Musings
One Thing That Always Works
Hay Festival, Dhaka, 2013. Photo: Prabir Das
It was one of those mornings when nothing seemed to be working. With the WC leaking, hot water not flowing through the taps, and finally the internet connection refusing to work, it seemed there was a conspiracy going on around me. While one could somehow do without hot water and manage with the leaking toilet, when the internet connection does not work, I get a feeling of standing in front of a locked door blocking the entire world from me. However, that was day two of the Hay literary festival that was being held in Dhaka for the third consecutive year, and I had marked a session where two authors of debut short story collections (Farah Ghuznavi and Sharbari Ahmed) were scheduled to talk. I had already bought the books, and was interested to hear their authors speak.
Despite being Friday morning, the journey to Bangla Academy took longer than I estimated, so I missed the opening remarks of the session, but was able to listen to the experiences of the two authors. Both lamented that readership of hard copies of books was shrinking, and as a consequence, finding publishers for books is becoming more and more difficult. And the fact that the authors were women of South Asian origin did not make it any easier, especially as they refused to write the stuff that was expected of them e.g., about women of South Asian origin, arranged marriage, devotion to husband, etc. I was very much tempted to say that there were and would continue to be those who still need to hold printed paper in their hands rather than devices like Kindle and IPad, and there could be mornings (or evenings and bed-times) like the one I had that morning. Books would always be needed to give company in circumstances like those. They always work!
The time I spent that morning in the main hall of the festival was not very long, especially compared to the time spent for the journey between my home and the venue. But I was able to take my mind completely off the frustration and irritation caused in the morning by the dysfunctional systemic environment. The frankness with which the authors expressed their emotions associated with the process of writing their stories and getting them published, and the joy, anger, frustrations and aspirations that came out in the process kept me completely engrossed during the entire time I was there. Words could have such magical impact! So, I was thinking of and mentally expressing my gratitude to those who create such words (like the two authors in front of me), those who facilitate the dissemination of those words for the benefit of mankind as well as those who bring the creators and users together. And it is in this regard that the organisers of Hay in Dhaka deserve to be thanked and commended.
While reading (be it a book or a journal) is a pleasurable, illuminating, and enriching experience, it's equally (if not more) so listening to their authors and interacting with them. That's the reason I always try to grab such an opportunity whether it's in Dhaka or elsewhere. And I was not disappointed even after I spent an hour and a half in Dhaka's horrendous traffic on the first day of this year's Hay because I was able to listen to the likes of Pankaj Mishra and Eliot Weinberger talk about what they think about world literature. Likewise, I did not hesitate for a moment to forego my afternoon siesta to go for listening to Tahmima Anam and Ned Bauman talk about their novels and read from their pieces published in a special issue of Granta. It was interesting to hear and see how authors from different cultural backgrounds create their stories from situations that might appear to be local or national and yet can transcend such boundaries and assume international character.
Those who are afraid that books in print form are potential dinosaurs, and Kindles, IPads and TV serials are going to take their place can take heart from a few things that I noticed. First, when I went to have my copies of the books signed by their authors I found that a queue had formed already and people were buying the books and waiting to have them signed. Clearly, it's not only the Salman Rushdis and Jhumpa Lahiris whose books are bought and read; relative newcomers and less known authors can also expect to have readers. They need to have a chance to be seen and heard.
I need to add a footnote here. As I queued up to have signatures on my copies of the books by Farah and Sharbari, I bumped into Manzoor Ahmed (a former UN official) and Mrs. Ahmed whom I have known for some decades now and at whose Beijing apartment I had had the opportunity to have been invited for dinner in the early 1990s. Neither they nor I could have imagined at that time that we would meet again at a Hay festival in Dhaka in the queue for having their daughter's (Sharbari Ahmed) debut book signed.
Coming back to the issue of books, one could argue that it's only the old timers who still cling to them in traditional forms and the younger ones are less likely to be their clients. But then, judging by those whom I met at the Hay festival, the audience consisted not only of the former type but also included the latter. Perhaps, the younger ones outnumbered the elders. For example, there was Monami whom I have known since the time she was a student in Delhi in the mid-1990s and is now a mother of three small children. As I was sipping coffee at the Adda corner, there she was and came forward to say hello. She had arranged for her three kids to be looked after by her family members and came to attend some sessions of the festival. There were also Tanisha and Raya (daughters of two of my friends) who are much younger and were there to listen to the young authors featuring in the special issue of Granta. I would dare say that the young authors with their roots in Bangladesh (e.g., Tahmima, Farah, and Sharbari) can definitely serve to encourage such young people to get into the habit of at least reading serious books (and some to get into writing as well).
Books need coffee/tea to go with them. And the organisers of the festival did not make a mistake. There was not only a tea stall but also a stall of North End, the gourmet coffee shop that has a few outlets in the city. That they were selling genuine freshly ground and brewed coffee was clear from the aroma that had spread to the surroundings and that's how I was attracted to their stall. And to top it up, there was ice cream as well the relative newcomer in the town, Belissimo, was there with a stall. Of course, the culture here has not yet cometo a stage where one could take a book from the shelf of a store and browse while sipping coffee, without necessarily buying the book (as for example in Barnes and Noble outlets in New York). But if the debates over post-modernism or authenticity in literature got a bit too heavy for someone, there was the opportunity to retreat and refresh.
Being a Hemanta (late autumn) day, the afternoon was short, and dusk descended rather early. My own day ended on a sweet note with an unknown young person bringing a stool for me to sit in front of the coffee stall where I was standing with a coffee cup in one hand and books in another.
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