Nripen Singh is not fond of litfests. Like most writers, he’s not articulate, has a dust allergy and is petrified of cameras. And all three abound in litfests.
The very thought of addressing a crowd, even if it’s dumb enough to throng litfests, petrifies him. The sight of a microphone addles his thoughts, paralyses his vocal cords and makes him jittery.
Also, he has this habit of occasionally pushing his lower denture with his tongue while speaking, which does not make it a pretty sight.
His disgust towards litfests notwithstanding, Singh, like any other writer, is a publisher’s marionette. He began his thriller-writing career determined to open a new horizon. Six books into the gig, he’s now effectively a slave of New Horizon, which publishes him from a dungeon in Daryaganj.
So, as ordained by the CEO of New Horizon publication Mr Das, Singh has just survived the ‘Mystery-Thriller-Suspension’ session at the second 2020 Gurgaon Litfest. In India’s booming litfest hierarchy, it is somewhere at the ankle of the ladder but writers are not supposed to fuss.
“Remember, no litfest is small,” Mr Das told him the other day. “Writing is the easiest part, anybody can do it, but few can sell. Every litfest is an opportunity to check the reader’s pulse and boost your sale. Also, your plots need to be more contemporary Mr Singh. I’m sure you’d get fresh ideas there.”
The organisers had booked a massive banquet hall for the two-day fest. Giant cut-outs of classics dangled from its festooned ceiling and quotes from famous authors adorned its limewashed walls. At the back was a small stage where Singh and this young writer Aliza Chishti spoke about their craft. She is pretty and her books sell well.
The crowd, consisting mainly of relatives of the organisers, was thinning and Singh was chit-chatting with moderator Mr Bhardwaj when he was tapped on his shoulder.
“Can I have a minute with you?” Chishti was staring at him, her eyes glowing.
“Oh, I mean, sure,” Singh turned around.
“Is this how you treat new writers?” she positively hissed.
“What? I mean how? I mean when?” Singh mumbled.
“Who do you think you are? Stephen King?”
“No, Singh, Nripen Singh. But what did I do?” he nearly pleaded.
“Your pun sucks. Sarcasm is the lowliest of humour.”
“I agree, but…”
“And you are a mean person, probably jealous of my success.”
“I disagree, but…”
“Stop being so naïve. Man up and own up,” she said.
“I would, once I find out what I’ve done.”
“Really? Ok, didn’t you tell Bhardwaj I write ‘defective’ stories?”
“Defective? Nooo … by which I mean noo …”
“Shut up, you old fool. You suck, your books suck, your plots suck. Get lost.”
Singh duly got lost, in thoughts. He had not the foggiest notion when he committed the alleged felony. He had been praising her to Bhardwaj. It only cemented his view that detective story writers are slightly potty.
Singh has read her “Gored in Goa” in which Inspector Kavita throws an empty green coconut to ambush the culprit on Calangute Beach.
“Detective, my foot…” he mumbled, pushing his lower denture in impotent rage. Suddenly it hit home. He uttered ‘detective’ again. And again. And again.
Chishti surely could not be faulted. Singh decided never to attend another litfest. Mr Das can take a walk.
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