Temperatures between 15 to 20 degree Celsius tend to bring out the literary side of Indians. It dawns on them that they dearly love the written word, and cannot wait to interact with others similarly infatuated. Wrenching themselves from Korean serials and other OTP aberrations, they head starry-eyed to that place where the feast of wit is laid out, viz. the Lit Fest.
The locations for these events can cover all points of the compass—from the lower Himalayas to the abode of Khushwant Singh, from the beaches of Goa and Kozhikode, to the granddaddy of them all: the Jaipur Lit Fest. Wherever they are held, and whatever the programme schedules may tell you, most fests feature the same speakers saying more or less the same things in rotation. I am tempted to tell you about the speakers you should steer clear of, and those who shouldn’t miss. But that would deprive you of the simple joy of lucky-dips, so I will do something more meaningful. I will enrich your experience by alerting you to the pests who infest these fests.
A major irritant is the Mr, Mrs, or Miss ‘Know ‘em Well’. They are the ones who claim long familiarity with all the speakers on stage.
"Manu S. Pillai? I knew him since he was in kindergarten."
"As for Pico Iyer, he drops in every time he comes to India."
The ‘Know ‘em Well’ can also regale you with gossip—who got the juiciest ‘advance’, who is seeing whose ‘ex’. This may be delightful for a while, but can soon get tedious because few authors are obliging enough to lead the life of a Bollywood star. Before long, you will be looking for excuses to end the conversation. Perhaps, you need to use the washroom.
Every fest will have one or more unsung martyrs. They are poets and novelists who were destined for literary immortality until publishers and the curators got in the way by hatching a conspiracy to ignore her/him. Want proof? They bring out an ancient album of clippings—published letters to the editors, and contributions to obscure journals. Not to glance at the sagging tome being fished out would be rude. But evincing interest is fraught with risk. He or she could bring out their second volume. Better bail yourself out. Head for the washroom again.
At all such events, you need to stay clear of the closet leftist. The left-leaning types attend such events only to squelch them with scorn. Each such elitist festival, they say, deprives a hundred toiling villagers of their dal roti. He denounces the speakers as effete men and unworthy women. Pumped up, he will call credentials to question, and say that the pan wallah across the street has more poetry in him than any of these ivory tower intellectuals. The good thing about leftists is that they advertise their arrival. When you spot a bearded, kurta-clad, jhola-toting individual heading your way, you need to take quick evasive action.
At the opposite end of the leftist is the classicist. He looks down upon these popular festivals as a wine connoisseur would look down on limboo-sherbet. The guys here, he says, are literary small fry whose work will be forgotten before the next edition of the fest. Where they ask, is the immortal imagery, the profundity and poignancy you find in Milton or Keats, Ghalib or Faiz? Clearly, it is nowhere to be found. You can be persuaded to ask the organisers for your money back. The organisers, however, have second-guessed you. They have inserted a no-refund clause.
No lit fest can be complete without a shrill anti-angrezi voice protesting that English events are an insidious post-colonial conspiracy to subjugate Indian languages, one akshar at a time. A product of the Manoj Kumar school of patriotism, this pest actually loves an argument, and would be grateful if you countered by saying that Indians actually liked littering more than literature. But the debate could go on till tomorrow. Much better to play it safe, say ‘dhanyavaad’ and move on.
Then there are those who attend literary festivals for the same reason that one would buy a BMW—to be seen in one. They only pay as much attention to the goings-on as is necessary to get the names and book titles right, so that they could be dropped in subsequent conversations. Their love for things literary also increases every time the fest has alcohol on the house. Now, I wouldn’t want you to be too harsh on this particular type—for a very personal reason. He could be me.
