Krishna Shastri Devulapalli | The best literature festival I didn’t go to

I don’t go to literature festivals. That could have something to do with my not being invited to too many these days. I used to be at one time, mind you, and went to a dozen or so. But each time I came back, what did I do? Instead of writing a piece on the curator’s scintillating wit, magnetic sex appeal or his priceless collection of vintage Barbie dolls, and ensuring my berth the following year, I wrote yet another article about the same boring faces, the same pecking orders, and the same tired gas passing for discourse, sparing no one, from the writers to the audience to the caterers. Which, naturally, brought down my popularity sizeably.

Recently, when the good folk of the Dibrugarh University International Literature Festival (DUILF) asked me if I’d like to participate, I figured the fair thing to do was to ask them if they were aware of my oeuvre. They said they were.

“And you still want me?” I said.

“Yes,” said, Pavan Kumar Kamaraju, one of trustees of the festival, who had had the misfortune of stumbling across my work and bewilderingly presumed I was suitable company. “You’ll like this one.” Following which I had a series of conversations with their intrepid curator, Rahul Jain, who despite my subtle warnings, refused to withdraw the invitation.

Among the sessions I was to be part of was one called ‘Young and Sensitive: Writing for Gen Z’. (To my knowledge, I hadn’t ever written specifically for any generation, leave alone Gen Z.) My co-panellists were Hamid Ismailov, prolific Uzbek poet, novelist and journalist, whose works have been published, other than in Uzbek, in Russian, French, German, Turkish and English, and María Reimóndez, Galician feminist queer translator, interpreter, writer and scholar whose work has taken her all over the world. And there was me. Primarily known in certain obscure pockets of India for my indefatigable silliness.

What struck me about the panel was that, while Ismailov, I and Reimóndez were born in the ’50s, ’60s and ’70s respectively, our moderator, writer and research scholar Harsita Hiya, was born in the ’80s, and the four of us would be talking about writing for those born in the ’90s.

How wonderful, if you think about it, that four generations of writers, from four different parts of the world (presuming Dibrugarh and Besant Nagar are somewhat different), all getting together to talk about the generation that has inherited our world.

I was pleasantly surprised when our moderator, Ms Hiya, mailed the three panellists a series of well-thought-out questions. It was indeed a departure from my earlier experiences, which ranged from the moderator not knowing my name (alternately referring to me as “Devraj Krishnapalli” or “Krishnapal Rajdevi”) to not being entirely sure of his own, thanks to the previous night’s fake Black Label.

Alas, by the time I received her questions, I realised — due to unavoidable personal reasons — that I wouldn’t be able to make it to Dibrugarh. I did, however, respond to all her queries in as much detail as I could. That, plus an apology to everyone involved for my inability to attend was the least I thought I could do.

Among the many questions raised for discussion, the one that stayed with me was “Who do we write for?” This made me realize that, while writing, thus far, I hadn’t ever thought of the reader’s age, gender, race, etc. In fact, come to think of it, I hadn’t thought of the reader at all. Instead, I have always tried to write, when required, from my most authentic self, as though I’m writing both my first and last piece.

My first novel was about a kid growing up in Madras in the ’70s. It came out in 2011. The feedback I got — from people in their eighties to their twenties, and everything in between — was that it reminded them of their childhood. So, in a sense, despite all that social media and the phone have taken away from us in the ensuing years, it proved one thing: we are ageless when we read. Or books ought to make readers feel that way. Also, as writers, if we are going about our job the right way, we ought to feel as ageless, too.

But perhaps it’s time for all writers to consciously consider who we are writing for. Maybe make a special effort to write for the young; it’s that time in the world. After all, we have taken away much of their air, water, trees, livelihoods and dreams. And handed out misinterpreted history, misguided mythology and meaningless hate in their place. Maybe this is the time to give them the one thing that hasn’t been destroyed yet fully — hope. Maybe everything we write should involve an apology and a promise to make good.

Dear curators, do continue inviting me to your lit fests. And conspire with the universe to make sure I don’t turn up. Chances are I may come up with something useful to say.