I went to Thiruvananthapuram for the Mathrubhumi Lit Fest. It was a massive four-day affair, with over 300 speakers and some eight venues spread out across the sprawling grounds of the Kanakakkunnu Palace. Quite fitting, one might say, for the capital of India’s most literate State to host this huge festival of letters.
Of course, I think the festival would benefit from becoming more compact; fewer speakers and venues can make for more intimate and meaningful interactions, not to mention avoid the scheduling headaches inevitable at this size. But I’ll tell you two things I really liked about MBIFL, as it’s called. Okay, three things.
First, the volunteers, who were unfailingly courteous and friendly, and utterly charming to boot.
Second, some of the outdoor venues. Called ‘Under the Tree’ and ‘Bamboo Grove’, they literally were benches set in the backdrop of swaying bamboos or under the spreading branches of a raintree. As you sat there pontificating about the nympholeptic nuances of narrative nonfiction or some such pomposity, a flower bud would fall upon your lap or a butterfly would rest on your shoulder or a leaf drift down in the breeze. What little one knew about narratology would recede into the distance in a soporific slide that was rather hard to pull out of.
Third was how Malayalam writers and poets from across Kerala and indeed the country congregated at MBIFL to celebrate literature. This was besides the Indian-English and foreign writers. And audiences appeared to flock to both kinds of sessions. (Although their floppy-haired local MP was still the greatest draw.)
It seemed to me, and I could be mistaken, that the chasm between Malayalam writing and English writing, which often translates as the gap between urban and peri-urban readerships, is vastly less than what one seems to experience between, say, Tamil and English readerships, which often work like two distinct worlds. In that sense, it was more akin to the close relationship that readers and writers in Bengali and English enjoy.
Eminent Malayalam writer Paul Zacharia, for instance, spoke of how passionate he is about English literature although he writes in Malayalam, and he released his very first novel in English during the festival. This ability to cohabit various linguistic worlds seems very much a part of the Kerala literary scene, and extends further, with major Indian and world writings constantly being translated into Malayalam. Even writers or cartoonists working in English publications maintain a close relationship with their mother tongue. There is much richness to harvest here.
At dinner the second night, a young bearded man at our table introduced himself as ‘George’. We chatted a bit, then he dug out a slim comic for me to see. The light was dim, we were some Scotches down, and I am not very well up on graphic novels. The word ‘Halahala’ caught my eye and I said to George, ‘Oh you’ve taken off on Appupen!’
‘That’s just a name I use,’ he said, standing up to get a drink.
I gently grabbed his arm and sat him down.
‘Wait,’ I said. ‘You’re THE Appupen?’
‘Oh,’ he says. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘Are you Appupen or are you not Appupen,’ I demanded.
‘Well,’ he says, still doing a Modesty Blaise. ‘That’s just a name I use to write.’
I was indignant as hell. ‘You can’t just introduce yourself as George, you know,’ I said. ‘It’s cruelty to senior citizens.’ The charming and very famous Appupen laughed. And I made amends by escorting him to the payasam counter and making sure he took two cups. In turn, he gave me his book. We are friends now I think.
With Germaine Greer, I behaved slightly better, although alcohol continued to play a significant role. I chased her for an interview, and when we finally met in her hotel room at 4.30 pm, the first thing she did was to ask me to decode the intercom and order two Scotches. She was very particular about all the brands she did not want, so it was a long intercom chat with instructions and misunderstandings exchanged in three different English accents. Finally, it was done.
Then, a sun-soaked, malt-infused afternoon talking about fun and feminism with the legendary Germaine Greer — it really doesn’t get better, does it?
Where the writer tries to make sense of society with seven hundred words and a bit of snark.
