So at last we got Salman Rushdie in Rajputana. Diggi Palace and Jaipur Literature Festival waited expectantly for a year and more for Salman the saint to set foot on this land of kings. He came and he delivered. At the restive closing hours of a festival celebrating Indian literature, he appeared with police escort to regale fans and provoke the media. Earlier in the day we had erudite discussions, light-hearted banter and soulful ghazals from an illustrious sampling of literary stars, this and that side of the Ganga, and shores further. We had Amit Chaudhuri, we listened to Anupam Mishra, we pulled a joke or two on Daly dada (William Dalrymple of the Last Moghul).
Then the Cupid's bow-lipped star appeared and opened his bag of tricks. The audience lapped it up, the media was respectful in attention. He was kind to no one, he was unflinching in his love, incisive in his attention, scathing in his dislikes, brilliant in his repartees, magical in his ratiocinations, Svengali-like in his suggestions. Journalists, and their were many in that room, in that cold Jaipur afternoon, found themselves often on the wrong side of his preferences and Barkha Dutt of NDTV for once seemed flustered. She pushed him this way and that, laid a trap once, twice and thrice, but was always stumped. The clapping of the audience became a sonorous backdrop to the mirror-backed stage of the Diggi palace durbar.
Rushdie speaks as he writes. A novelist, a raconteur, a performer, he plays with his words, juggles with his arguments, mesmerizes with his mischievous smile. He talked about his writing, his new work and his unhappiness about the glare of the media on an author’s life. In this context he mentioned the time of the writing of Robinson Crusoe and Gulliver’s Travels when the writing was what mattered. He had an advice or two for the roomful of authors. He stressed the need for writers to represent clearly and perfectly what they see or know or dream. The purity of art and the need for it to maintain a distance from politics was also mentioned by this master of the written word.
As the shadows outside the palace of Thakurs grew lazy, the discussion moved to Kashmir, to Islam. Rushdie read from Shalimar the Clown, answering to a question he said `Amar Prem’ was the first thought that crossed his mind when he heard about the fatwa. He had his potshots at militancy and the military and expressed his confidence in the power of the written word to shine through bans and fatwas.
This was a memorable evening no doubt. As the long lines formed for his autographs (`Mr Rushdie would sign only on books and not on scraps of paper,’ the event managers had announced) and the dead thakurs above the stained glass doors of the durbar, took a moments rest, I slipped out. A boring appointment was waiting another part of town. The bus to Delhi was at midnight.
I adore the modernist sensitivity of Naipaul, the literary values of Seth, the effortless erudition of Ghosh, the sweet music of Amit Chaudhuri. I have traded my poor eyesight for the soothing balm of good literature; Rushdie’s writing for me is a carnival. His performance, boisterous. I have read his books. Now I want to know more about his life.
Then the Cupid's bow-lipped star appeared and opened his bag of tricks. The audience lapped it up, the media was respectful in attention. He was kind to no one, he was unflinching in his love, incisive in his attention, scathing in his dislikes, brilliant in his repartees, magical in his ratiocinations, Svengali-like in his suggestions. Journalists, and their were many in that room, in that cold Jaipur afternoon, found themselves often on the wrong side of his preferences and Barkha Dutt of NDTV for once seemed flustered. She pushed him this way and that, laid a trap once, twice and thrice, but was always stumped. The clapping of the audience became a sonorous backdrop to the mirror-backed stage of the Diggi palace durbar.
Rushdie speaks as he writes. A novelist, a raconteur, a performer, he plays with his words, juggles with his arguments, mesmerizes with his mischievous smile. He talked about his writing, his new work and his unhappiness about the glare of the media on an author’s life. In this context he mentioned the time of the writing of Robinson Crusoe and Gulliver’s Travels when the writing was what mattered. He had an advice or two for the roomful of authors. He stressed the need for writers to represent clearly and perfectly what they see or know or dream. The purity of art and the need for it to maintain a distance from politics was also mentioned by this master of the written word.
As the shadows outside the palace of Thakurs grew lazy, the discussion moved to Kashmir, to Islam. Rushdie read from Shalimar the Clown, answering to a question he said `Amar Prem’ was the first thought that crossed his mind when he heard about the fatwa. He had his potshots at militancy and the military and expressed his confidence in the power of the written word to shine through bans and fatwas.
This was a memorable evening no doubt. As the long lines formed for his autographs (`Mr Rushdie would sign only on books and not on scraps of paper,’ the event managers had announced) and the dead thakurs above the stained glass doors of the durbar, took a moments rest, I slipped out. A boring appointment was waiting another part of town. The bus to Delhi was at midnight.
I adore the modernist sensitivity of Naipaul, the literary values of Seth, the effortless erudition of Ghosh, the sweet music of Amit Chaudhuri. I have traded my poor eyesight for the soothing balm of good literature; Rushdie’s writing for me is a carnival. His performance, boisterous. I have read his books. Now I want to know more about his life.
Copyright, 2007. All rights reserved.
