The Ramgarh Literary Festival

by Vasudev Murthy

  Tejfall stared at Asokan for a couple of minutes. He finally croaked. ‘What? You think I’m a terrible writer? But I think I’m a fantastic writer!’

  The sheer audacity of the man broke the unspeakable tension in the air. The audience broke into wild uncontrollable laughter that threatened to shatter the structural integrity of the building.

  ‘And that, Tejfall, is the reason why everyone hates you!’ said Asokan scornfully. ‘You can’t write. Simply because you have a ponytail, you force people to believe there’s some mystique about you and you are privy to hidden secrets.’ He turned towards the audience. ‘Everyone, watch while I make him talk on any subject on the planet with his customary arrogance.’

  Tejfall, still covered with muck, leaned forward, eager to comment on everything he knew nothing about. The audience bent forward to see this verbal gymnast perform. Asokan tied his lungi a bit tighter. We watched, fascinated.

  ‘Would you say that the vegan movement has compromised the ultra-liberal homosexual ethos of certain Mumbai colleges?’

  Tejfall was at his thoughtful best. He sat back, and brought the tips of his fingers together.

  ‘You raise a very important point. I’ve been seeing a disturbing trend. It’s clear that vegans have the support of some right-wing groups and by raising these issues, they are acting as brakes to the rainbow coalition. Yes, I agree. It’s a conspiracy and we have to be on our guard.’

  Asokan nodded at us, pointing at Tejfall. ‘Now watch this,’ he said to the audience.

  ‘But Tejfall,’ he said, ‘how do you account for the lack of media attention to the issue of suppression of indigenous people by the Chilean government? Why is only the Assamese press covering it?’

  ‘You raise a very important point,’ said Tejfall thoughtfully. ‘I’ve thought about it for quite some time and spoken to many people including Jorge Gonsalves in Lisbon and Mercedes Garcia in Rio and they agree that poets must raise their voice. I’ve been raising my voice lately. We cannot let this issue disappear.’

  ‘Any thoughts of the infiltration of the Ugandan Science Research labs by right-wing Hindutva scientists?’

  ‘You raise a very important point,’ said Tejfall thoughtfully, putting his fingertips together and gazing into the distance. ‘I did discuss this with my painter-friend Cedric N’Gomi in Kampala just the other day and we felt that the artists’ community must bring this matter to the attention of the world immediately. We see the coming together of destructive scientists with their own agenda. I believe the conspiracy must be exposed.’

  It was too much for the dozen young men and women who had surrounded Tejfall, hoping to interact. They got up and moved menacingly closer.

  ‘Fraud!’

  ‘Charlatan!’

  ‘Uncooked samosa!’

  And so on.

  At this point, security came and rescued Tejfall. But not before he waved cheerfully at the crowd and said he would be happy to sign copies of his book. A writer thrives on being insensitive and a complete idiot.

  13

  The Publishers Panel Discussion on the Future of the Publishing Industry

  The Ugly Truth shows itself.

  It was at this event that the sheer horror of the undertaking finally revealed itself.

  Assuming that you do not suffer from cardiac issues, you should proceed, albeit with caution. (I’ve always wanted to use that word – albeit – but I never thought it would be in such circumstances. Usage of that word shows an extremely deep and sensitive knowledge of the language.) In any case, I am not responsible for damages that may result after you read this. Please sign here and proceed: ________________

  We walked about the large campus in hopeless despair. We were tired, thirsty, hungry, confused. Slowly it had started to dawn upon us that this was a gigantic conspiracy. Someone was deliberately driving us mad sending us from hall to hall on a wild-goose chase. But why? What was our crime? True, we were third-rate writers and we quite accepted our lot. What could be achieved by hammering that into our heads again and again in a thousand different ways? Even Meeta was a bit subdued. She simply couldn’t eat another samosa – we think she may have consumed upwards of 500 within a day– some historians have argued that it was almost exactly 542. She had started resembling one, but we were too miserable to point this out.

  Abhishek looked at the schedule and stopped in his tracks.

  ‘Guys, Hall C has the publishers panel discussion on the Future of Publishing in five minutes. I think we ought to go and figure out whether we’re ready for the future or if the future is ready for us.’

