This Saturday, I was on top of the world. I didn’t just land there by chance, it was a long trek to the top. Since the start of this sabbatical, I managed to do a lot of things I have been wanting to do for years, but hadn’t, because other unimportant stuff was always more important. I refer to the kind of things that don’t make it to any of the “Must do before I die”, “Everyone else except me has done”, “Family may disown if I don’t” or “Odds and ends to keep alive” lists and fall through the cracks. So, after dodging several parental responsibilities, and enduring an interminable ride to race course road, I landed up at the Bangalore Literature Festival to tick off one more item from the Important Unimportant Stuff list. Consider this a commentary on everything but the main agenda of the festival itself. The first thing that strikes you as soon as you enter the grounds is the ratio of tote bags to people. It is close to one. Anyone doing research on what to print on them (not that this is a realistic vocation, but hello dream job!) and what new-age handbag brands are a close substitute to TBs, will not find a better sample set. The second thing that struck me was the swimming pool. Situated in between two of the venues, in front of the #blrlitfest selfie backdrop, it was right in the middle of all the action. People gossipping in between sessions, groups doing the group photo thing, lost souls madly perusing the long agenda - everyone congregated around the pool. The pool itself was deserted. Except for one lone hotel guest who was swimming back and forth, unfazed by the lit activity around him. Shoutout and mad respect to this person who is now my definitive personification of the ‘you do you’ philosophy. The third thing that struck me was that I was taking my time meandering and moseying and not heading along to the main attractions of the event. There was an irrational urge to just stay on the fringes, lest I encounter it with too much intensity and one of us shies away.
Nonetheless, I mustered my lemony zest and walked into the room where two entirely lovable humans were discussing Raja Ravi Varma’s paintings. I no longer recall why I have been avoiding these talks all my life. The inquisitiveness of one person and the candid responses of the other, mixed with the sighs and wows from the audience - felt like my heart was doused in hot chocolate. On another stage, the Israeli poet, Amir Or was reading a selection of his poems. His voice. His presence. The outpouring of his heart. “Give us this day, the life of this day”, he read aloud. “All my tote bags are dedicated to you, now and forever”, I thought. Few things beat the privilege of having a poet read their work to you! The schedule said Shoba Narayan was there to talk about her latest book. I have fond memories of spending many a Saturday reading her articles in the Mint Lounge editions. Full of subtle wit, her writing is always insightful without being pedantic. So, this was a bit of a fangirl moment and I wanted to hear how she sounded in person. She did not disappoint. She had that most underrated of traits while speaking - pausing mid speech to find just the right word. There’s a longer post coming up about the full discussion and the book itself. But as promised, I want to talk more about the vibes while staying away from the events of the day. Art, according to Picasso, is supposed to wash away the dust of everyday life from your soul. What art does to me, is transport me to a completely unconnected world while one is unfolding in front of me. In the presence of beauty, I have never been able to stay in the moment. Beauty inspires in me thoughts of all other kinds of beauty. I imagine all the beautiful things in the world are interconnected and linked to each other, like hanging curtain lights, and I can’t help but move my gaze along the shining line from one star to the next. And so it happened that when I stepped out of the world of literature to get some coffee, I found myself at the ‘High Life fashion’ exhibition on the other side of the premises. My eyes followed a woman who had done up her hair in multi-coloured braids and sported jewellery that no one else but her, could have pulled off. My long experience with setting up ice cream stalls in these locations has taught me to distinguish the hunted look of the sellers from the hunting look of the buyers. I could tell she was selling something. I followed her into the exhibition hoping it was those braids. Her stall was teeming with people holding an entirely different genre of conversations from the ones at the lit fest, just a few metres away. I patiently waited for my turn, while questions ranging from ‘Do you have the piece Deepika Padukone wore in Koffee with Karan?’ to ‘Can you get me the Versace signet ring?’ were thrown at her. She fielded all of them deftly ‘You mean the Cartier one? Of course.’ and ‘I just sold it, I’ll have to courier another piece to you.’ By the time this surreal conversion ended, she had sold 8 knockoff pieces of different brands to said customer. I could see there were no braids, but I was now in the thick of things, and started looking for stuff that doesn’t have any brand’s name written on it, yet is shiny enough to blind anyone I am with. I leaned into the moment and bought something that I realised too late, matches with nothing else I own. I am no connoisseur of fashion, but I can appreciate art when I see it. However, the art of stringing words together to create worlds is my most preferred form of art. Except for paintings. And dance. I notice I am not making my point. Allow me to make another attempt. The art of storytelling is nothing short of magic. Stories are the only words worth uttering. True stories, made up stories, other worldly stories and blood curling stories. The next best thing, is to hear people talk about stories in lit fests. The next, next best thing is buying stuff that is heavier on the bag and lighter on the pocket (yes, books). My only regret is that I didn’t carry my tote bag. Next year, I will be better prepared. I will be the tote bag carrying, jutti wearing, flying in the wind indigo dye dupatta donning, purple haired woman - the one people follow into stalls.
2 Comments
Anshuman Acharya
5/12/2023 12:37:25 pm
This is wonderful, Icy. Funny but somehow wistful. It reminded me so much of my solitary sojourns to Jaipur Lit Fest from Delhi, just wandering about and reading people as much as books.
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Vandana
6/12/2023 02:41:37 pm
Wonderful piece... got the vibe so well, with all the quirks of a lit fest.. Love the curtain lights imagery..
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Aishwarya KalakataThe loss of and search for individualism has never been felt more acutely. Everything changed after I had a kid. But this blog is not about me being a mom. It’s about the things I do when I want to stop being a mom. It’s about telling myself that it is possible and that it is ok. It’s about my little escapades. Mostly travel - sometimes physical, sometimes mental. A desperate bid to stop my identity from being rolled into a single word. CategoriesArchives
March 2021
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