A Day at the Kovalam Lit Fest

The weekend wasn’t looking special devoid of any plans whatsoever, so I let my beauty sleep run its course and then some more ,finally stumbling out of the bed half past nine on Saturday morning. Groggily leafing through the day’s newspaper as I do most days till the sleepy stupor leaves me, I caught sight of the write-up on Kovalam Literary Festival .The 5th annual edition was happening on Oct 6th and 7th and was being held at The Kanakakunnu Palace , a grand old palace originally belonging to the Travancore royalty and now under the Kerala government ,used mostly for exhibitions, seminars and such like these days that stood in the leafy heart of the Trivandrum city .

The stupor gave way to sudden imaginary bulbs glowing above my head as I read the following –
“The two-day event starts at 10 a.m. with human rights activist Binayak Sen delivering the K.C.John Memorial Lecture. ”

“10 a.m.” stood out in bold as I glanced at the clock that said 9:35 and between the time I looked back and forth at the write-up and the clock a couple more times, an exciting train of thoughts had warmed up and was stirring up a racket within my brain , debating between the heavenly pleasures of lazing around on an off-day morn and dashing off to listen to the man I’ve been reading about for a while now. To my surprise , the second option won and with “Binayak Sen” ringing in my mind , I rushed through the morning rituals and was out of the house in no time . Time - 9:55 a.m

“Were the literary people and general intelligentsia sticklers for punctuality? Or were they like politicians who were always late? Since they were always criticising politicians, chances weighed more heavily towards the former.” Thoughts ran amok at 10:15 a.m. while I waited in an auto rickshaw stalled at a traffic light, my own two wheeler being so old and badly out of shape that taking it out was high risk for self and other wayfarers. At the entrance to the palace grounds , the huge gates stood open and my rickshaw winded up its curvy path passing overheard banners that announced the 5th Annual Kovalam Literary Festival ,a bolt of excitement shooting through me – the first event of the sort I was attending! “Will there be real authors ? That’s what the write-up promised “,I thought rubbing my hands in glee.

A TV camera crew sped past in an SUV ,more lined the way and a few people with microphones and coiled wires in their hands stood scattered . As I got out of the auto , I saw important-looking people alighting a white mini-van and talking pleasantly among themselves , none very Indian looking .Hiding any traces of nervousness, I walked to the Multi Purpose Auditorium ,familiar from many college fests ,hoping the all important lecture wouldn’t be over by then. It hadn’t and neither had the proceedings for the day begun at 10.30 a.m. as people milled around patiently, the gathering dominated by news people and I wandered over to the book sellers arranged beside the venue. Tables of neatly stacked books stood gleaming as sunlight bounced of shiny book covers from the huge open windows behind them, manned by polite people wearing official tags. The collection was not huge but had all the titles that had come out recently, was popular and being talked about – in short they were just the thing for a bibliophile with a wish list.

The titles from the ‘Recent’ section of my wishlist jumped out at me and in no time I had quite a stack in my hands .Reminding myself of Flipkart and the handsome discounts they offered , I let go of some of them from my stack and was left with two books I couldn’t bear parting with – the Kerala Literary Academy Award winning Benyamin’s ‘Aadujeevitham’, freshly translated into English under the name ‘Goat Days’ though I bought the Malayalam version and ‘Around India in 80 Trains ‘ by Monisha Rajesh – a brilliant first book by the author who toured India on its rail tracks and brings us a delicious desi travelogue. A beautiful small hardbound pink book titled ‘Rumi’ caught my eye and I was trying hard to suppress my smile reading the beautiful first poem in it when I overheard bits of a conversation from right behind me . A petite small white woman in a frock said in heavy accent ,” I quite love this book’s cover. Isn’t this your new one? And what about this here ? “. A white man in a black kurta with silver hair replied cheerfully ,”No ,not that .But this is mine ,and this is mine and this is mine .. “, pointing to stacks of books of different titles ,the third time pointing to the stack from where I had picked up “Rumi”. I looked at the book cover again . Rumi ? Hardly . The full title of the book read “Rumi:A New Translation” and the author was Farrukh Dhondy !

