‘This panel is about the Importance of Erotica in Modern Literature.’
I was bewildered but I did not let it show. I was famous for thinking on my feet and absorbing the most startling shocks without batting an eyelid.
Someone else rushed up and shoved a sheet of paper in my hands. It said: ‘On the panel today, from left to right you have Meeta Iyer, Rishi Paliwal, Lalita Iyengar, and Vaishali Telang.’
I stole a glance at the renowned literary figures I was about to moderate. They seemed grim and forbidding. I found it difficult to believe they were writers of erotica. Then I recalled the famous saying of the Mongolian eleventh-century monk Haiyun who so beautifully said, ‘I wept in front of a thousand roses and laughed when I wrote alone.’
I decided to be bold and assertive. I snatched the microphone from its fixed spot at the lectern and decided to move towards the authors.
‘Good afternoon!’ I shouted gaily at no one in particular, and promptly tripped over the wires lying about lewdly on stage, falling flat on my face.
The crowd erupted in laughter, thrilled that I was in pain and obviously suffering. People are like that.
For the first time, the grim panelists also smiled, albeit guardedly.
Blood gushed from my nose, but no one offered to help and I simply ignored the matter. I helped myself up.
‘Today is a glorious day! Welcome everyone to what promises to be an exciting session on erotica!’
There was a sudden silence in the auditorium, which I didn’t really hear. I went on.
‘People have been erotic since the beginning of time! That’s why we are here, what do you say? Hahaha!’ I loved being witty in front of hundreds of people.
I heard a murmur in the audience. I stopped and looked. People were looking at each other.
A young boy suddenly rushed on stage and grabbed my microphone.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen! I am truly sorry for the goof-up. I know that you had come here for the panel discussion on Spiritualism in Modern Writing. Our honoured guests for that session couldn’t make it. So we are scheduling this one, The Importance of Erotica in Modern Writing, instead. Please do stay!’
It was a very awkward moment, and we all felt it deeply. You come for God and stay for erotica. What would the neighbours say?
No one stirred and suddenly, there was a sigh of relief. People had recalibrated their expectations. Previously, they were hoping for perspectives on spirituality. But due to a fortuitous faux pas by the organizers, now they expected to learn about the importance of erotica in modern literature.
The four erotic authors sat and waited for me to moderate them.
‘Let me start with you, Meeta. Tell us about your journey as a writer.’
‘Journey?’
‘Yes, journey.’
‘But I’m a writer, not a traveller!’
The crowd burst into laughter, thrilled to see me snubbed.
I tried once more.
‘Do you feel the role of erotica in modern literature is getting prominence?’
‘I’ll have to speak to my friend in Delhi for that. May I call?’
‘No. This is not a TV show. Rishi, any views?’
‘Hahahahaha,’ said Rishi.
‘Hahahaha,’ said the audience, very pleased.
‘Hahahahaha,’ said Rishi, with a slight twist, adding just that extra bit of spice.
‘Hohohoho,’ reciprocated the huge audience. Rishi was obviously popular.
‘I think erotica in modern literature is very important. It was, it is and it will be. Happy Birthday!’
Rishi’s astonishing statement, delivered with precision, wisdom and historical insight, hit home. The crowd went mad, laughing their guts out. Who knew that erotica could be so pleasing?
‘I think you are making fun of erotica, Rishi,’ said Vaishali, flustered. ‘Today, everyone expects lewdness. It’s a serious matter.’
Lalita was also not amused. ‘The role of erotica is very critical. Germane, relevant, of deep import. Take away erotica from modern literature today and what would you have?’
‘Phosphorescent underwear?’ asked Rishi earnestly.
The crowd went mad laughing. People were observed ripping their shirts off, completely overwhelmed by the humour of the moment. Rishi was the funniest guy they had ever heard.
I felt I had to intervene.
‘Meeta, would you like to read from your book? Do read a section that alludes to erotica. Everyone, Meeta’s book Love on the Internet is great! Buy a copy today!’