  We agreed and walked in a single file, head-bowed, emaciated and sullen. We entered the hall, which was overflowing with thousands of wannabe writers.

  On the dais was the royalty of the Publishing World. Slightly pompous, mildly indifferent – all this with an accompanying swirling mist of astounding arrogance. And why not? They knew their job, were wealthy beyond comprehension, and could manipulate the future of anyone they liked or didn’t like. You know what I mean.

  From left to right, the panelists were Tavleen (from P ____), Kadambari (from Hot Air Publishers), Joyeeta (from Thousand Banyan Trees Publishers) and Gurdial Singh (from Doomsday). The moderator was not there so the proceedings had not started. Tavleen was busy admiring her latest jewellery set. Gurdial had settled down to his third scotch for the day, and was chuckling gently to himself. All this in full view of the audience.

  We sat down quietly, in dark corners, watching, bemused, as earnest writers craned their neck from their seats to listen to every pearl of wisdom from these people. Who would tell them that almost all were destined for third-ratedness? Let them dream on.

  The organizers were seen rushing back and forth of the dais, whispering to each other, to the participants and to themselves. We saw the exchange of angry words, though we couldn’t really tell what was going on.

  All of a sudden, one of the organizers leaped off the dais and ran in my direction. Before I could react, he had grabbed me and was pulling me towards the stage, watched by thousands of paralyzed onlookers

  ‘Wh – what are … are you doing?’ I was absolutely terrified.

  ‘The moderator for this session chickened out. He couldn’t handle the fear. I spotted you in the audience. I’ve seen you moderating that authors panel discussion. You can do it. You are the new moderator!’

  ‘I’m scared, man! Look at those tough women! They’ll eat me alive in two seconds flat!’

  ‘Nonsense! Don’t exaggerate! All are sweet, encouraging, and professional! A few are mothers,’ said the organizer, dismissing my fears with disdain.

  ‘We now have Mr Vasudev Murthy moderating this session. He is a professional moderator. Welcome!’

  The crowd went wild, but my good friends, now shrouded in darkness wept softly. Little sobs of utter distress. They felt for me, out of loyalty, knowing how I was going to be destroyed.

  And there I was, weak, starving, thirsty, overcome by fear, right in the middle of a panel of publishers. I remember thinking this must have been how it was in ancient Rome, as the lions and the crowd waited for you to be torn apart limb from limb.

  I wasn’t naked, but I might as well have been. The publishers looked at me gleefully.

  ‘Imagine seeing you here again, Murthy’ sniggered Tavleen. ‘Tears and Whispers: A Sweeping Saga. What bilge!’

  ‘Ah, a few scores to settle with you, Vasudev,’ said Kadambari in a low chilling voice. ‘Some guts, eh? Sending me a proposal for a book on Effective Communication Skills for Publishers and Editors!’

  My hair froze into icicles.

  ‘Are you wearing phosphorescent underwear? What’s wrong with you? What would Tagore say?’ screeched Joyeeta, loudly.

  I glanced down. I had merely wet my pants in fear.

  ‘You’re the guy who turned down my contract, right, Murthy? Glad to see you here. I may never see you again, and no one else might either, for that matter,’ said Gurdial,
twirling his moustache, and caressing a little dagger, which he claimed he kept for religious reasons.

  ‘What contract?’ I asked, hysterically, ‘It was the other Murthy, that IT chap rolling in money! Not me!’

  ‘Start moderating, you ass!’ snapped Tavleen.

  I collected myself and began.

  ‘The first question is for you, Joyeeta. We see people writing and writing and writing. But few get published. Why?’

  ‘Because they are awful. That’s why! Get me some water, oaf!’

  ‘That’s hardly encouraging, Joyeeta. Have some water. Here. But tell me, the fact is that you guys are so wealthy. So if people are terrible writers, how come you’re making money?’

  ‘Let me take that question, Murthy,’ commanded Tavleen. My knees turned to jelly. I was frightened. She had a commanding presence and eyes that probed deep into the depths of my writhing, miserable soul.

  ‘Murthy, I pity you. You are unfit to be a moderator, let alone be published. But anyway, I think you want to know how we operate, is that it?’

  ‘Y – yes,’ I whimpered.