Presently , there was a tap at the microphone and an announcement that things were about to get started . I moved into the audience section and took up seat where I could get a good view of the stage ,while the auditorium filled up quickly with TV cameras with zoom lens on high tripods ,big microphones, news people with scribble pads, young people who looked like students of literature or journalism ,and stereotypical images of literary people – women in cotton saris with oversized bindis or wearing salwar kameez ,sporting Diana cut and men in long kurtas - fleshy ,gleaming people with sharp eyes and beak nose. I wondered how them who talked about non-conformity and swore by originality, had the same dress sense ,wore chunky jewellery and heavy kohl ,and sported cloth hand bags . Perhaps , lit fests were to authors what red carpet premieres were to actors and they were merely propping themselves up for the viewing pleasure of readers and journalists .

I shifted focus back to the stage as the guests came on the dais for the first event –
Fifth Annual K.C.John Memorial lecture by Dr.Binayak Sen. ‘Are the poor getting poorer’ .In discussion with Ilina Sen and Vrinda Grover .

Dr.Binayak Sen,the human rights activist who worked in the naxal affected areas of Chattisgarh , spoke softly and declared the topic redundant as it was a foregone conclusion and that the real situation in India was that of famine settling in slowly but steadily over the years .He quoted statistics on India’s alarming levels of malnutrition both among children and in the adult population. He also talked about the need for food security and the plight of facing food shortage on the one hand while food rotted away in govt storehouses on the other.He spoke without passion but in an even tone,with supporting facts, like a man of science .He concluded his speech by welcoming the many Israeli writers attending the fest ,but reminded them that the people of Palestine deserved justice.

Ilina Sen ,his wife and an academic who currently heads the Department of Women’s Studies at the Mahatma Gandhi International Hindi University (MGAHV) , spoke next and took the discussion one step further from food security to food sovereignty . She spoke of how the system of producing food in one part , storing somewhere else and then transporting it and delivering it to people in entirely different parts of the country was inefficient and bound to fail . Food sovereignty will enable communities and local populations to meet their food needs themselves and was the way to answering the disturbing shortage of food faced by large parts of the country .She also talked about the abundance of local farming knowledge that indigenous people had which was getting ignored by the authorities in their scramble to promote high yielding seed varieties which demanded high fertilizers and how these traditions needed support and nurturing .

As that informative and socially conscious session came to an end , I hardly had the mind to leave though I was overstaying my own time limits and the next event was announced -
The Evolving Indian Novel : Farrukh Dhondy , Timeri Murari , N.S.Madhavan,Nilanjana Roy , C.P.Surendran .Anchored by Suresh Menon .

There was no delay and the speakers promptly came on stage . After a brief introduction by the anchor , the writers were invited to read from their books to the audience and it started with Nilanjana Roy .The name was familiar to me through the good reviews she had garnered for her first book in The Hindu’s Literary Magazine –‘Wildings’ , a tale on the cats of Nizamuddin in Delhi. A pretty lady with a prettier voice, she read out rather sweetly from her book and the short passage about a cat’s thoughts and description of the settings was interesting. Next to read was Timeri Murari , the author of the much acclaimed ‘The Taliban Cricket Club’ .He preferred to read standing up , adjusting thick glasses and read slowly in heavy British accent like a professor to his students . The protagonist was a girl who had played cricket in India a long time ago and was living in Afghanistan now under the strict Taliban regime- Rukhsana ,the journalist .The Taliban had just announced their decision to promote cricket in Afghanistan and men were going to be screened for it .If they were selected , they woud be sent to Pakistan for proper training and then would have to return to the country to teach cricket at home and also play cricket for Afghanistan’s national team. Women , of course , will not play . The passage ended with Rukshana’s brother Jahan saying that this was their one chance to get out of the country , his cousin mourning ,”But we don’t play” , to which he replies , “We don’t , but she does”. He went back to his chair amid loud applause and I made a mental note to try and get hold of this book.

Next to speak was C.P.Surendran , a dark bespectacled man who reeked of arrogance . He checked with the audience if he could be heard properly and complained that he hadn’t been able to hear any of the previous readings . He announced he was known for causing offence to other people, the passage he was going to read might offend and to just “put up with it”. In his mind, he must be the high priest of the unsung art of offensiveness,I thought . I did not catch the title of the book but the passage was of a drunk woman getting raped in a local train by a drunk man . The very act tottered between consensual and forced as the woman was drunk and even when she protested, her protests were not strong enough for the man to need to apply any extra effort on his part . The passage went into a detailed description of the organs involved, the sequence of unfurling of events ,the sounds and sensations , and brought to life a very graphic depiction of the scene. He must have expected the audience to shift uncomfortably in their seats at the brazenness, but as I looked around, people hardly batted their eye lids, leave alone look ashamed . Defeated , he retreated .

