Im probably not going to the second Karachi Literature Festival, opening in February. I was there last year. Im not going to the sixth Jaipur Literature Festival, opening later this month. I was there last year. Im not sorry.
No, dont misunderstand me. In the 2010 literature festival in Jaipur, I had a grand time, somewhat. The five days were intense. I got to meet singers, actors, ambassadors, college students, tourists, hippies, aspiring writers, book lovers, socialites, politicians, free-loaders, journalists, and more than 200 authors and speakers. There was good food, better wine and lots of small talk. I rubbed shoulders with the mighties of the lit world.
I chatted with the former New Yorker editor Tina Brown. Nobel laureate Wole Soyinka looked into my eyes for full five seconds. William Dalrymple, the author of City of Djinns, hugged me. The queen of Bhutan threw an exclusive smile at me. Bollywood actor Neena Gupta offered me beer. Author Roddy Doyle shook my hands. Actor Shabana Azmi sat beside me for half an hour. The Pulitzer Prize winning journalist Lawrence Wright took a stroll with me. Another Pulitzer Prize winning author, Anne Applebaum, had tea with me. Saleema Hasmi, the daughter of Urdu poet Faiz Ahmad Faiz, gave me her Lahore cell number. Civil rights activist Asma Jehangir held my arms as she walked (she had a foot injury) towards the lunch counter. But I discovered after the five days of the festival that I was not enjoying.
You see I dont like being with the famous. Interesting people have nothing interesting to say when they are basking in their famousness. In most cases, the authors you encounter in Jaipur or Karachi are different from what we imagine them from their books. [I thought Kashmiri novelist Basharat Peer would be nice; he was haughty. I thought Tina Brown would be haughty; she was nice].
Writers are like ordinary people, only more irritating. Some writers are arrogant. Some mingle in their own exclusive club. Some simply write bad prose and do not deserve the adulation they receive. A few are very nice but lost in the trappings of the festival name tags, seminars, speeches et al.
Ill tell you about my encounter with Pakistans short story writer Daniyal Mueenuddin. (He was not there in Jaipur last year but is coming this time). I got to meet him two years ago in central Delhis Lodhi Garden the day my beloved writer John Updike died. Daniyal was visiting Delhi. We laid down on a grassy slope, watched the parks lovers, smoked imported cigarettes and talked Chekhov, Tolstoy, Rushdie and The New Yorker magazine. There were no press reporters, no wide-eyed fans. We talked like two book lovers. I still cherish that memory. I dont think such a nice experience would have been possible if Id met him in a lit-fest crowd, with a halo of an award-winning writer glowing round his head. Frankly, Daniyal wouldnt have cared to talk to me perhaps. There are too many important people to deal with in festivals.
Festivals are too noisy, too packed, too manufactured, too removed from the real world. Its like being trapped in a conference hall, 24/7. Id rather meet the authors at their home (or in Lodhi Garden!) than in a place whether they come attached with their reputation.
Take this: At one moment last year in Jaipur lit fest – I was talking to Lahore-based author Ali Sethi. Id met him earlier, too. He is a charming, intelligent, literate, sensitive, fun-loving man next door. Next moment he climbed the stage and shhewwww he became an Oracle. People clapped at his words, asked him important questions on India-Pak peace, took his photographs, requested him for exclusive interviews. Ali Sethi was no longer the Ali Sethi I knew. He had morphed into an inaccessible man. He did come down the stage but to my eyes he would never revert to what he was an hour ago. Since then, I have spotted him twice in Delhi but I did not approach him. I would never be able to connect to him on a personal level. Seriously, lit fests are no fun.
However, last evening I met a Pakistani friend visiting from Karachi. She is a graceful old woman and yes, she is going to Jaipur lit fest. Over mutton curry and naan in the members-only India International center, she shared her busy Jaipur schedule: attending lyricist Javed Akhtars session, catching up with friend author Ahmad Rashid (who would speak on Af-Pak), chatting with Basharat Peer and so on. It is her first time and shes excited. I wish her good luck.
But wait, I may still come to Karachis literature festival next month; that is if I get the visa. Yes, Mohsin Hamid had snubbed me last time in the lobby of Carlton Hotel but attending a lit fest in Pakistan is more than schmoozing up to big-time authors. Amid all the explosions and assassinations happening in your country, it will be so beautiful to meet people who are excited or outraged over other equally vital things such as the art of fiction. See you in Karachi.
Mayank Austen Soofi lives in a library. He has one website (The Delhi Walla) and four blogs. The website address: thedelhiwalla.com. The blogs: Pakistan Paindabad, Ruined By Reading, Reading Arundhati Roy and Mayank Austen Soofi Photos.