  ‘Well, we have nothing to lose,’ she nodded at the other panelists, who nodded in response. ‘We identify them at birth.’

  ‘At birth?’ I gasped.

  ‘Stop interrupting, Murthy! Don’t you have a spare idli I can stuff in your gaping mouth? Idiot!

  As I was saying, we scan the birth records of hospitals every day. In order of priority, we pick Bengali or Malayali infants with complex multi-syllable names. Then we choose those born in the months of Jan, April, May, August, October and the first half of December. Next, blood groups – only A+ and O-. Then we look at their horoscopes – if Saturn and Mars are positioned incorrectly, we reject them immediately. We nurture the selected infants and keep an eagle eye on their progress. They are marked for greatness as authors and will get awards by the fistful. We accept their manuscripts blindly when they are ready and start churning out stories. Since we can’t say all this to the outside world except within the confidential confines of a literary festival, we ask everyone to submit their manuscripts as per a process and claim we need six months to do a thorough evaluation. When the truth is that if they are not already in our database, their work is destroyed upon receipt. Did I miss anything, Gurdial, Joyeeta, Kadambari?’

  ‘You forgot the non-fiction submissions,’ remarked Kadambari, coldly. A chilly wind blew through the auditorium and people were seen asking for the air conditioner to be turned off, even though there was no air conditioner.

  ‘Why don’t you tell them?’ snarled Tavleen. One sensed a palpable tension between the two queens of the publishing world.

  ‘Right. For non-fiction, the process begins later, when they have crossed the age of sixty-five. Authors are objectively selected based on their height and weight (must not be shorter than 5 feet and heavier than 250 kgs) and dental records. Another filtering happens based on my intolerance for anything other than my extremely liberal political views. I must mention that if they are citizens of Mongolia, Tonga or Peru they are rejected.’

  A great gasp of wonderment went through the auditorium. People stood up on the aisles and asked their friends to measure their height to see if there was any hope. In most cases there was not, and many collapsed, unable to bear the trauma of premature objective rejection.

  As far as the fiction aspirants were concerned, there was already plenty of wailing.

  ‘How is it my fault if I was born in November to Rajasthani parents,’ sobbed a young girl.

  ‘I’m O+, O cruel fate,’ screamed a young man who had been writing non-stop since the second grade only to have his hopes dashed at Ramgarh.

  Gurdial who observed the goings-on in the auditorium, and with traditional crafty Punjabi savvy, remarked, ‘Well, Doomsday does accept manuscripts from others not fitting the regular unwritten cartel guidelines, but we ask you to share the costs of publishing, because, as you can understand, we have to take additional risks.’

  The others turned towards him in white-hot rage, while the audience cheered the hope-giver.

  ‘Hey, what about our Code of Conduct for Exploitation of Authors?’ screamed Joyeeta. ‘What would Tagore say?’

  ‘I’m disappointed, Gurdial,’ hissed Kadambari frostily. ‘You could almost hear Santa Claus waking up with a start and getting his reindeer and sledge ready thinking that winter had arrived.’

  ‘Is this the way to betray your industry colleagues?’ shouted Tavleen, her face red with rage.

  ‘Oi! Tussi chup ho jao!’ yelled Gurdial, standing up and leaning forward menacingly. ‘Shut up, ladies! I know how you guys have been raiding my authors and taking them away! So what’s the problem if I take authors that you’re rejecting anyway? Gadhe!’

  ‘You’re not supposed to do that and you know it,’ snapped Kadambari. ‘Once one of us starts the exploitation process for an author, no one else is supposed to butt in. Where are your principles?’

  ‘What do you expect from Doomsday? Their agreements are 100 pages long and the authors sign away royalties for the next 50 years,’ sniggered Tavleen, trying to be cutting.

  At this point, to everyone’s amazement, Gurdial suddenly started a bhangra dance. The audience joined in this spontaneous display of joy. It was a true display of festivities. ‘Balle, balle!’ he shouted and the crowd of aspiring writers reciprocated with enthusiasm.

  After an hour of delirious joy, when Gurdial finally sat down, beaming and exhausted, Joyeeta, who had been watching in disgust, said, ‘Why did you dance, Gurdial? Are you insane?’