Farrukh Dhondy took up stage next but was unarmed with any of his books , so he expounded on ‘Evolution of Indian Novel‘ and opined that too much was getting written and published because of the mad race among publishers and novel in India was becoming something akin to Bollywood. N.S.Madhavan continued insightfully about the same subject and said that the medium of novels was dying a slow but natural death .He compared the novels at the beginning of their evolution to the current ones , saying the early ones which included Russian literary novels where treasure houses of the authors’ original thoughts and how this was replaced by mere conversation and no grand thoughts in today’s novels. He also made another interesting comparison between writing in regional languages and Indian writing in English – In the entire Malayalam section of the Trivandrum Central Library , there would be hardly two coconut trees but in Roy’s ‘God of Small Things’ ,there would be ten coconut trees every twelve pages – he observed. By far, N.S.Madhavan had been the most riveting speaker and garnered the loudest applause from the audience .

While the readings were underway , I had noticed a skinny dark girl wearing a delegate tag .She looked familiar but there was no way to find out who she was. I checked my copy of ‘Around India in 80 Trains‘ for the author’s picture to confirm my suspicion , but the book did not have one .The proceedings on stage had pulled my attention back and I left it at that .Promptly after N.S.Madhavan’s talk , I gathered my stuff and hurried out ,having over stayed by an hour and a half and headed home .’Aadujeevitham‘ being prised out of my possession by a very relentless dad , I settled down with the second new buy of the day and boy , was I absorbed ! Monisha Rajesh had written a sparkling, witty travelogue riding the Indian railways, good naturedly pointing out India’s idiosyncrasies with delicate understanding . On Sunday night I casually googled the book , by now addicted to it , and the results threw up the familiar face of the dark girl again ,whose firsthand account was more like a girl friend’s narration of her travel tales to me now. Whether to throw up my hands in desperation over the missed opportunity of getting a much-loved book signed by its much-loved author ,or smile contently at getting the opportunity of at least spotting an author for the first time ever in my life – I still do not know !


PS: Monish Rajesh , your first book is an absolute blast . It’s a must-read , people !

SHADOW

I walked hurriedly into the alley, a large brick wall rising high in front of me. Maybe I wouldn’t be followed in here .But was this a dead end? I kept walking towards the wall, every cell in me alert to pick up the slightest of sounds in the vicinity .The half moon and many clouds of the night sky cast an eerie blue light everywhere and in the absence of streetlights, I had to scrunch my eyes and peer into this low light .Suddenly a long shadow appeared on the wall from behind, growing bigger with each step. I had definitely not lost the tail.

I broke into a run, footsteps echoing everywhere. Damn! The noise was definitely going to give me away. The alley turned left just in front of the wall and I sprinted into it headlong. I ran out into an open desert, sand shimmering in the noon sun and a stark blue cloudless sky hanging low overhead. Panting , I ran into the expanse , every foot fall sending a shower of sand behind me .Cacti and sparse vegetation was strewn around and low mountains seemed to rise at the horizon or was it a mirage ?An  illusion played on my tired eyes by the cruel desert? A cliff appeared in front of me and I took cover among its rocky folds, my heaving chest breathing hard. Footsteps were behind me now! Slapping my mouth shut, I worked my way around the rocks in the other direction noiselessly. Sweat flowed onto my face as I retraced my tracks in the sand .The tracks! They had betrayed me to her! But what did she want? Following me but never approaching… always staying at an arm’s distance but never backing off. Thoughts flying wild in my mind, I stumbled and fell down but picked myself up quickly and continued running, tears of frustration mixing and flowing down my cheeks and neck.

I ran back into the alley. There were metal ladders attached to the side walls which probably were fire exits from the building. I climbed up one of them up frantically, not once glancing down but kept climbing higher and higher whilst echoes of running feet ricocheted off the alley walls. I tumbled through a large open window into a long hall that ran the entire length of the building. It was white and Narnian! The floor was covered in snow and tall pine trees, their branches blanketed in snow, rose towards the high ceiling. Powdery flakes of snow floated down slowly from nowhere up above and invisible bells chimed. I took care to hide my tracks this time .Walking backwards, I carefully ruffled the snow and covered my tracks one foot step at a time. Reaching a bush covered in snow, I hid behind it shivering in the cold, sweat already beginning to crystallize on my skin. It seemed like an eternity when I opened my eyes though it was probably just a minute. Snow had settled on my eye lashes. I felt a shooting pain on my face where ice had formed in a thin line where my tears had flowed just a while ago. I patted my cheeks dry and started crawling through the snow floor not waiting for any signs of her approach. Climbing over another window, I rolled onto a corridor with wooden flooring, evening sun glaring off its polished surface through a giant window at the far end. There might not be a ladder outside that window , so I started backing away from it  .Towards the other end of the corridor was a  narrow stairway and I flew down them  jumping across 2,4, 6 steps in my flight. Several landings later I heard a second set of footsteps at the top of the stairs and I doubled my speed down the darkness. Reaching the ground floor, I ran into the open and got in a cab that was just pulling away crying, “Go, go, go”.

