The Writer And the World.

"The writer and the world," was the session from 2.15 to 3. 15 P.M. at the front lawns of the  Diggi Palace, which , if I may use the cliche, was packed like sardines,  at the Jaipur Literature Festival on 24 January 2015.
 Farrukh Dhondy, author and script writer  was in conversation with Nobel Laureate V. S Naipaul, the much acclaimed writer of The House of Mr. Biswas. 
"It is crazy, I mean, look at the crowd", said the foreigner standing next to me.
"Yes, it is crazy" , I nodded, looking warily at a heavy set man who also looked intellectually belligerent , and appeared to be on the verge of displaying his intellectual muscles any moment.
 "There should be a bigger venue for this , what do you think madam?" Said the human sardine, desperately trying not to drown .
"Yes," I mumbled, attempting  to salvage my foot from under a big  foot which was bent on making mince meat of my small one . It belonged to the heavy set man who was now grinning  victoriously at  this successful inroad.
"This session will not be critical, or  biographical, but will be based on his life and works . " Farrukh Dhondy told the audience, as I bent down to massage my just saved , almost critical  foot.
"I do not like the  metaphor of the sunset" , Naipaul  said when Dhondy referred to the session as "an informal meeting over a glass of white wine in Wiltshire looking out at the sunset."
"It is an unhappy metaphor", Naipaul  reiterated with a sad smile.

"You should give up writing and do something else ."The publisher had told him when he showed him the manuscript of his first book. But he did not give up, and continued writing.
 "My life as a writer was all about learning all the time." He told the appreciative audience.

"How come you were born in Trinidad?" Dhondy asked .
"I had nothing to do with it ."He rejoined with a poker face,  the audience roared in appreciative applause.
"We can take a couple of questions,"Farrukh Dhondy said after 40 minutes .
 There was a small , pudgy hand raised from the first row.
" It is Ram, it is Ram", Nadira , his wife shouted from behind Naipaul's wheel chair, where she was sitting taking notes, and helping him with the microphone and adjusting the wheel chair , time and again. 
A teenager standing next to me whispered. "Why is she shouting Ram, Ram?"
"He is Ram Jethmalani, that is why. "I said.
I heard the bang, before I   heard her   words.
" Oh no, I  took his autograph thinking he was Ruskin Bond!!." 
"Why did you call India An Area Of Darkness?"   Jethmalalni asked while the girl continued banging her head.
"Did you not look at the autograph?"I looked at Jethmalani but talked to the girl.
" No, I just put the diary in my purse, without looking ", she said clicking another selfie.
At this juncture, Nadira chipped in , saying that even his mother was taken aback on reading it and remarked, "Beta , leave India to  Indians."

 The writer of Mystic Masseur , at times    appeared  mystified , trying to find his way through a maze , his confident sentences interspersed with diffident ones, " Is it all right?" "Was this that you wanted?" "Where was I?" "I am sorry, I did not get you", while Dhondy kept tactfully prodding him on. Many were the times , he was close to tears.


"There was a time when I was very angry with India because I found that all intellectuals had turned sycophants. The poor men joke that if  a politician drowns  in the river , it is pollution, but if  all politicians drown , that is  the solution." Jethmalani said.
When asked to comment, he quipped , "Ram is a friend, and this is a very friendly comment".  Nadira smiled in appreciation and the audience once again roared with laughter,  while the girl next to me continued clicking selfies, and a boy , clutching newly bought books of Naipaul pushed a human sardine out of his way and came and stood next to me smiling triumphantly .The selfie -obsessed girl looked daggers at him and clicked another selfie.

"Thanks for being such a wonderful audience."The 82 year old said, and broke into tears like an eight year old.
 Then was wheeled away.

"Madam may I have a pen?"
 "Sure", I said , handing it to the glowing teenager who was casting covetous looks at the pen in my hand , and he ran towards Dhondy clutching a book  in his hand. It was Dhondy's translation of Rumi.
"Sir, this is a wonderful translation ." The boy gushed . 
"Have you read it?"  Dhondy asked , looking at me  . I had followed the boy to where Dhondy stood , fidgeting with his bag.
"No", I said sheepishly and scurried away,  in my embarrassment, even forgetting to take back my pen. But the boy did not forget. He was running after me with the pen. 
No sooner had he handed the pen back, with a profusion of thanks, there was  a girl beseeching me for the pen. She had  sighted William Dalrymple in the audience .
 I suddenly had an identity crisis. Was I merely a pen lender? "Shashi Tharoor's session was also good", I heard a teenager remark to the selfie girl . 
"Dude, who is Shashi Tharoor?" The girl pouted, and clicked another selfie.
People were tumbling into the venue for the evening session of the former president Abdul Kalam in conversation with Bibek Debroy.
This time my entire body needed  to be salvaged.
The human sardines had gone berserk.