed Joyeeta, unable to handle a question of such stupidity.

  Even Kadambari smiled, a tight grim smile, just slightly above freezing point.

  ‘You must be a Madrasi,’ guffawed Gurdial. ‘A true bewakuf! Keep eating idlis! Hahahaha!’

  Joyeeta finally stopped laughing. ‘OK Murthy, the fact is that the writer does not figure in anything here except as a source of manuscripts. We get thousands a day. We don’t need you. You need us. So the balance of power is completely in our favour. You are just dust. Get it, ass?’

  Kadambari smiled, tightly. ‘He won’t get it. He’s just a second-rate writer with six neurons at last count. Ha.’

  Her single ‘ha’ was equivalent to a million, and the entire audience had a good laugh at my expense, thus showing that I had emerged as a successful moderator.

  ‘In other words, we, writers, authors, are just cheap raw material for you?’ I asked Tavleen, with tears in my eyes.

  ‘Yes. Here, don’t cry, have this samosa!’

  Once again, there was plenty of amusement in the audience. But my eyes were clouded with tears. I had realized I was actually a big zero in the grand scheme of things.

  I turned towards the audience.

  ‘We have time for one question. Anyone? Yes, the gentleman in Row 3, Seat 9. What is your question?

  ‘I am a reporter from the Chimes of India, India’s leading daily advertisement catalogue. I understand your model. Our paper publishes ads and paid news in the ratio of 9:1. My question is about the recent results of the authors survey conducted by your industry association. You have been described by authors as inefficient, slow, lazy, arbitrary, unprofessional, inconsistent, capricious, fickle, predatory, unethical, prone to nepotism, prejudice and so on. Any views?’

  There was an electric silence in the audience.

  But the publishers were thick-skinned.

  In one voice, all answered: ‘No.’

  ‘With that we come to the end of this session on the future of the publishing industry. It has a bright future for publishers for sure. As for authors, the future continues to remain dark especially if you are not of a certain ethnic persuasion and born in certain months. I wish you all well. The nearest suicide point is just half a kilometer away. I understand that volunteers are standing by to help in the process. Namaskar. Good night.’

  I slunk away from the dais, a shell of the proud man I once was. The audience reverberated with applause. I glanced back at the panel. Gurdial was pouring some scotch for himself and having a good slow chuckle. Tavleen was speaking to some slave-author on her gold-plated mobile phone. Kadambari was in conversation with some wannabes who had wrapped several shawls around themselves, as advised by their physicians. Joyeeta had taken out a little pocket harmonium and had started humming some Bengali songs composed by – who else? – Rabindranath Tagore.

  My friends welcomed me silently. They were happy I was alive but they understood that the revelations about our irrelevance had been the last straw.

  Was it time to go home and bid this celebration of sheer evil goodbye?

  14

  The Workshop for Aspiring Authors

  In which the actual secret for success is revealed.

  Someone mysteriously came by on the final day and thrust a slip of paper in my hands. I turned to see who it was, but the man had already vanished in the crowd.

  I looked at the slip of paper.

  Writers Workshop sponsored by P____ – by invitation only – Basement of Hall B at 2 p.m.

  What could be more flattering, I thought. So this was the climax. This is what Juliana Sharapovich had explicitly mentioned – that I was to get an almost complete manuscript to the festival. And what Tavleen had asked about during our bullock-cart ride.

  Of course, I did remember that I was one of the invitees who were supposed to finish a pending manuscript, and I assumed that perhaps we were to get secret tips from the Publishing Goddesses. I must go as a supplicant, I said to myself. Let my ego be destroyed, I prayed to various gods, not that there was anything left after that massacre at the panel discussion on the Future of Publishing. I was to now transform Tears and Whispers into that monumental epic that would have the world on its ear. I could already read the headlines: ‘The finest of Indian Writing is the finest in World Writing,’ ‘A sweeping saga from one of the world’s greatest living masters’. I could see my photo flashed around the world – I would be in a pensive pose in a turtle-neck sweater looking out into the horizon, my face wrinkled and slightly weather-beaten, with a slight stubble, and in dire need of a haircut. I would be called reclusive, retiring, shunning all contact with the world, difficult to access, etc.

  I went to the basement of Hall B at 2 p.m. as scheduled. There was a huge security cordon thrown around the place. Hundreds of police, attack dogs, a few anti-aircraft guns, plainclothesmen in dark glasses with walkie talkies – it was very frightening. But perhaps quite apt, given the massive commercial stakes at play here. I hugged my manuscript close and went in through the security gate for invited guests. I was x-rayed, almost disemboweled, poked, probed and prodded. Then I was let in.

  Like me, another two thousand or so chosen ones were sitting in the auditorium. These included my friends from the Guest House – Monica, Meeta, Jagjit, Abhishek and Sujata. Yashodhara was still singing praises to Tagore and could not be induced to attend. All were hugging their half-completed manuscripts. Tavleen and a number of grim body builders stood by.

  The clock rang 2 o’clock.

