My First and Last Litfest

When I heard there was going to be a literary festival, I decided to go. My reason was simple. Somewhere I read that Arvind Krishna Mehrotra would come. I have often read his poems, and found they help me deal with my world. I don’t live in his world. Perhaps never will. But strangely, the knife grinder sets to work in my mornings too. I hear him through the vehicle fumes and industrial monotones. I hear him apart from the beeping phones. I hear him in the hidden passage of my soul, quotidian fiction. I thought, after reading To an Unborn Daughter, he must be the god of Indian English poetry. He looks like god. Not mine, of course. My gods are short, dark, have thick lips, catch fish in the river delta from where I came, and laugh and smile in conversation. Mehrotra is a god from the north. But he writes of my world too, or I live in his world too. This was my first such festival.

Mehrotra came on stage with Jeet Thayil, a popular writer nowadays, and Meena Kandasamy, a loud, young entertainer. I don’t know why this combination. The old man decided to read last. Thus, I had to sit through those two young fools reading shit to applause. When Mehrotra came, and sternly read his words, they were met with silence. The audience couldn't even make out when the poems ended. Mehrotra seemed unperturbed, even humbled, and returned to his seat.

The question and answer session began. A middle aged gentleman, as aggressive as the upper middle class, balding idiots in most cities, posed a question. He asked, why haven’t you people, poets and writers that is, brought us, Indians that is, a nobel prize? The question was an accusatory one. I immediately left the hall, leaving Mehrotra to deal with what he got himself into. I have no doubt he managed. Dignified man.

I waited for Mehrotra to exit. When he did, I walked up to him, and said thank you. No rhyme or reason. Just thank you. He laughed and said its very kind of you. I smiled and left. Perhaps I should have said more. But what is there to say. Compared to him, I too am a philistine.

Thus, I decided never to go to a literary festival again. Some people can sell their writing, ‘promote’ their writing, or even ‘learn’ writing, in these places. Or better, collect ‘tips’. For me, it’s a violation of an unwritten code. It is undignified and base.

How did I grow up among these people? Am I one of them? How did I not become like them? There must be some similarities. Should I try to erase them? Will that help? I cannot tell. I just follow the aesthetic command. I stay away.

Close enough though, to walk up occasionally, and say thank you.


To an Unborn Daughter

If writing a poem could bring you
Into existence, I’d write one now,
Filling the stanzas with more
Skin and tissue than a body needs,
Filling the lines with speech.
I’d even give you your mother’s

Close-bitten nails and light-brown eyes,
For I think she had them. I saw her
Only once, through a train window,
In a yellow field. She was wearing
A pale-coloured dress. It was cold.
I think she wanted to say something.

- Arvind Krishna Mehrotra