It was pretty in pink. The cherry blossoms were in bloom. Ducks glided by on the placid waters of the lake. Romancing couples posed on the old wooden white bridge for selfies while pale pink and white paper lanterns bobbed in the breeze.
Small and intimate as it was, the Shillong Cherry Blossom Literary Festival could boast a fairytale backdrop that few other literary festivals can. But most importantly, in the new world of online festivals, it was the first offline literary festival I had travelled to in almost two years.
Some writers were there in person, some via Zoom. This is what is being called ‘hybrid’, which might also become a euphemism for frazzled lit fest organisers wondering if visa rules will change before the guest lands in town.
Once I had written how there’s nothing like a lit fest to put a newbie writer in their place. The hotel you’re put up in, the party you’re invited to, your session timing, even the size of your hotel room are all subtle ways to bookmark your place in the pecking order.
The pandemic changed all that. Suddenly the perks vanished. Only the books remained. On the plus side, writers who did not like to (or were physically unable to) travel could make an appearance at festivals. Sessions could be pre-recorded. The audience could be anywhere in the world. You could zoom to a literary festival without going anywhere at all.
These days, the new perk is not gift bags with face scrubs and coffee but RT-PCR tests
The brave new world of online lit fests came with its own new-fangled terminology. At one time ‘offline’ sounded like someone had disconnected from the grid. But this year, I’ve discovered that an offline lit fest is actually a real flesh-and-blood, on the ground, old-school event. Like from what a writer friend calls “the before times”.
These days, the new perk is not gift bags with face scrubs and coffee but RT-PCR tests. Tata Literature Live! in Mumbai, however, made a lovely gesture. They planted a tree in every panellist’s name somewhere. My tree is growing in Dachigam National Park in Kashmir.
Looking back at this year, I realise in some ways the pandemic was a great leveller. We are more equal now. Our wi-fi speeds could not determine our literary clout. But anxiety abhors a vacuum. There are always new things to obsess about. I worry my wi-fi will conk out midway. Or my battery will run out. Or the dog will rush in, barking furiously. Or that I will need to get up for some reason and the world will know I am wearing boxers under that carefully curated shirt. Last year, as I got ready to moderate a live session for the Jaipur Literature Festival, cyclone Amphan struck Kolkata. As the winds howled and the power snapped, I doggedly tried to log in via my mobile phone, fearful of dropping off the literary map. Eventually, when water began to cascade down the stairs, I gave up and joined my family with a bucket and mop.
Glowing jealousy
2021 was when I realised I had full-fledged background anxiety. I harboured secret jealousy for writers with writerly backgrounds — shelves of impeccably arranged books, an antique wooden table, a lamp casting a warm golden glow. I was always terrified a draped towel or discarded sweatshirt would sneak into my backdrop. The fluorescent lights at home made me look like a washed-out ghost but just the lamps made everything look too noir. This year, I finally discovered there are such things as ring lights on tripods where you can control the warmth and brightness and bathe yourself in a uniform glow. It’s old hat to photographers and models, but ring lights were my discovery of 2021, like veggie sanitiser washes in 2020.
Yet all the preparation can come to nought.
Recently, I was meant to moderate a session for a literature festival. I had agreed weeks in advance, as one does when one has nowhere to go, but did not notice that the day and date did not match. I was not even home when the frantic organisers called. The event was about to start. I had no time to get home. I happened to be at Seagull Books in Kolkata and just jumped on one of their spare computers and winged it.
Afterwards, one of the organisers called. He was relieved the session had gone off alright but he was most impressed with the fact that I had somehow managed to find such a stunning “literary” backdrop of books and objets d’art. “Where did you find that background in five minutes?” he asked in awe.
“You know, it’s Kolkata,” I said airily. And in a year of pandemic anxiety, I finally felt a sense of accomplishment.
The writer is author of Don’t Let Him Know , and likes to let everyone know about his opinions whether asked or not.