I got off the cab at the water falls. I figured the place would be swamped with tourists and that I’d be safe in a crowd. Surely enough, the water front was a sea of colours of brightly dressed people … orange caps and purple bags, red balloons and white frilly frocks. I spotted and picked up a cheap yellow sunglass from the floor, obviously a child’s toy, and put it on turning the whole world yellow. Throwing anxious glances backwards and taking care to stay out of clearances, I was weaving my way through the crowd when I bumped into a kid. Just a toddler, he fell into a sitting position from the impact whilst a multihued ball that he had in his hand bounced away. I quickly caught it and returned it to its young owner all the while rasping breathlessly to him,’”I’m sorry …I’m sorry …I’m sorry “. He just stared at me open mouthed .I got away from the kid on all fours through the crowd when I suddenly reached the iron railing overlooking the water falls. Water cascaded down over the edge like someone was emptying bucketfuls of blue ink from just beyond our line of sight.

Walking along the railing I reached a flight of steps that led into an underpass. The crowded scene was suffocating me and I suddenly wanted to escape this overbearing human presence. I took the stairs in two, and walking down I felt the whole underground tremble as a train passed overhead. As the handrails rattled and the air rumbled, I stopped for a second; eyes closed and felt the vibration passing through my body. I reasoned there had to be a train station nearby and headed out in search of it. The train I got into was filled with people and their ubiquitous earphones, so I stood leaning against a wall, swaying with the train’s rhythm. Tears flew freely from my eyes now as I sniffed and wiped them at my shirt sleeve. How did this happen to me? How did I let this happen? I thought I was intelligent and had it all figured. But it’s been months now. I had shifted from my cosy apartment to a dingy one hoping to wipe the trail clean, but she had surfaced again. I’d been found out; exposed. What was going to happen to me now? I looked around frantically for answers, choking on my own tears but people hardly noticed. . ‘A plan ... a plan ... I need a plan. That’s what I need. I can do this. I am a smart woman. Focus .Focus. Make a plan..! OK. I will run again .Pick up from where I left and make a dash for it. I will head home right away, get my stuff, draw all my cash and be gone...For good .That will be my plan’. . I calmed down somewhat and punched the air with balled fists – ‘That will be my plan!’

I walked around my room, throwing in clothes and other essentials into a rucksack .The getaway had to be fast .Next stop will be the bank and then I will be gone. Vanish .Disappear. Tying the strings of the rucksack shut, I walked out the door. It was when I turned around to take one last look that I saw it. The bag dropped from my hand and I started screaming.”She’s here too! I can’t lose her and I have been trying for months... She just won’t go away... what do you want from me??? What the hell do you want from me???” I was hollering and crying abuses in the hallway, backing away from the door and hitting the opposite wall. People from nearby apartments came running and milled all around me. I doubled over and fell to my knees shouting like a mad woman now. I felt hands patting my shoulders and smoothing my hair in failed attempts to console my deranged mind but I only kept crying out loud.

Faces peered into mine, trying to decipher my incoherent rants.”What are you talking about? Who are you looking at? “


And the faces that looked at me froze in a confounded daze.


Far away, Mrs Carter turned around in surprise. Did she just see the shadow of her small outstretched hand trying to grab the coffee mug on the table, drum against it with bony fingers and long pointed fingernails?


In the children’s park , little Emma thought it was funny how her shadow seemed to have sprouted a tiny impish tail in the last two days .Not that she would mention it to anyone . It was her secret!


Sean couldn’t believe the hawkish nose that he saw in his shadow .How could the light play that same trick all the time?


“What??” they gasped.