Everyone logged in immediately and placed orders with an online vendor. She became a bestseller in seconds.
Meeta cleared her throat and began.
‘He saw her. She saw him. They logged in. Time passed. There was a lot of heat. The internet broke down.’
She looked at me expectantly.
I was baffled.
‘And that was…?’
‘An erotic segment, as you wished.’
‘Oh yes, it was. Everyone, give her a hand!’
There was a roar. Rarely had such erotica ever been read in Ramgarh.
‘Lalita, it’s your turn now.’
‘I shall now read from my book which is about Medical Dreams.’
‘Odd, but go ahead.’
‘He examined my appendix with considerable interest.’
‘What gall!’ she exclaimed.
‘A fine one, yes,’ he said.
‘Let us now read Kant or R.K. Narayan.’
‘Together?’
‘Well, if you object, I could read the odd numbered pages and you could read the even numbered ones.’
‘How erotic!’
She put down her book and beamed grimly at the audience, who responded with a nervous titter.
‘Remarkable,’ I said. I was supposed to encourage the panelists.
‘Vaishali, anything you would like to share?’
‘Yes, I want to share copies of my book!’
She jumped up and rushed down to the audience and handed over a dozen copies to the unsuspecting members of the audience, who were overwhelmed. Then she returned to her seat.
‘My book is called Unnecessary Sex.’
‘I see.’
‘The point of the book is that this whole sex thing is unnecessary. It’s laughable. I would be pleased if the role of erotica in modern literature were to diminish,’ she snapped.
There was a deathly silence in the auditorium. I, too, was taken aback.
‘Thank you. Please do read from your book.’
She read from her book. ‘This is a very erotic section. Please pay close attention,’ she commanded.
‘He was in his office. She was at home. She looked at the rack of spices in the kitchen. He looked at the large bundle of files on his table.
‘How different they all are,’ she thought to herself, adjusting her dress.
‘How different they all are,’ he thought to himself, scratching his chin.
‘Overhead, a Singapore Airlines jet flew unperturbed to Singapore. Both observed its movement from their respective windows.’
Vaishali looked at me expectantly.
‘Remarkable,’ I croaked.
As expected, Rishi screwed up.
‘Ha ha ha!’ he exclaimed, holding his gut.
Meeta also laughed. And so did Lalita. And slowly, the audience started laughing too. The entire auditorium shook with amusement.
‘Why did you laugh, Rishi?’ inquired Vaishali, frostily.
‘The files … the files … hahahaha … the files!’ shrieked Rishi, tears rolling down his cheeks.
‘And just imagine all those sad spices!’ chuckled Meeta. The crowd was also amused.
‘And I was thinking of the brand of underwear that the Singapore Airlines pilot must have been wearing!’ screamed Lalita, taken by the idea.
‘Guys, guys, everyone calm down. Let’s ask the audience if they want to know about anything in particular. Any questions?’ I gestured in
quiringly at the audience.
Many hands were raised.
‘Yes, Sir, you in Row 96, seat 26. What is your question?’
The man got up and started mumbling.
‘Shakespeare … New York … engineer … erotic … Nobel Prize … Tyrannosaurus Rex … Korea … protoplasm … Amsterdam … Kyoto protocol … Hinayana … Amitabh Bachchan … Latency … semi-conductors … songs of remote Icelandic tribes … hmm … GDP of Portugal … Tenzing … MBA from Gambia … sustainable … sharks in Azerbaijan … Margaret Mead … prurient … incognito … Genghis Khan Junior … songs of the Berbers …motorcar … Carpathians … Mayan dentistry …’
He spoke for about ten minutes. He stopped, exhausted, and asked. ‘And what is your opinion?’
‘And who would like to take that question?’ I asked the panelists.
Vaishali raised her hand.
‘I think that’s a great question. As writers, it’s our duty to be responsive to public opinion.’
The man was satisfied by Vaishali’s response and sat down, nodding in a satisfied way. The conundrum had been resolved. The audience was relieved.
