I didn’t attend the final day’s party – the Writers’ Ball – at the Jaipur Literature Festival. I spent time instead at a party which had no invitation cards and for which people didn’t send reminders. There were no authors there, no publishers wallowing in the reflected glory of accompanying a Margaret Atwood or a Colm Toibin, no media, no interviews, no spectator asking for directions to the toilet.
For it was dismantling time at Diggi Palace, venue of the festival which had just ended. The focus was not so much on literature as on life; not so much on changing the world as getting everything packed and put in trucks. Yet, there was poetry here. The rhythm of the carpenter’s hammer or the dance of the bunting-remover perched high matched the rhythm and tempo of some of the sessions at the Festival. There was cacophony as different workers called out to their mates, but you could tell who was shouting out to whom.
When the last speech is done, the final debate concluded, the future of the novel discussed threadbare, and the writers, publicists, journalists, booklovers and William Dalrymple have all left, what remains are the food stalls awaiting the magic moment when the trucks are finally allowed to come in, people who drew the short straw and are thus left behind to supervise the dismantling of their stalls, and the carpenters, workers and their team leaders charged with leaving behind a clean venue. The camaraderie among this motley group is amazing.
It is like coming to the last page of a novel you have enjoyed. You will move on, but suspended between the conclusion and the last rites, you get philosophical. Down come the shamianas, down come the banners, there goes the pizza oven or the tandoor on wheels; the backroom boys are having their moment in the sun, or more correctly, in the moon.
Friends and colleagues are at the Writers’ Ball, you have missed an opportunity to personally tell the organisers what a wonderful show it has been, yet there is something about the simultaneous turmoil and order of the post-event activity that is riveting. There is always someone around with a hip-flask, a group that has decided to stay on for a bit before saying their goodbyes – even if they work in the same office and will meet the next day at work. There is a magic in the aftermath that is enticing.
When you feel peckish, there are no fancy starters or exotic main courses; instead there is the last of the sandwiches and the remnants of the chicken nuggets now being sold at half price or even given away free. Everybody has been through a tough week, putting things up, dealing with close to a third of a million people, and there is a fellowship that comes from shared experience.
“Yesterday’s party was great,” an author told me next morning. “It sure was,” I replied, but he didn’t know I was speaking of a different party.