  ‘OK clowns, welcome,’ snapped Tavleen. ‘This is the day we’ve all been waiting for. You will today move from second rate-ness to respectability if you do as I tell you. First, get cracking and finish your manuscripts in the next hour. I’ve checked with all of you, and all you have said that you are barely 1000 or 200 words away from completion. So finish NOW, right at this moment. After that, we’ll have your contracts ready for signing.’

  Having received the green signal, all of us began writing at our tables. Beefy armed guards walked by giving us extra sheets to finish. It was exactly like an examination.

  I really wasn’t clear about how to finish my magnum opus, Tears and Whispers: A Sweeping Saga. My protagonists had somehow reached Vladivostok on the Trans-Siberian Express to rebuild a new life. They could not speak Russian. The story had to end soon.

  With my creative mind, I manufactured a situation where the male protagonist saved a helpless child from an attack by a polar bear at great personal risk by jumping off the Trans-Siberian Express and bumping the bear on his head with a bottle of vodka. The citizens of Vladivostok were instantly deeply moved and made him their mayor and handed over the keys of a Vietnamese restaurant to operate, absolutely free of charge. And so it appeared, as I finished the 190000th word, that Tears and Whispers: A Sweeping Saga had come to a most respectable end.

  I collected my manuscript, stapled it and handed it over to Tavleen who was standing at the head of the room, like a Headmistress.

  ‘Done with Tears and Whispers, Murthy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘OK, here’s your contract, take a look, sign it, and return it in fifteen minutes.’

  She handed over a 200-page document in very small print. I signed each page in a paroxysm of joy. I would be famous. I would be rich. I finally handed over the documen
t and went back to my chair, beaming.

  Meanwhile, the other authors finished writing as fast as they could. Their creative juices were flowing at the maximum, mixed with huge doses of absolute panic. They simply could not let this opportunity pass them by. Some moaned, others shrieked softly, yet others clutched their hearts. Many wept, unable to handle the pressure.

  And finally, everyone was done and everyone had signed their contracts. The manuscripts were stacked up to several feet on Tavleen’s desk.

  ‘Right folks, we shall now be formally examining these manuscripts and shall fast track their evaluation. Let me tell you about the contracts you have just signed. The operative parts are as follows:

  In case we accept your manuscript, we shall retain lifetime rights.

  Your will be paid 1 per cent of the cover price as royalties subsequent to the sale of the 5000th copy. This will increase to 1.5 per cent after the sale of the 50,000th copy. You will be paid nothing before the sale of the 5000th copy. Royalties will be subject to 30 per cent taxes.

  We hold the absolute rights to refusal for all books you may be writing or conceiving. There is no time limit we have on when we may refuse. You are required to produce at least one complete book of not less than 1,00,000 words every year. Failure to do so will mean the forfeiture of your royalties from previous books. You may not submit your manuscript to anyone else till you hear formally from us. Not hearing from us does not mean you can submit your manuscript anywhere else.

  In case you have children, this agreement automatically extends to them in case they seek a career in writing.

  In the event of your death, royalties will not be paid to your descendants.

  You will introduce at least three potential writers to us each year. Failure to do so will impact your royalties.’

  A deathly silence fell on the 2000 newly signed P_______ authors. They were quite finished, enslaved for life.

  I put my hand up very slowly. ‘I have a question, Tavleen.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘How will Tears and Whispers: A Sweeping Saga become a bestseller and award-winner?’

  ‘Finally a good question from you, Murthy. I’m afraid that the answer is not going to be very thrilling. But first do you admit you are very ugly?’

  ‘Yes, Tavleen.’

  ‘That you are rather dumb?’

  ‘Yes, Tavleen.’

  ‘Let me ask you, have you heard of Hameeda Begum?’

  ‘The famous Booker Prize award-winning poet from Pakistan? Yes.’

  ‘Very good looking, would you say?’

  ‘Yes, absolutely. Feminity personified. Lovely tresses, alabaster neck, flawless complexion, doe-like eyes. Yes, I would say she is very good looking.’

  ‘OK, now have you heard of Hameed Khan, Murthy?’

  ‘Eh? The dreaded Pakistani terrorist?’

  ‘Good. Yes.’

  ‘What is the connection?’

  ‘What could be the connection?’

  ‘Hmmm. Are they related perhaps? Siblings?’

  ‘When was the last you heard of Hameed Khan, Murthy?’

  ‘I don’t really follow the news, Tavleen. I think he mysteriously vanished from the public eye about two years ago.’

  ‘And when did Hameeda Begum appear?’

  ‘About a year ago … but I still don’t see …’

  ‘Hameed Khan and Hameeda Begum are the same, Murthy.’

  ‘What?’ I gurgled. ‘How can that be?’

  ‘It can and it is. Everyone, listen up, especially the aspiring men authors.’

  ‘Though Hameed Khan was a dreaded terrorist, always away killing and plundering, his heart really was in literature. He dreamed of being a well-known sought-after writer. But his resume looked really bad. “Killed four infidels in July and received team appreciation award. Blew up army truck in September and received commendation letter from Chief Jihadi Anwar Mullah.” When you include such details and send in your manuscript called The Fragrance of your Love, the chances of being published are nil.’