“My shadow… My goddamn shadow. That b**ch ….! “

Good Things Come In Small Packages

They walked along side by side, feet falling in rhythm, trudging along the familiar path which leads the way home .Evening sun bounced off the paved road making it look like spilt orange juice, the gentle breeze tugging at their shirt collars. An interesting conversation seemed to be under way from the animated gestures of the shorter one, the taller one nodding along. It was the second time I was chancing upon the duo on the same street .On one of those rare days that I got off work by the first bus home, I choose to walk home from my stop - a 30 min walk. I had spotted the interesting pair on one of my evening strolls home. I noticed it again today – the burden of the little travellers seemed to be shouldered by the taller one. He wore a big school bag across both shoulders and then a smaller one on top of it, lunch bag hanging lazily from one hand. His free arm wound protectively over the smaller kid, burden-less and talking excitedly oblivious to the surroundings, while the elder one kept an eye out. I had now caught up to them from behind , walking on the other side of the road .Shameless eavesdropping brought tidbits of their chatter to me – long tales from school ! Unable to contain my curiosity any longer I turned and took a sly look at the brothers .A picture perfect post card of childhood! Stealing my glance away I walked on beaming to myself, a warm fuzzy feeling spreading within whilst their ramble continued undisturbed – “and then you know what he said?”. “Hm ...? “ .

 

 

I Miss You ...

If you ever do miss someone , you have to miss them like in this song..till the longing becomes a rain ,each drop heavy on the skin , soaking every layer in the soul , arresting time's flight , memories flooding from times gone by and washing you away ,making you lose all your bearings , miss them so hard ,so much that when your heart pounds in desperation the vibrations traverse the world to them , and in a sudden moment in between all the pointless madness of life they suddenly gasp as your name occurrs in their mind , opening an invisible passage through which will rush the the waters of flooding memories from your mind to theirs and then ... they miss you back !
-Anon [For fear of being labelled a romantic]

Perfidious one, Goodbye

Just two days ago, he had left me for another girl.  I had been a mere passing fancy .All around me, my world was crashing. That night, I sat staring at the sky like I so often did, only this time it was not a lovely azure sky or a dreamy gaze … it was an ink black night and a fixed hollow stare. Not a soul stirred in the world outside the bay windows, nor within. Summer heat was suffocating the air and along with it the darkness made a cemetery of my bedroom. A power failure was on and the time must have been well past midnight; I had lost touch altogether, for everything was still as if dead.

Clinging to the iron bars, there I sat at the window sill that looked south upon the face of the sky  marked by coconut tree tops. Drenched in sweat and fists clenched white, I heaved at the night air through the only window pane that was open. Not a muscle in my body moved, the eye lids refused to bat. The shock was enough to put my life on ventilator- I could hardly breathe. I sat with a body that had gone limp . But I could sense the brain work furiously .What was I thinking? Was it the deceit or the heartlessness that so broke me?

All that was yesterday ; today seems slightly better .The moonless dead sky made as if to wink at me through its starry eyes, like those eyes had done once upon a time. I don’t know about the stars but the moon knew…I had told the moon myself of my dreams… dreams inspired by his beautiful deep eyes. What were to become of those? Why does it all seem like such a long time ago though it had been just two days? I should say my mind took it remarkably well, oh it took a lot of courage .For today, he is on ventilator .Right now, in the dead of this summer’s night, he is battling for his life .There would be so much chaos surrounding him when he lies there half-asleep, only he wouldn’t know. I did what I could, the rest I shall leave to fate .He may come back alive, but still...I hope…he goes… tonight...

It was raining hard when I woke up in the morning .I love morning showers and this one had come after testing times of dry heat. The sunlight and rain mixed and danced at my windows, now all open, and gently sprayed on my face waking me up. That morning, soaking in the scene of this world getting cleansed by heavenly rain , the world regained a semblance of what it should be – truthful and righteous. 

The sleep had been rather fitful – throughout the night I kept hearing murmurs, waking with a start every now and then giving me a bad head ache, but now nature was consoling me. The moist air cooled the heat in my mind, the sight of water flowing everywhere soothed my eyes, and I don’t know why but they started flowing too. I rose and took up seat at the window sill again leaning my head against the iron bars, and gazed at the sky with tearful eyes. The rain drenched me and the wind stuck strands of wet hair against my face.

The world was washed and dripping from head to toe like someone preparing to do the last rites of a dead man. The leaves on the tree tops drooped, like his head would have hung, in sorrow. An unexplainable sense of gloom had started rising in me, the seeping in of the first grains of emotion since the breakup .Then, a hand gently touched me, and said, “You have to be brave to hear this …”

PS- A piece of dark fiction I had scribbled on yellowing journal pages eons ago ,which this song reminded me of today ...