Unravelling lit fests

Way back in the last row, Dhruba Hazarika finds a seat, next to a tiny group of men and women. It is like watching a man coming home — friendly pats, loud jokes and a lot of laughs. They are the reason he has come to the three-day literary fest in Chengannur. He liked it that a group of writers from the North East were invited. Now it is like a picnic with your family.

Otherwise he is not much a literary fest buff. He had once written, ‘that of late literary festivals have found a certain glamour that was otherwise absent in previous such gatherings.’ Not that it’s bad but he fears ‘the author often becomes susceptible enough to believe that her identity as an accepted and recognised writer depends mostly on an invitation to such festivals.’

The South Indian Writers’ Ensemble, an annual literary fest organised in Chengannur by PAMPA (People for Performing Arts and More) had come to a close on Sunday. It had focussed on writers from the North East, writers like Dhruba. Does it, like he wonders, generate thoughts and experiences that will produce a short story or novel or poetry? To put it simply, what good does it do an author who is creative in isolation? “Networking,” in one word, Manjiri Prabhu explains.

She had written eight novels before she wondered what next and founded the Pune Literary Festival. She used to be the isolated writer once, finishing her books and getting them published without having to meet other writers or publishers. But then the importance of literary festivals dawned on her, there came the picture of going into a book shop and finding one book out of it, like picking out a wave off the massive sea. “Why should a reader pick out your book?”

Unpublished writers can come to literary festivals and meet publishers who may like their work. Readers can come to meet writers they have always been fond of. And like writer Shinie Antony says, an author is always happy to meet someone who would come running to them with a book, quoting lines you wrote. Your job of writing a book, Manjiri would tell you, does not get over with the last page, you need to publicise it, market it, you need to become a performer. Otherwise, you lose out in the long run.

But even in a world swallowed by social media, there lives a breed of writers, reluctant to join the herd. “Most writers feel they’ve to be visible, sell their work, have book launches and readings,” agrees poet Nitoo Das. “But I stay away from the mainstream world.” She also believes it is important to have an online presence, because poetry should circulate. A lay reader won’t prefer to read poetry, a mainstream publisher won’t choose to publish poetry and when they do it’ll be expensive. What made her appreciate the Chengannur Lit Fest is that so many writers have come there and spoken in their own languages, proudly, unashamedly.

Dhruba liked it too, liked it so much that he was actually inspired to sit and write a short story the second night he was here. “Every writer is treated equally here, unlike at certain fests where I have seen new writers ignored, with all the attention going to the established ones.” American writer George Bishop finds it different from the lit fests in the US, in that the audience are so rapt. He touches on Dhruba’s question of merging the isolation of a writer with the melee of literary events. “They come as a relief for a writer working alone. You get to meet and talk to people!” he says.

Despite its loudness that shy writers are intimidated by, literary festivals become a blessing, Dhruba concludes, ‘in the sea of loneliness and isolation that is otherwise a creative writer’s destiny.’