It’s not clear, at the moment of writing, whether Salman Rushdie will attend the Jaipur Literary Festival or not. But make no mistake about it, his presence there will strike a rich blow for the all-important freedom of expression, the doubtless manifestation of which will be a well-meaning TV correspondent button-holing him and gigglingly seeking his opinion on, well, ‘Why this kolaveri di?’
Anyway, Rushdie or no Rushdie, such festivals are important because they provide the creative space for top writers, big publishers, well-connected agents and book aficionados to come together and, in a collective literary voice, crib about: Falling readership levels. A literary festival is where they talk about sales figures in intellectual terms.
The thing about readership is, I think, it has been steadily receding ever since the first book was published. I remember my father, between swapping channels on the television, responsibly bleating the fact that the youth of my generation never bothered to read much. My granddad too, I suppose, taking a breather from listening to MLV or MKT, must have drummed home a similar message to my dad. Now I, while waiting for the Youtube video to buffer, never forget to tell my daughter in no uncertain terms that her age-types don’t devote enough time for reading. One day, my daughter, too, I hope, will carry forward this great literary family tradition of complaining.
Another unique attraction of these festivals is the reading session, where a top writer will pick out for reading a prized portion from one of his/her books to an attentive gathering busy performing the literary task of texting on their mobiles the variation of the message: ‘Am at a book reading session. Will call later’. At least that is what happened at a reading session that I had been to sometime back. (Also, as a matter of rule these days, in a gathering there will be at least a moron who will not switch his mobile off, and it will ring the moment nominal silence is ensured).
But it was during that book-reading session that I was able to get the literary discernment — something that I might not have if I were just reading the book all by myself in the blank confines of my reading room — that the author was suffering from severe cold and cough. Frankly, no other insight was technically possible to attain during the reading session. Let us face it, no passage is going to magically throw up extra wisdom just because its author is reading it.
But this is the age of multi-tasking and multi-skills, it is only natural that we expect little more from everyone. If it’s reading for writers, extending the same logic, it can be writing for musicians. Imagine what fun it would be if we can possibly involve S P Balasubramaniam or Kishori Amonkar in a session where they sit in front of a large group and begin writing in their own long-hand some of the most memorable songs from their — a word that one is duty bound to use in a literary piece — oeuvre. I am sure the literary-minded people will pay top money to be at such an event.
Yet another important aspect of the book-reading sessions is the straight-from-the-heart discussions between the writer, who becomes the reader here, and the reader, who stops being the reader here. Such convivial exchanges help bring down the wall of formality between the writer and the reader, so that both can informally pose for pictures that they can post on their respective Facebook pages.
As writing professionals, most of us journalists look forward to being at literary festivals because they help further hone that one skill that is at the core of modern-day book-writing: Better relationship with the literary agent. Now, those of you outside the realm of book publishing industry would be keen to know the role of the literary agent in the scheme of things. Well, here it is: Writers write. Publishers publish. Readers read. Literary agents make money using the three.
As lay fans, literary festivals also help us understand better our writers —- not just as pen-wielding wizards, but also as every-day human beings —- giving us compelling reasons to hate them, something that might not be possible if our exposure to them had remained just with their books. Sir Vidya Naipaul was the genius who wrote the brilliant, among others, India — A Wounded Civilization and A House for Mr Biswas. Post the Jaipur Literary Festival a couple of years ago, we were able to see that Naipaul was a genius writer who was also an, to use a high literary expression, a******.
Anyway, one of these days, I intend to have my own Crank’s Corner Literary Festival, which I am sure none will attend.
On the brighter side, I will have the full backing of Ashok Gehlot and the Deobandis, something which the great Salman Rushdie cannot even dream of pulling off.