  ‘Because, Auntyji, I just realized that because of your stuffy attitude, I shall have an entire room full of manuscripts while you will have just a handful! You can have the awards with books that sell only 100 copies, but I shall get the money! Tussi great ho! But I am greater!’ said Gurdial.

  I felt I had to bring the attention of everyone back to the topic.

  ‘Uh, Kadambari, how do you think the world of publishing is changing at the moment?’

  ‘You don’t know?’ she responded, coldly.

  ‘No.’ I turned on my portable heater.

  ‘Well, for one, no one really writes anymore. Google has made it easy for everyone to cut and paste. Once an author took three years to write. Today he can do that in three weeks and still claim to be shaken by creative forces.’

  Gurdial smirked, twirling his moustache. ‘My authors are faster than your authors. I have a guy who does a book a week! That’s four books a month and forty-eight a year!’

  ‘How is that possible?’ I gasped.

  ‘If you sign this master agreement with me now, I’ll tell you,’ said the canny sardar, pushing forward a sheaf of papers, swooping in for the kill.

  Tavleen grabbed the sheaf and tore it to bits. ‘Gurdial, have SOME decency! I know it’s tough, but try!’

  ‘What about the future of publishing?’ I asked weakly.

  ‘There is no future,’ said Joyeeta. ‘There is only the past, as Tagore said.’

  Kadambari nodded, coldly. I wrapped a shawl around myself.

  ‘The fact is that the publishing industry now has a symbiotic relationship with many other products. The book industry is in a downward spiral by itself. By associating with a variety of other products, we survive and do very well. A case of one plus one being more than two. I just bought a brand new BMW because of this.’

  ‘Which model?’ asked Tavleen jealously.

  ‘The very latest,’ sniffed Kadambari.

  ‘I see,’ said Tavleen, sullenly. Her model was already six months old. But then her face brightened. She has just received another two thousand manuscripts the week earlier. She would get her latest BMW very soon.

  Gurdial suddenly showed immense maturity. ‘Let us not go off on a tangent. We are not here to discuss cars, but the future of the publishing industry. I agree with you, Kadambari, that the publishing world depends on other industries to survive. Doomsday has a special relationship
with companies that produce bathroom sanitary ware, with companies that produce handcuffs and jail equipment and so on.’

  ‘Hot Air Publishers has a strategic tie-up with the dog-food industry, the Chinese noodles industry, and the Indian Railways website,’ said Kadambari, with a grim, tight smile.

  ‘Thousand Banyan Trees works closely with the paper recycling industry, the second-hand car dealers association and the embalming industry. We want to preserve our authors! They’re worth more to us dead than alive!’ cackled Joyeeta.

  ‘And you, Tavleen?’ I croaked, horrified by the revelations.

  ‘P____ has chosen to take the moral high ground and we work closely with samosa makers, manufacturers of phosphorescent underwear and grave diggers.’

  Gurdial started. ‘Oh yeah? Moral high ground, eh? And you inter your authors in graves? Sounds pretty crooked to me! Hahaha!’ He laughed and the audience joined him.

  ‘No Gurdial. You are a fool! We inter our readers. Think about it. Once you’re below ground, you are trapped. You have no choice but to read for eternity. The grave diggers association ensures that their wards are kept entertained by our books. Those interred keep buying and we have stable cash flow. You obviously have an MBA from one of the zillion institutes of management out there and lack common sense!’

  ‘What bakwas!’ scoffed Gurdial while twirling his moustache with some vigour, but it was clear that he was shaken. ‘And Kadambari, what’s this with the Chinese noodles makers and the Indian Railways website? What is the possible connection?’

  ‘He who eats noodles will have to read our books. We pack cheap Chinese noodles behind our books. They have no choice. And it is well known that the Indian Railways website is the slowest website on the planet. Each transaction takes a minimum of four days to finish. That is precisely the time taken to read a normal book these days. So when you go the website and start a transaction, the website offers the potential passenger our catalogue. The passenger selects the book and it is delivered by the evening by Flopcart. He reads the book while waiting for the server to respond to his ticket request. Works perfectly. The passenger has been ripped off and doesn’t whine about the website either. Win-win.’