Food for Thought
On Cloud Nine – Part II
Meghalaya - Abode of the clouds. Photo: Deepanjana Pal
As we drove into the hill town of Shillong, the first thing that struck me was the sight of the jacaranda trees,laden with their delicate purple blossoms, evoking memories of my travels in southern Africa. But the jacarandas aside, this quirky corner of the north-east displays its individuality in myriad small ways: from the multiple signs prohibiting "filthy language" and "alcohol consumption" along the rough track leading up to the luxurious Tripura Palace hotel, to the “Oink” shop selling pork and the “Boink” shop next door to it, selling unspecified produce; from the misleadingly-named Om Bookstore which mostly sells Bibles, to my taxi driver who, with his impressive Jesus/Mary hologram hanging from the rear-view mirror, is probably one of their customers.
The CALM (creative arts, literature and music) Festival, which was the reason I was in Shillong, lived up to its promise of a relaxed vibe - in marked contrast to the hustle, bustle and buzz of most of the literary festivals I've attended to date. And the panel sessions were world-class. Like the one where Jerry Pinto, author and poet, articulated a memorably scathing denunciation of those who "don't have time" to read poetry. I would have felt far guiltier (as one who much prefers reading fiction and non-fiction), if I hadn't already fallen in love with one of Jerry's utterly beautiful pieces, entitled "I Want a Poem". I have read and reread it many times, and am now eagerly waiting to buy the poem in book form as soon as it appears in an anthology!
Jerry also spoke of how he was advised by a fellow creative spirit to write down the beautiful turns of phrase that occurred to him every now and then. The aim was to afterwards incorporate these choice morsels into a longer work whenever a suitable opportunity presented itself. According to Jerry, he did the jotting down but found that the beautiful phrases were actually never used! By contrast, I will confess to continually scribbling away on small pieces of paper (receipts, convenient scrap paper and even shredded napkins, when all else fails), because if I don't collect and stash away the anecdotes and ideas that come to me, I know I will never manage to recreate them afterwards.
My pit crew - Ishaan and Rehaan a while ago! Photo: Mridula Sahay
Stephen Alter, novelist and non-fiction writer, offered up considerable food for thought during his two sessions, and I was delighted to be sharing the stage with him on one of those occasions. One of his most memorable stories was his wry recounting of the experience of being robbed and attacked in his home; traumatic as it was, he subsequently found himself thinking, as he lay on the operating table, that his payback for the experience would be in the retelling of the story - a kind of "Writer's Revenge"! While this particular experience of Stephen's was certainly not one that anyone would hanker after, I suspect that many writers spend more time thinking about how they will write about enjoyable experiences afterwards, without actually focusing on enjoying the moment.
I certainly needed one of my random scraps of paper to take down the stories I heard from the veteran Indian columnist Jug Suraiya one evening - I should add, I did also enjoy the experience of chatting with him, I just needed to make sure that I had notes which I could write up afterwards! I had just returned from an abortive book shopping expedition, when Jug greeted me outside the guesthouse where all the participants had been put up by the amazing SambhaLamarr, founder of the CALM Fest. After he had kindly mentioned enjoying my session earlier that day, Jug, his wife the novelist Bunny Suraiya and I settled down to swap travel stories. In that context, Jug mentioned how he and Bunny had visited a beach in Digha in West Bengal during their courtship. They were standing in waist-deep water, when suddenly Bunny was sucked below the surface of the water by a strong undertow.
"I knew I was strong enough to swim to the shore myself, but she wasn't a good swimmer. And I had never been trained in life-saving, so I wasn't sure if I could get her out. I decided I would try anyway, because if I didn't succeed then we could just go down together," he said matter-of-factly. Jug did manage to save Bunny, but only by repeatedly pushing her forward and staying well out of her reach, since he knew that her panic would probably get them both drowned if she got a grip on him. "It couldn't have been more than three or four minutes, but it felt like forever! And once we were back on shore, I knew we had to get married." I have to say, it was one of the sweetest love stories I have ever heard, made so by the sheer conviction in his voice that it was eminently clear what should happen next - and supported by their evident marital contentment decades after that dramatic event had taken place.
Meanwhile, I inadvertently found myself a very different kind of support team in the form of organiser Mridula Sahay's 11-year-old twin sons, Rehaan and Ishaan. Rehaan is an adrenalized ball of energy, and our first introduction came about when he decided to tell me about the contents of the gift baskets from the organisers that he had been part of delivering to each author's room. When my gift basket arrived without the activity folder for the conference, I "complained" to Reyhan. Without missing a beat, he changed sides - "Sue them! Sue them! I'll be your lawyer!" Meanwhile, his twin Ishaan decided to Google me on Day Three of the festival. I was having breakfast with his mother when he jumped up from the computer and said, in a tone that combined admiration with an unflattering degree of shock, "Wow – you're famous!" What can I say but God bless Google…
Anyway, there were many "off duty" moments like that at the festival and none more so than the blowout party thrown for us as a send-off on the final evening. My impression of Shillong has always been flavoured by the fact that my strongest association with it has been Loreto College, where some of my family members studied. So it was a shock to see everyone present - regardless of age, ability or any other factor - hurl themselves onto the dance-floor with abandon, grooving to the strains of Psy's 'Gangnam Style'!
This is one town that clearly knows how to party, as was evidenced by the quicksilver contortions of a red-turbaned Sikh (I later found out he was a choreographer) and a very young, artificially blonde-streaked man wearing cream silk kurta-pyjama and pointy-toed nagris. I later found out the latter's name was 'Chevy' – not Van, get it?! – Helsing. As hands-down one of the least interesting people present (I've always been a non-drinker, and sadly, pretty much a non-dancer too), I nevertheless had a wonderful time watching the fun.
And the next morning, shortly before we were due to set off on a journey back to the border crossing at Dawki, Shillong provided a final farewell - the most stunning, sudden, brief and passionate kalbaishaki I've seen in a while. As we drove out of town, a beautifully chill breeze played in the aftermath of the storm, scattering and re-gathering the Jacaranda flowers into shifting pools of purple in the streets. I decided it was Shillong saying goodbye to me, for now, in the same way that it had said hello.
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