‘Row 200, Seat 67, what is your question?’
A stout lady in a gaudy red dress got up and spoke.
‘This question is for you, Rishi. I’ve been a great fan of yours. I think your book is a moving testimony to the great role that serious erotica has to play in world economy. Do you think Kafka and Murakami might object to what you’ve stated in Page 107, where you say that the erotic fantasies of men on long distance flights might lead to cross-border tensions?’
Rishi was taken aback. He gestured urgently and nervously to me, and I went over.
‘What the heck did she say?’ he hissed in my ear.
‘Never mind. Just say that you agree.’
‘Yes, Ma’am. I agree,’ said Rishi, turning to the audience and answering with great confidence.
‘Wonderful!’ said the lady and began clapping and so did the rest of the audience. Rishi wiped his face with a large handkerchief. He had escaped narrowly. He had never heard of Kafka or Murakami. He probably thought Kafka was some kind of cough syrup.
‘Rishi, we haven’t heard you read.’
Rishi grinned at the audience. The audience roared. He was the clear favourite.
He cleared his throat.
‘I watched her walk down the aisle, serving drinks to the passengers. I thought about the political problems in the Congo and felt rather sad. After five minutes, she came my way and asked me if I would like to read The Times of India. But I was in a hurry and asked for The Indian Express. The plane hit a pocket of air turbulence and she asked us to wear a seat belt. She sat down demurely and took out a copy of the book I was writing. How could that have happened? It was mystifying.’
I was amazed. I had not expected such a well-written piece from Rishi. Perhaps the audience did not either, because I saw many sit back, quite taken aback.
‘We have time for one last question. Yes? Row 2569 Seat 4, what is your question?
‘My name is John. I wanted to ask the panelists if their books reflected their personal experiences in any way?’
The panelists looked at each other. Then they looked away, embarrassed.
‘Yes? Panelists? Who would like to respond?’ I urged.
‘Well, John,’ said Lalita, slowly. ‘It’s like this. You can either be erotic or you can write. It’s not possible to do both.’
‘If you expect us to explore things first and then write about it, then you’d never be able to read any of our books,’ added Meeta.
‘It’s the same thing as saying that you can write a murder mystery only if you commit a murder first,’ argued Rishi persuasively, effectively settling the matter.
John sat down very slowly.
‘In summary, ladies and gentlemen, it appears that the issue of erotica in modern literature will continue to be a matter of great debate. Thank you for attending! Let us give our panelists a big hand!’
There was a round of loud and sustained applause. The audience filtered out of the large auditorium, heading away to their grim destinies and nebulous fates. I watched them leave into the sunset, common humble people, overwhelmed by the newly acquired knowledge of how erotica had impacted modern literature.
Meeta, Vaishali, Lalita and Rishi shook hands and agreed to stay in touch via social media. The refreshments committee stepped in with the usual samosas, received with gratitude by the panelists but with loathing by me. Everyone thanked me for my outstanding moderating skills.
Outside, Ramu mooed. It was time, he said, and he had to escort me elsewhere. The Managing Committee’s precision was commendable.
11
The Conspiracy
Unravelling the Conspiracy behind highbrow Literary Festivals.
A literary festival is not a communal celebration of the arts. At the end, it is fundamentally a commercial enterprise with no formal rules, but merely the pecuniary desires of the organizers, publishers, and various other businesses. But you and I, the humble citizens of the country, never see this. We believe what we are shown and we are happy that culture is being celebrated with such zest and earnestness.
In a previous chapter, I touched tangentially (because I was afraid then, and I probably still should be, but somehow, at this time, I am behaving rather recklessly) upon the nexus between extremely diverse interests in creating a business model based on an unending stream of literary festivals. People are gullible. They can be cheated very easily and, in fact, wish to hand over their money to any business remotely related to the world of literature. I do not expect you to believe me. That is fine. I must record this so that future generations will know.
