So there we were, in the middle of a fresh lawn, surrounded by beer ads and wondering if the man in the rumpled blue jacket and crinkled eyes was Ian McEwan. Oh, I shouted like a girl. That’s him! Stop shouting like a girl, says my friend in a tone that suggests he’s not going to sleep with me. Rushing up to McEwan, we realized that he was already being mobbed- or, at least, as mobbed as you can get in a Literary Festival- by squat journalists carrying copies of Amsterdam.
A great fan, I said, gushing, followed by a mumble of stupid, personal details. Why did you stop writing short stories, was my only coherent question. I was too dazed to hear what he said. He signed my copy of Atonement, smiled up to his eyes and went away.
A stately pleasure dome, the Diggi Palace had a huge mirror behind the panel where hacks and writers conversed in front of a well-heeled audience. Not all the hacks were irritatingly insipid though. There was Jeet Thayil, a writer himself for a change, talking to Donna Tart about American Academia and wonderful Tishani Doshi (in a tent, this time) talking to a Scot miserabalist poet. Then there was Ms. Ghosh, in a glossy biker jacket, talking to McEwan about nothing in particular.
We wondered if we could get some lunch. We wondered if the beer-bellied man was the White Mughals-guy. A lean, grey-haired man promised to help us in any way he could. We spent the early evening sipping coffee under a large shamiana, staring at Aparna Sen trying to avoid K. Basu’s company. Sarnath Banerjee walked by, backpacked and smoking what may not have been a cigarette. The bookshops outside the palace sold Penguin paperbacks at a ten-per cent discount. After a session of an astonishingly sterile conversation about the Rani of Jhansi, subject of a book by one Jaishree Mishra, we ate lunch at a dhaba across the broad road, where seedy men made passes. No wonder it’s called the pink city, my friend complained.
At another memorable session, Manil Suri read the opening pages from his latest novel- The Age of Shiva- in an orgasmic fit that was so spellbinding that we wondered if the characters were making wild love. No, Suri patiently explained; it’s a mother’s feelings for her son.
We met Jeet Thayil in the royal loo. After embarrassing acknowledgments, we walked outside and wondered if he was related to my friend. He said it was entirely possible. He promised to reply to my mail and come for a talk. A little stall displayed a book of pictures of Indian matchboxes since the early 1900s. It was fascinating and expensive. It was by far one of the better books available to us, connoisseurs of literature.
After her discussion with the Scot poet, Tishani Doshi walked around wearing an abstract look on her face. Someone told me she’s coming out with a novel next year- The Pleasure Seekers, tentatively. Indra Sinha looked uncomfortable in a small garden chair, being directed by photographers. There were lots of Animal jokes flying around. We drank several glasses of water and wondered why there was a stable next to the venue. At the McEwan press conference, we met a young man with long-black hair who used the f word in a question to McEwan. He stretched out and told us that if we ever find a book with his name on it, someday, we should pick it up. We agreed, but in vain, because he didn’t turn out to be a pusher.
Then there was literature away from Literature. Our wonderful, eccentric hostess discovered strange Hindi comic books for us and her father told us about Ozu and Wim Wenders. Her mother cooked like we were back from Somme and sang beautiful songs in a secret language only I could understand. The roof was cool and inviting. We ashed our musings into a tiny jar which we flicked as a keepsake.
After the grand screening of Atonement, which we skipped, there was to be a music night with Anoushka Shankar somewhere in the middle of the city. We didn’t push hard enough for passes or even contraband access. Instead, we hailed a bus to Delhi at night, discussed literature among the low-lives snoozing inside their mufflers and arrived safely with our guts frozen enough to make us a little light headed.
No comments:
Post a Comment