  ‘So he thought about it and realized that the only thing that would work would be a sex change. And so he did just that, and six months later emerged as the glamorous Hameeda Begum. Now when he – she – submitted the same manuscript with a minor change in the title calling it, When Roses Bloom at Midnight and slipped in her photo, you can just imagine how publishers reacted. She became an overnight sensation, winning awards by the fistful, and speaking at every literary festival known to mankind. And only we know – and now all of you do – that Hameeda Begum is actually Hameed Khan with a mile-long track record of murder and mayhem. Critics have hailed her as a new voice of the most delicate sensitivity, a refreshing examiner of the kaleidoscope of peace and love that resides within our hearts and so on.’

  ‘Incredible!’

  ‘Therefore the lesson for you is plain and simple. What is it, you guys?’

  I didn’t even want to think about it.

  ‘Given the current rubbish you’re generating, chances are remote that you will ever get published and be famous, Murthy. Your writing is awful, weepy, and has a largely female audience. Women don’t like being told thing by men. Tears and Whispers will not sell if it’s written by a male author. But Tears and Whispers by a woman – now that may have takers.’

  I shuddered. I comprehended.

  ‘How can I possibly…?’ I whimpered.

  ‘It is all up to you, Murthy – and the rest of you guys. If you want to be an award-winning writer, transform. Submit to the sword.

  ‘And if this trade secret ever reaches the outside world, Lingaraj, our Chief Executioner here, knows what to do,’ she pointed to a huge menacing man with a shaved head, absolutely rippling with muscles. To make a point, Lingaraj picked up one of the 500-page manuscripts on Tavleen’s desk and tore it in two with no effort at all.

  ‘Yes, Tavleen, we shall keep it a secret.’

  ‘Right, Murthy. Now all of you may leave. Goodbye and best wishes.’

  All of us walked slowly out of the basement, having signed away our manuscripts for ever more. And for some of us – the men – there was a new dimension for the attainment of success they had never considered.

  It was time to go home.

  The festival ended quite tamely. There was some kind of entertainment ceremony by the students of a local school. Sheelaaa Dey had departed. All the publishers had left by private helicopters.

  The six of us stood together in a quiet circle, heads bowed, holding hands. The Ramgarh Literary Festival had been a turning point in our literary careers. We had achieved fame but what we had learnt was far more. We were just little playthings for Big Business.

  Jagjit spoke softly. ‘I shall go back to Chandigarh. I shall finish my book Maharajah in Jeans, but after that, I shall stop.’

  ‘Romance is all very well, but I need to eat too. I might get into advertising or something,’ mused Monica.

  ‘Who cares for the internet anymore?’ asked Meeta rhetorically, with unseemly bitterness. ‘I’ll just be a radio jockey.’

  ‘Fitness is all very well, but it’s pointless writing about it,’ said Abhishek with a half-hearted leap in the air.

  ‘I shall simply go back to Delhi and search for something or the other to do. Poetry is certainly not for me,’ said Sujata, her voice trembling.

  ‘I shall play the violin non-stop in a dark airless room. That would be far better than submitting to the sword,’ I said.

  We returned in silence to the guest house in the bullock carts. Not even the screams of nude poets being hunted down in the Ramgarh forest could affect us. We reached the guest house, looked dispassionately at the man and woman who had frightened us earlier, checked out and walked slowly to the Railway Station, in silence.

  At the station, we exchanged phone numbers and said our warm and tearful goodbyes. Would we ever see each other again? The possibility seemed remote and unlikely.

  We boarded our trains and after several days, I reache
d Bangalore. There were no welcoming crowds at the railway station. Certainly none at home. I went to my dark room and sat down heavily in my familiar chair.

  I looked at the huge heap of rejection letters on my desk that had arrived in my absence. There were a couple of small cheques. They would keep me going for a month perhaps, provided I ate one meal a day, avoided electricity, took a soap-free bath once a week and avoided any further expense on pens, papers, envelopes and postal charges. I shrugged. So what?

  I resolved never again to visit a literary festival. But I also grimly resolved to expose the evil I had seen. And so for the past several months I have been writing this exposé.

  By the time you read this, I may have disappeared without a trace. I expect Tavleen to dispatch Lingaraj to break my head. What do I have to lose? Just my pathetic life.

  Tell the authors that for their tomorrow, I gave my today.

  About the Book

  A set of struggling and rather inept writers are invited to their very first literary festival in the practically invisible town of Ramgarh. Success seems to be swiftly passing them by. But have they finally been recognized?

  With no food to be had, bed bugs for companions and mysterious sounds at night, the festival begins. On a huge campus with multiple venues, panel discussions rage on - with no one in the audience. Is there more to this than meets the eye? Could this be a gigantic plot to exploit struggling authors and make money at their expense, drawing attention to the sinister cartel of publishers? Are literary festivals actually fronts for organized crime, taking advantage of writers with an inferiority complex, and of innocent readers who feel they need to rub shoulders with the 'greats'?