We had a high-brow cocktail party one evening where publishers, authors and organizers were to get together and mingle. It is known that the publisher and editors community celebrate with alcohol through the day – beer and whiskey is free at the workplace, under the claim that they work under stressful conditions and therefore need constant relief. Tavleen was completely drunk when she spoke to me.
‘How did the literary festival come about, Tavleen?’ I asked Tavleen, who was spread out on a sofa, guzzling liquor gently.
‘You know what, Murthy? I kind of like you. You are so amazingly useless and you don’t know it and you want to get published. It pleases me, somehow, this innocent bull-headedness. So tell you what, while I can’t marry you, I’ll tell you what you want to know.’
Then she told me about the business meeting where it was decided to hold the festival in Ramgarh. The next step was to go into details and ensure that the event was an unqualified commercial success.
‘So Murthy, I got my guy Wadhwa to implement my order. That chap will go far, mark my words. He only cares for money, like a good Panjabi.
‘So Wadhwa arranged for a meeting at the Oberoi. I reached first, because I needed to ensure everything was in place. We couldn’t afford to have the media know. And certainly not the police.’
‘Wow, amazing stuff, Tavleen!’
‘Yes, isn’t it? Well, by 6.30 p.m. on the appointed day, I had already entered the secret restaurant. From behind a secret screen, I watched the cartel members enter the restaurant one by one.’
She added, ‘Gupta of Gupta’s Samosas was the first to come. An eager beaver latching onto this one big opportunity he was being given. He was fat and florid and was never without a samosa or two in his pocket, to hand over as complimentary gifts to business associates. One could never say when it might be necessary to give away complimentary gifts. He was shrewd. I like that in a man.
‘The next to come in was Mohanty of HiKwality Paper Recycling Industries. He would be a direct beneficiary of more books. I’ll tell you why soon.
‘Fernandes of Happy Homes in Goa was next. He offered “retreats” to spineless writers who wanted to write and write and write in a paroxysm of creativity. He had a bottle of feni in his pocket that he indulged in fairly often. The more
who thought they were distinguished writers, the more distinguished his wealth became. He is a cunning gentleman. I always visit him when I go to Goa.
‘Madhavan of Madurai Nuts and Bolts was next. Then came Deka from Jorhat Infrastructure. After which we had Parikh from Surat Fertilizers. There was also a corrupt income tax officer named Sharma whose advice was needed from time to time. Nicholson from London Undergarments had also flown in just that morning; he looked out of sorts because of the jet lag. It was an odd mix of people bound by a criminal enterprise called a literary festival. You wouldn’t think they would be relevant to a literary festival, would you now, Murthy?’ said Tavleen, pouring out another scotch on the rocks.
‘No, Tavleen. This is fascinating!’ I said, leaning forward, my heart at a standstill, unable to bear the tension.
‘I let Wadhwa start.’
‘Thank you for coming in,’ said Wadhwa, without ceremony. ‘We have a new member. A replacement. Swaminathan is out and Gupta is in. Please welcome him.’
There were nods. Just brief nods. Business is business and time is money.
‘We shall be having a literary festival in Ramgarh, somewhere in the interiors of India, in about a year. We need to prepare. There is a lot of money to be made. But as we know, preparation makes all the difference.’
Everyone nodded.
‘We have the template all ready, so we just need to make sure we are all in sync.’
‘P___ has a master database of pathetic writers. There is no hope for them, so they will come free. We save transport costs. We shall ask them to bring their miserable manuscripts with them. We shall arm-twist them to sign contracts. I visited Ramgarh and have worked out a deal with the principal of the college there. The village is centered on a college. Nothing else happens. Arrangements will be made at an old refurbished prison about two hours away to accommodate these lost souls.’
‘Gupta’s Samosas is responsible for food. Surat Fertilizers handles logistics at the four Halls, A, B, C and D. And legal will handle the contracts. Madurai Nuts and Bolts takes care of audio and video and ensures it’s always a disaster. Mohanty handles the festival bookstore and the pharmacy. Deka handles security, poet management, and media.
The Ramgarh Literary Festival Page 8